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After a day of catching up on sleep and fetching Doritos, Easy Mac, a cold pack, four Advil, a brush, and makeup for the invalid that is my best friend, I was ready for work.
I slipped on some workout shorts with a white tank and headed toward City Park. Cruising down St. Charles Avenue, I turned onto a side street and squeezed into a parking spot across from my dad’s dojo, Drake’s Karate Institute. Times like these reminded me why I bought a small, fast car—a necessary commodity in New Orleans where traffic was endless and parking was nonexistent.
Walking through the waiting area, I saw Dad leading a high-level class through the kata. Their slow, precise movements were more like a dance than a karate technique. I hurried into the locker room to pull on my white gi.
A rhythmic sound came from the back alley.Thwump, thwump. The door stood ajar. I peeked out to find Erik throwing Chinese darts at a target in the long narrow niche that served as a break area. Besides a wrought-iron table with two chairs, there was the bullseye on the wall.
Erik had been working for my dad since we opened the dojo ten years ago. After my mom died, I’d grown up around him and always thought of him as an older brother. His lean, lanky figure was deceiving. I’d sparred with him on several occasions and been beaten by his wiry strength more than once.
“You know my dad hates it when you use those things.”
Erik nodded and smiled, spinning a silver dart through the air to hit right on the red rim of the dartboard. His neatly trimmed brown hair and perfectly fitted gi seemed a juxtaposition with his constant rule-bending.
“I know, I know. ‘It’s not a true art form,’ says the wise mage,” murmured Erik with a lopsided smile. He shrugged. “It’s just for fun.”
He picked up a four-pointed star that curved at the tips.
“Let me try,” I said, tying my black belt tight.
He passed me the star. I mimicked his asymmetrical stance, one foot in front of the other then sent the dart sailing through the air. Bam! Right on the bullseye. I grinned.
“Sweet! You’ve done this before?”
“Nope. I’m a natural, I guess.” I sauntered back to the door. “Gotta get to class.”
“Hey, Gen. Can you close up for me tonight? I’ve got plans and need to get home and shower and stuff.”
“Ooooo, a hot date? Anyone I know?”
Erik blushed. He was so cute—the shy, intelligent guy with a sweet smile. The sort of guy who made me want to slap other girls upside the head to take a closer look.
“Gen, come on,” he said in that I’m-too-old-for-you-to-tease-me voice. He was about five years older than me, though he sometimes acted like he was eighty.
“Fine. Keep your secrets. I’ll close up. Have fun,” I said, making a catcall before ducking back inside.
My Kyu class, made up of primarily yellow and green belts, flew by uneventfully except when eight-year-old Devon tried to sweep me to the floor. I countered quickly, leaping out of the way.
“You’re really good for a girl.” He grinned up at me with his two front teeth missing.
“For a girl, eh?” I popped into a fighting stance. “I’ll show you what a girl can do.”
I attacked but with no intent to harm him. We sparred for several minutes. He defended well.
“Excellent, Devon. You’re improving. Pretty soon, you’ll have your orange belt.” I gave him a wink, and he fled from the dojo in a state of glee.
I piled the grappling mats back against the wall where they belonged, pulling the Windex and cleaning rag out of the corner closet.
“Gen, I’d stay and help lock up, sweetie, but I’ve got to get to the bank before they close.”
My dad stood in the doorway with his keys and bank bag in hand. Though in his late forties, he was still in top physical condition. I suppose he should be from training students in martial arts every day.
Though he was the picture of health, I often saw a sadness in his eyes. Don’t get me wrong. He laughed all the time, usually at me and my stupid jokes. But he missed my mother. I knew he did—even ten years after her death. I hated when I caught glimpses of that far-off expression, a sort of longing. Like I saw in his eyes right now.
“You’re not headed to your poker game, are you, Dad?” I teased.
The distance vanished. His face lifted into a smile.
“No, Gen. I’m not gambling with company money.”
