Some days seem to go slower than others. Today is one such day.

Seven minutes. That's how much time is left until recess is over. I rummage through my backpack and locker as I always do before the next class begins, taking what I need and putting away what I don't. Footsteps stomp along the hallway in a trilling rhythm. Lowering my head, I sigh. That can only mean one thing.

Willis and Bobby pin me against the wall behind me, and James slams my locker shut. He is livid. They all are. He walks up to me and glares, exhaling through his mouth and his snout. His breath is one putrid potpourri. It reeks of ketchup, mustard, onions and newly-chewed beef – a hotdog. If my hands were free, I'd put one over my face and point it out.

"I don't know how you did it, but I am going to find out. Tell me, Mary!" says James, his words stinking with his breath.

"Tell you what?" I say, sounding brave. But my legs turn to gelatin as his countenance bores into my mind. His squinting darkened eyes, the stripes on his fur rising with every breath, his bared fangs.

James slams his hands on the wall, with my head in between them, causing me to wince. He leans his head close, his stench wafting into my nose, so that I get a good look at his eyes and his fangs. Strands of saliva snake through the gaps of his teeth, falling from his mouth, dangling from his lip.

"You know what I'm talking about, teacher's pet! The rope! The damn rope! How is it that a scrawny runt like you and that stupid raccoon can climb that rope, but none of us can?" James lets out a shout and walks in circles. I've never seen him so mad.

"Maybe it's because Jenny and I didn't cry 'No more, no more! Someone let me down, let me down!'" I try as best an imitation of James' voice as I can. It's not the best, but it only enrages him more, as I intended.

Another shout, and James closes the distance between us. He is a bomb, and the last of his fuse has burned out. He has been set off. "Let's make one thing very clear here, Mary. This is my school. No one shows me up. You may be a teacher's pet with all those straight A's, and you may have gotten up that rope, but you're just a sad, little girl people are going to walk on. And there's not a damn thing you can do to change that! And in this school—my school—if you get walked on, you mean diddly-squat!"

The last phrase digs through my fur, through my skin. It hits its mark in my chest. An urge to run away into a corner, curl into a ball and cry swells inside. Already, I feel the tears building, ready to pour out. I fight them off, a losing battle on my part. I am a Woo Foo. I am strong. I will not cry. No crying. No crying. No crying…

No good. My eyes itch and swim in puddles. Where is that supposed strong side of me? Where is that fighter when I need her?

More footsteps in the hallway, and a voice. A high-spirited, girly voice.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing? Get your hands off of her now!"

Miriam. Captain of our school's cheerleading squad. Friendly with her fellow students, popular amongst them. Except for me.

James turns around to face her as she nears us. "You heard her. Hands off!" Willis and Bobby release me from their grasp. "See? We're not touching her."

I droop down the wall, hugging my knees close to my chest. I hide my face beneath my arms; I don't want anyone to see me.

A hand rests on my arm, which I suppose is Miriam's. Her voice speaks again to confirm.

"Good. Now get out of here."

I sense her other hand on my shoulder. Muffled sobs escape me, and Miriam is nearby to hear them. The tears begin, and I do not resist them. People are watching me. I know it. I can feel them. Their murmurs, their breaths, the pitying gazes. I don't care about them. I don't care if they see me like this. Vulnerable. Cut open. I don't care. I don't care…

Miriam parts my arms and helps me to my feet. She smiles at me and draws closer, taking me into an embrace. Patting my back. How ironic that James called me a 'teacher's pet'. If I really am a teacher's pet, there would be a couple of them out here this very moment, witnessing this and reprimanding the three of them. As far as I know, there are none. There is only this girl who I don't know very well.

"There, there. Let it out, girl," she encourages, and I bury my face into her person to drown out the crying. "It's okay. Let it all out. It's gonna be alright."

How can she just say that? She and I are worlds apart. She has the whole student body in the palm of her hands. She has it better than me, better than anyone in this school. Being a cheerleader captain and having both the boys and girls fawn over her, she should know that.

Another crescendo of footsteps ring and bounce between the corridor's walls. Jenny sees the two of us as Miriam imparts her compassion unto me, something which I'm surprised that she's capable of. It's astonishing, in a nice way.

