The Carbon Copy
by Christopher R. Martin
Chapter 10 – A mark of strength
"So she helped you bake cookies on Saturday," asks my mother as she and I perform our kicking drills.
"She did," I reply to her, concentrating. Our movements are in sync with one another, lifting our legs as high as we can. "She showed me a good method of keeping my dough round. I used to have a really complicated way of doing it, but hers is a lot better than mine."
"I see," says Mom, switching her foot and giving me the sign to do the same. "What else did she teach you?"
"Well, she taught Darwin how to do cursive writing better. He's been struggling with it at school, and she really helped him out, too."
"Hmm…" There's that detachment in her voice again. It seems that Mom is most disinterested when talking about our grandmother. Ever since she arrived at our doorstep, she has not once treated her with any due respect. If she does something for her, it's always out of bitterness or indifference or plain anger. You can tell that simply from the hard time she's having maintaining eye contact whenever they're talking to each other.
Maybe pressing the issue isn't the wisest move I can make. Mom is a terrifying woman when she's angry. She becomes an entirely changed person. Even so, past that anger, past the short temper, I can discern her as still my mother. I can't do that when she's upset towards our grandmother, her own mother. I try to make out this strange new person, but come up with a great big blank. It's actually scarier than my mother going on a rampage, breaking people's bones and imposing her will as she sees fit.
Or if she's this mad, if she's this capable of showing a sheer lack of interest, then she's not completely the one to blame, if ever. It could be that Grandma Senicourt too has part of the blame to share. Whether a small portion, a large portion or a majority of it. It didn't occur to me to ask her that night, and I'm wishing that it did. Mom isn't the easiest nut to crack, and if someone can help me put two and two together, it would be her own parents. My grandparents.
A final kick from me and Mom, and that's the end of our drills. So begins the lesson proper, and we go through it as we have, from the customary start to the three-phase exercises. We've only recently gone through the different kicks in Yoshida-Ryu. There's a front kick, a back kick, a turning kick, a side kick and a roundhouse kick.
And this part of my training is hands down the most challenging so far. Each kick is so set apart in their technique, more so than punches, blocks and even stances. I almost have them nailed down, but the roundhouse kick continues to trip me up. It's hard to tell if I'm shifting my weight as Mom taught me I should and if my foot is pointed correctly.
Despite my failures, she encourages me to try again, helping me to my feet whenever I fall, yet still remembering that she is my teacher, my sensei, and never losing her disciplined edge.
Eventually, I get the hang of the technique down, and I can perform the move to an acceptable level.
Following our short five-minute break is my stance training. We brush up on my stances, my datchi. Neutral, fighting, sumo and horse-back riding. Every one of these stances, these datchi, I hold for two to three minutes each, or for as long as I conceivably can before my body gives out, with Mom striking these stances too as a benchmark for me to gauge my own performance according to.
Mom inculcates into my mind that though I've gotten my technique, my form, down pat, which she is confident that I have, there is always room for improvement. That being proficient at something is no excuse for me to be complacent. That leniency is what sets apart a good karateka from an excellent karateka.
At times, Mom is even baffled at how much and how fast I'm getting better. She doesn't quite tell me, but her wide-eyed and open-mouthed expression pretty much give it away.
With my datchi done, that leaves the half-hour of kata practice, or the sequence of techniques performed in succession in a choreographed and intricate display. Mom instructs me to act out the two katas I have learned thus far. And I do without questioning her.
Straight punch.
Turn around on my heel, upper body block as I do so.
Straight punch again.
Turn on my heel to the right, guarding my upper body once again.
Three alternating straight punches, the third one aided by a kiai.
Repeat in the opposite direction.
That is the first kata in a nutshell. When I do it this time, Mom makes no comment aside from her appraisal.
The second kata works very much the same, except I do not look over my shoulder before turning my body. Since I can't see where I'm going, I have only my instincts and my precision to rely on. After being corrected by my mother during the first three steps, the rest is smooth sailing.
I hold the last pose and wait for Mom's word. She circles me observantly, and I anticipate that she'll correct a part of my body. She keeps walking. She doesn't correct me. The seconds unwind. The pain that I used to feel when maintaining my pose doesn't surface anymore after becoming accustomed with it.
"Yame!" shouts my mother, and I revert to my starting stance. She kneels on the floor, as do I. We close our eyes and breathe in and out, the air cleansing me, cleansing us. Cleansing my soul, my spirit. Giving pause to my rapidly thumping heart. I count to thirty in my head and open my eyes.
Mom peers at me with her familiar scowl. The scowl softens into a smile, one that a parent wears when they are filled with pride. She takes to her feet and commands me to do likewise. Then she retrieves an object from her bag. She approaches me, revealing it to be a bright yellow belt.
My eyes, soul and spirit are aglow from seeing this belt, my heart once again running faster than I can keep up with.
"Well done, my gakusei," praises Mom, bowing as she holds the belt out. I bow back at her.
"Already?" I ask her, unbelieving. So taken aback. "But I've only started last week."