"Mary?" asks Jenny, closing the distance. Miriam backs up to give us some space. "What happened? Were you…crying?"

Flushed, I wipe my eyes free of tears.

"She was," Miriam intrudes. "Because I told her to. I told her it was okay."

Jenny's face flashes with recognition. She points a finger at her and says, "Wait a minute. You're—"

Before she can finish, Miriam chuckles and cuts her off. She scratches her head, also flushed. "Yeah, yeah. I know. Everyone knows." She says it like she doesn't take much pride in her popularity. I have no idea why. Kids our age would go the distance to be where she is now.

Stars dance in Jenny's eyes as amazement fills her. "Whoa. The cheerleader captain, talking to us. I must be dreaming. Can someone pinch me?" Reality has its way of playing tricks on us, and to her, this must be one of those tricks.

Discreetly I slip my hand near her arm and gingerly press her skin between my index finger and thumb. She jumps a little at the shock rolling along her body.

"Ow! What was that for?" Jenny pouts, creases surfacing on her nose and brow.

Miriam laughs slightly, and so do I. The longer we stand here in this corridor, the more adjusted I am to being right next to her.

"You guys are hilarious," says Miriam. "I like you."

The school bell rings to indicate the end of our recess period. A flock of students race from the schoolyard outside to their next classes, and the three of us look at the bell above our heads.

"Well, I'm taking off." Miriam shrugs and turns around for her upcoming class. "You two should come to practice. Maybe we'll hang out a little? Y'know, break the ice some more?"

"Sure!" says Jenny in an instant.

I hesitate for a bit. Cheerleading practice is in the afternoon, after school, and my afternoons are precious. I would like to get to know Miriam better, but not in exchange for my training.

So I tell her, "I can't."

"Why?"

"Need to hit the books." It's true, but only partially. Woo Foo history books. Not quite what they expected. There's my lee-way. "Science test coming up tomorrow. Gotta brush up on my weather and climate."

It takes Miriam and Jenny around five seconds to digest this.

"Alright, then. Catch you guys later." Miriam sprints and waves at us.

Jenny pats my back and tells me that we should get going. I round up my things from my locker, stash them in my backpack and head towards the stairs ahead. Roll call for our English class has started, and we can't be late.

Our lesson for today is on the two fighting denominations I've chosen to learn. Strike-and-grapple-based fighting and no-holds-barred fighting. Master Ti is going to demonstrate to me the former, while Master Chai will demonstrate the latter.

Master Chai starts off by taking a pair of sticks from a rack of weapons. She brandishes them a little, spinning them in her fingers without much effort, and then swings them around in a flurry of attacks. It looks like a dance, choreographed and never missing a beat. Who knows? Maybe it is a dance.

Ti and I watch on the sidelines, and Yo watches from behind us, munching on a bag of corn chips. I take note of everything that happens. Her graceful leaps, her thrusts and swings, her posture. The combination of aggression and coordination. Immersing myself into every facet.

As the exhibition runs its course, I picture myself doing these very moves. The scenarios I can see myself in. In these images, I am wielding these very weapons, striking my foes down with them. Decimating them. I see that ideal image of me standing up against my tormentors. Against anyone who dares to cause harm to my friends. To my family. This 'perfect' me is ingrained in the minds of many. She is feared. Respected.

Back to reality, Master Chai rounds up her demonstration with a front flip from one side of the room to the other and lands as gracefully as her pattern. Like the last portion of a canvas being filled out to complete a painting. Twirling her sticks a few more times, she walks to us, bows and sits on the floor.

"The first thing you have to know about weapon-based fighting is that anything goes. There are no rules. Anything is fair game. Victory is a prize claimed by the last person standing," she says sternly. "With the right amount of training, anything and everything you touch can become a weapon. But I must warn you: weapon-based fighting is one of the more dangerous aspects of Woo Foo. I nor my brother will be held responsible for what you do with the knowledge."

I wonder what kind of ethics this art has. What it considers honorable and dishonorable. I always thought martial artists to abide by a code of conduct. To fight with honor, win with dignity, and lose with even more dignity. Surely there is honor in this art, especially if it recognizes an aspect of it dangerous. Especially if I'm being warned.

For a moment, I think too deep into this, as usual, and only now do I notice Master Chai stand up and instruct me to pick the sticks up. With these sticks in my hand, I breathe in and etch the warning into my brain.

Master Chai, holding her hips and sneering, grabs both of my hands to give me a feel for the form. She starts by reminding me of the fundamentals. The importance of posture, calmness and oneness with the self. As she guides my body, I hear her go on about this style of Woo Foo. Its distinction from the other styles. Hit as hard as possible, anywhere, everywhere. At every angle so that the opponent does not escape. Be fluid, but not loose. The wrist is where the strength comes from, while the arm supports.

The way she goes about teaching this style give me a clearer understanding of it. It is unrelenting, but has more finesse than I thought. The same finesse that is found in other forms. When I ask how magic comes into play, she says that it builds on the very foundation further. Her hand emits the pure white glow I've come to know, and suddenly, the stick on my right hand transforms into a knife – a Trans-Foo-Mation spell, as they call it. She swings it around, leaving blurs in its path. It shifts back to its original state.

Anything and everything I put my hands on turns into a weapon.

Our lesson goes for half an hour, until my body is worn out from being moved like a puppet. Exhausted, I sit down with my legs underneath and pant profusely. Master Chai and Master Ti go out for fifteen minutes. During this time, I drink from my water bottle and fling the sweat from out of my paws.

I rub my head to clear it of any chaff.

"Headache?" Yo asks from behind. He sits on my left, scrunching his empty bag of chips, and grins.

"You could say that." Another sip of my water, and I sigh. James' words from earlier today roam freely in my mind, stamping their feet, leaving their mark on the tissue. A plague, persistent as one, twice as venomous. The desire to cry comes back, but I might have cried myself dry already. So instead I say, "Can I ask you something?"

"What is it?" Yo brings a knee close and rests his arm on it.

"Do I look like nothing? Like I'm not worth even a cent?" It feels bitter, asking that.

"Of course not. Where did you get that from?"

"Nowhere. Just a thought." I shake my head. As if I'm letting him in on today's incident. On Willis and Bobby pinning me against the wall of the school corridor. On James speaking his mind, the truth in its harshest, and hurting me worse than anything the three of them have dished out in the past.

"Someone tell you that?"

The slightest bit of movement could give away too much to him, so I don't answer. I don't move. I do nothing. One thing I cannot prevent myself from doing is blink my eyes. Thank God he can't decipher that.

"If anyone ever says that, they're wrong. Chai and Ti said so themselves. Every living thing in this world, big or small, has its worth. No one can take it away. No one, except yourself."

"Good to know." I sound detached, sarcastic, but really, the sentiment is fully registered. They wedge in as deep as James' words, but are not as poisonous. They give me something to consider. Something to put my hopes in.

Master Chai and Master Ti reenter the room and move to the center.

"Let us continue," Master Ti starts. He and Chai assume their stances. "Now I'm going to show you what the strike-and-grapple art can do."

The demonstration begins. Master Ti goes into his explanation while showcasing some of the techniques common with the style, while Master Chai cooperates by throwing punches and kicks to aid in the lesson. Since this is just to introduce me to the style, the attacks are purposefully slow and don't really make contact.

It is an empty-handed style of combat. Punches, kicks, elbow and knee strikes are one's main and only tools. Besides these, there are also other means of offense that practitioners may use. Grappling and throwing to create openings on the enemy. Joint locks to render the enemy's extremeties useless. Attacks to the vital points of the body, exploiting the weaknesses of the enemy while concealing your own.

Ti finishes by anchoring his arms around one of Chai's and mounting himself on her side. His arms are loose enough that they don't hurt her. He says that this position is advantageous because the enemy is at your mercy.

Releasing his hold, he and Chai stand and bow to each other and then to me. He calls for me, and I walk towards the center. I face him squarely, his eyes boring into mine to ensure that I don't avert them.

"It isn't everyday that we get someone so devoted into learning our art, let alone both of its disciplines," says Ti, dropping to a crouch. "I trust that you are prepared?"

"Yes," I reply. I bow again, though it might not be necessary.