"A white belt is required to attend at least one lesson per week for at least four weeks. You have gone above and beyond what is expected of you, Gumball. So go on. Put it on. You have earned it."
I don't know what to say, if I can even say anything. I don't have to. I just obey my mother's instructions, do away with my white belt and adorn myself with this new one, tying the two ends in a knot. We bow to each other once more.
"Congratulations, Gumball, on moving from jikkyū to kyūkyū." I present her a perplexed face to show I am still unfamiliar with the Japanese language. "I'll teach you about how ranking and belts are done in Yoshida-Ryu a little later. You have shown plenty of promise, my son. Perhaps I will get to see that promise realized."
"Thank you, Mom!" I catch her off-guard with a lunge and a hug. I don't know what's come over me. Neither of us do. I get ahold of myself, let go of her and bow to her as I always have.
Mom chuckles, placing her paws on her hips, her tail flicking behind her. She nears me and wraps me in her arms, stroking tufts of my fur on my head. I thought she was supposed to be my sensei, and that I was supposed to address her as such. This could be the only exception she makes, so I savor it while it lasts.
"No need to thank me, sweetie," she murmurs in my ear. "Watching you grow into a fine young man is all the thanks I need." She fondles me for a little while longer and then lets me go. One last time, we bow to one another. "That does it for today. Help me with dinner after you get changed, yeah, Gumball?"
"Alright, Mom."
I head out the door a revitalized boy. I feel like I can take on the world. Like a great big door has been opened for me. I inhale the crisp afternoon breeze and soak in the glorious brilliance of the sun. This is real. This yellow belt is as real as my fur and the skin underneath it.
But upon looking out that great big door, I see that the path I'm treading carries on, far from over. As long, narrow and difficult as I perceived it was going to be, as it was when I started treading it in the first place. The journey may be trying and even tempt me to quit while I'm ahead, but I know in my beating, vigorous chest that the destination is worth it…
I put the last of my textbooks and notebooks in my gym bag while stowing away the ones I don't need and close my locker door. I then start the walk to the music room for my next class, with Penny by my side. She had just heard my account of me attaining my yellow belt the other day, and she's about as happy for me as my mother is.
"So now that you're one rank higher, that means you can protect me. You can fight for me," Penny entertains, eyeing me with something of a shifty grin.
"You bet I will. I'll fight anything for your sake, Penny," I declare to her gallantly.
But to be completely honest, even if I wasn't learning karate, I'd still fight for her honor. For her sake. She knows it as well as I know it, and nothing will ever change that.
"Oh, my knight in shining armor. What oh what will I ever do without you?" She pushes her arm against her head as though she's ready to faint while she teases. I wish I had a suit of armor, from a helmet to a chest plate to a pair of boots. And no, the crummy 'armor' I wore during my 'joust' with Tobias is anything but armor.
I roll my eyes at her teasing.
"Joking aside, I'd like to see you show off what you know some time. Perhaps teach me a thing or two, even," says Penny.
"Stick by the gym after P. E., then, to get front row seats to the show. Be warned that it can get quite intense," I add smoothly, clicking my tongue and winking an eye at her.
Giggling to herself, Penny replies with, "I look forward to it."
We make it to class the same time as the bell rings. Music class runs its course as usual, my classmates latching on to their preferred or most familiar instrument and playing them, rather poorly at that. Next period is P. E., which also runs its course without deviating from the norm. Pretty much the only person having fun playing dodgeball is Jamie, who slaughters everyone she sees indiscriminately, friend and foe alike. In fact, she's very adamant in being a one—what the heck is she, a cow, a bull, a ram?—army that she has to smack her teammates in the face to tell them that.
On my team, Penny is the newest and final casualty in Jamie's hands. Or is it hooves? Anyway, Penny goes down pretty hard after taking a ball in the face and the fall for me. My teammates practically have to rush into the field to get her safely to the bench.
And is that… That red blot trickling down her lower lip. Is that blood? Did Jamie just… She didn't. She did not just do that. She wouldn't have done that if I were around. If I have anything to say about it.
If I have anything to do about it.
An ember kindles in my stomach and glimmers in my eyes. The ember is stoked and springs into a raging wildfire that not even a firefighting team can hope to put out. In a shimmer, the fangs at the back of my mouth protrude as I bare a toothy glower at Jamie.
She snickers at me, delighting in having pulled a tender nerve in me. She throws the ball in her grip, but I hunch down as the predator I am to avoid the oncoming impact. There's plenty more where that came from, and she launches a volley of red rubber balls at my direction. I'm not losing. Not to her. Not after what I had to witness. It's high time that someone put her in her place.
As the bombardment careens my way, I parry every last ball. Sidling to the left, to the right, arching my back backwards, hunching down in a prowling posture, and somersaulting to dodge those that come in cluster. With a perfect landing on my feet, to boot.
One ball remains on her side. I'm primed and ready in my predatory position, eyes narrowed and attentive to her every move. She throws the ball. Catching it with one paw, I take to my feet and flex the fingers on my open other paw.