Master Ti goes into his stance again and instructs me to watch and follow him. I go into the same stance as his, following it to a tee.

We begin with an exercise. A sequence of movements and positions to get myself acquainted – a kata. In this exercise, Master Ti shows me what this denomination of Woo Foo is all about. I punch as he punches. I kick as he kicks. I block as he blocks. Our throats burn as the two of us yell. A connection between us ties during the kata. The tie between master and pupil. His heartbeat is in sync with my own. His strength, his conviction, show in his movements. In his coordination. I feel that strength, that conviction, that purpose, becoming mine.

As we enact the kata, Master Ti starts talking, imparting more of his wisdom. Wisdom that I am usually neglectful of, but now lend my ears to. The principle of this style is emptiness. The relinquishing oneself of ill thoughts. Selfish thoughts. Evil thoughts. The clearing of the conscience and adapting humility. Rejecting the self. All these things are paramount for a warrior to understand. Only a humble soul, a compassionate soul, may be able to accept the lessons of this style. To use it to its fullest.

I reflect on my own thoughts. Thoughts of retribution, thoughts of getting what I want in however way possible. They fall into the category that Master Ti has just said now. As my hands glide in the air and my feet shift along the floor, I've come to realize that.

I also remember what Yo told me the other day when he showed me around the Armory below the dojo. I remember him telling me not to reveal what I saw down there to anyone. How severe his voice became as he grabbed me by the wrist and instructed me as he did.

Being surrounded by those relics down there gave me pride. Pride in my art, in who I was turning into. A pride that somehow made these ill thoughts justified. It gave me the right to do what I wanted. Looking back now, I didn't really want to show those weapons to the town to embellish the art. I only had myself in mind. As always these days. I only wanted something for myself. Something that I could flaunt to people, something that I could boast about.

"Remember what I told you today, Maria. It will serve you well in the future," says Ti, ending the kata by returning to his initial position.

I follow him and we give each other a bow.

That night at the dining table, my parents and I are recapping on our day over roast chicken, mashed potatoes, bread and orange juice. I've had three servings of the chicken, and I'm in the process of helping myself to a fourth.

Like Dad, my mother recounts her lectures today in the most exaggerated way imaginable. Her tale comes off as more of a story you find in a comic book than you do in real life. Really, though, I can already imagine what the true scenario is. Bored students seated on their desks with blank expressions, wondering what the purpose of the lecture is. Fixated on other things besides what she's teaching them.

My father tells us how his day went, and he isn't exaggerating this time around. He gives his account in between spoonfuls of food shoved in his mouth, waiting until after he's swallowed to talk. The firm he works at has just received a pair of trainees looking to acquire experience in his line of work, and his boss has appointed him as their supervisor. They must be a bunch of deadbeats if Dad can refer to them with disinterest. This strikes me as odd since he likes talking about his experiences with his colleagues. But then again, it might not be odd at all, and he does lament on his lost youth like all parents do later in life.

Mom takes a bite and eyes me from across the table. Dabbing her cloth across the potato stains, she says, "So how's school, Mary? You got your English speech back?"

"Yeah, school's fine. And yeah, I got my speech back," I say, creating a bulge on my cheek with the food in my mouth. Promptly, I swallow and continue, "Fourteen out of fifteen this time." I tell them the score like it doesn't matter much. One thing I can bet on is that I will not tell them what James said today.

"Oh!" Dad says snappily. "Almost perfect. Oh well. Good job as always, hun." He winks at me.

The 'as always' just ruins it for me. It's a reminder that I'm obliged to get these good grades. Not that I don't want them, nor do I care about them, but it denies me the satisfaction of earning them.

"And word around your school is that you managed to climb the top of your rope in gym class yesterday. Is that true?" Mom says, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah," I answer, bending my head down slightly to hide my flushed cheeks. How did they know?

Overjoyed, Dad rubs my head. "We didn't know our little girl was the athletic type."

"Me neither," I say underneath my breath.

For a moment, there is silence as we continue with our meal, relishing in the food my mother has prepared. I find that I appreciate things a little better when it's quiet.

Dad clears his plate first and dabs the potato and butter stains with a napkin. He slouches on his chair, and a euphoric smile appears on his face. The kind of smile he wears after he's had his fill of something wonderful.

I finish next, and so does Mom. She sets her utensils on the plate in an orderly fashion. Dad, being the gentleman and lovey-dovey husband he is, compliments her on her cooking, and in return, she pecks him on the lips and pokes his nose.

As my mother collects our plates, utensils and glasses from the table, I get up from my seat and lend her a helping hand. Half of the dinnerware in her hands, and the other half in mine. My mind tempts me to levitate them, but I push it away and proceed to the kitchen, where Mom and I lay our load down in the sink.

Back and forth we go, between the table and the kitchen. All the while, Dad remains seated on his chair, at his special spot on the table where we could all recognize his authority. Where he felt important.

"Mary," he begins as I pass him for the third time. "I know you want to walk home from school, and you've been getting used to it just fine. But…" I have an idea of what he wants of me. No. I already know what it is. "I was thinking that I could pick you up from school every now and then. There are some days where I finish early at work, and I'm thinking that it won't be any harm to come get you."

I remember last week at my school, Jenny came to my table at the cafeteria unannounced. We had been going our separate ways before then, and it made her worry about me. About us. If whether or not our friendship was in tact. I didn't mean for her to think that way. I didn't mean to make her feel alienated, to make her think that us being friends is expendable.

This situation now, standing face to face with my father, with the light above the dining table as our only source of illuminations, feels just like that. Except this is worse since it's between me and my family. Me and my father, who brought me to this world. He and my mother are the last people I'd ever think to be detached from.

"So how does it sound, Mary?" asks Dad.

Exhaling, I beam a smile at him. "Okay. Sounds good."

"That's my girl." He rubs my head again. My fur could pass off as a mop if it wasn't attached to my head. "If you ever need a ride home, you just let me know."

I nod my head and carry on with helping my mother clean up at the kitchen.

Later that night, I'm in my room tucked in my bed. A sphere of light that I had just conjured up bounces between my hands as I fiddle with my magic, gazing at it absently. It leaves in its wake a series of streaks that paint the darkness that enshrouds my room. Watching them dance their little dance makes me wonder what else I can do with this sphere. How malleable it is.

Sighing, I call the sphere off. At this late an hour, I'm not motivated enough to get out of my bed, let alone practice my magic.

I roll to my right and shut my eyes.

Form is emptiness, and emptiness is form in itself.

Ti's teachings from today's lesson ring in me as loud as they were first uttered. If I am to be proficient in the style that he showed me, I have to do as he says. Only when I am empty, when I humble myself, can I truly grasp the concept. And only then can I be proficient at the style. At Woo Foo, period. I know what he means. I know what I can do.

My left hand slips beneath my blanket and proceeds to the bottom of my pajamas. With my trousers and undergarment undone, my fingers touch the area between my legs. There, it is soft and wet. My body trembles from the sensation coursing in my body. Pushing against it sends a flush surfacing on my cheeks and an exhale out of my mouth. Each push is fast. They are sudden. They are euphoric.

One at a time, I gather every thought that has cropped up in me. The impure thoughts that I have entertained. Each one of them is repulsive in their own right. They are horrid for their selfishness, for casting others aside in favor of the self. Horrid for their vindictiveness. Horrid for their weakness. These are the demons within me staking their claim on my being. On my body, on my soul. I push against my nether region. Again and again, expelling breath after breath with each push. My heart racing.

Emerging in my mind, alongside my ill thoughts, are James, Willis and Bobby. They grin a toothy grin as their moments of torture, moments of torment, play out like a music album on repeat. I grit my teeth. Push. Squish. Push. Squish.

Fifteen minutes, and I have lost count on the number of times I've pushed inside the space between my legs. Nearly breathless from exhaling a lot, I pull half of my blanket down to milden the temperature building around me.

One last push, and my legs go soft. I can feel my demons pouring out in a stream flowing from that part of my body, a loud gasp from my mouth and a swift parting of my eyelids. The seconds that pass immediately after are a struggle to stay awake. The fatigue settles in, and my mind goes blank. My eyes shut slowly, and I drift away…