"Enough!" I snarl at her, teeth gritted and razor sharp. After inspiring nothing but fear from everyone she meets eyes with, Jamie has no idea how to respond to my reaction.
I assess the situation, or rather my side of the field. There are…how many balls? One, two, three, four, five, six, sev—does it matter how many? They're all near me now. The ball closest to me rolls even closer, and I swiftly snatch it.
In rapid succession, I fling ball after ball at her, every one of them flying at breakneck speed. Just when she avoids one by the skin of her teeth, another is just about ready to make acquaintances with her face. I'm throwing the balls too fast to land a decisive hit on her, but they're also too fast for her to react quickly enough to.
I've got her on the run. I have her running scared. And she has nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Getting scare is all she can do. Sooner or later, I'm going to land that clean hit.
And I do. Jamie goes down harder than Penny did. Harder than an elephant hit with a tranquilizer dart. She tumbles on the floor and to a stop. But this fire in me has burned too hot and beyond my control. I do not stop until every last ball has been launched. Until every last ball hits its mark.
One after another, they collide with Jamie and eventually pin her against the wall. The hits create a massive dent much like the one on Banana Joe's locker door.
Flesh for flesh, blood for blood. Jamie's blood, her pain, for Penny's. What an odd thought to ponder on. Jamie getting hurt. It's not something you see everyday, but it happens here.
Only after I've run out of balls do I stop. The wildfire dies quietly of its own volition, permitting me to see my surrounds as per normal. It's taken the wind out of me. I grope my chest and breathe labored breaths.
Over at the stands, my classmates and the coach watch on with gaping looks on their faces. Like they've never seen me this way ever. They did, once, when Darwin, Anais and I mistook Dad's supplements for cereal. I wasn't myself then, nor am I myself here.
But inspecting their horror closer, am I myself just now? Penny looks none too pleased, if not outright terrified.
The question echoes in the back of my mind, now sounding with urgency. I can't really tell if my actions were due to an outside cause or if they were my own. For my sake and for theirs, I'd be afraid if they were my own.
During the fifteen minutes we have left before our break, Mom introduces a new exercise to my lesson – applying what I've been taught in a practical scenario. She extends her arm pretending to be a random stranger from off the street. She grabs me by my right arm and elaborates that every move has been designed for more than just one situation. They don't have to be used so rigidly.
In this case, if I want to retaliate with, say, a straight punch, then it's not that difficult. I'd start by pulling them in while turning my arm quickly, forcing them to let go, and immediately go for the punch. And it's the same principle when someone grabs me by another part of me: grab them back by the wrist, pull the arm in and twist to break free, and counter however way I please.
For the purpose of this lesson, Mom just has me do a push. The friction on my wrist burns slightly. We repeat the process seven times before switching hands, and after seven more repetitions, she grabs my gi.
While we go through the exercise, Mom initiates some small talk with me.
"Tell me more about what happened today, gakusei," she begins, taking my gi into her paw.
"I didn't start it, Mom. Jamie did," I say as I breathe, pull and push.
"I know, you told me that. But how did it happen? Did she hit you, did she push you down, did she take your lunch money…"
"It's nothing like that." I can feel the strength in my arms building from pulling out of my mother's hold and retaliating. "Everything was fine until she went army tank on us. It was me and Penny left, and Penny took a hit for me. I…" I hesitate with the next repetition as the image of Penny's bruised face surfaces in my head. "I couldn't just do nothing after that. I wasn't going to let anyone get away with hurting her."
Mom folds her arms and ponders. She angles her head to the right and taps her foot on the floor. "And you got the upper hand and won the game, right?"
"Yeah."
"Is this girl…Jamie…is she alright?"
I shrug at my mother. "The nurse says she will be in a few days."
Taking a deep breath, Mom holds out her arm again and grabs mine by the wrist. Our eyes meet, hers burrowing their way into my soul. "One more time," she orders.
"Huh?"
"I need to see something. Try to break free and counter."
Her grip tightens even harder. In the face of her scrutiny, I hold my ground and do not falter. Breathing in and out, and relaxing every bone and every muscle, I twist my paw and clutch her wrist in an instantaneous motion. My fingers latch onto her person and lock in place, and I pull her with every ounce of strength I can muster and push her shoulder with equal force. The power behind my push is explosive, sending a shockwave hurdling in a wide radius away from us. It even sends Mom sliding across the floor and pins her on the wall.
Yes, that is what happens, word for word, beat by beat. I manage to beat my mother at her own game and move her, and I don't break that big of a sweat in doing so. My own mother, the epitome of strength and immovability. Even she is at a loss for words, processing my display with a perplexed countenance.
Gathering herself, she brushes off her gi and returns to her post, where she bows at me, and I bow back.
"And I thought I've seen everything," she comments. I'm a little weary. Discerning how my mother feels through her face alone comes naturally to me. But I have no clue as to what her look now is supposed to mean. It's absolutely neutral. Unreadable. Neither a smile nor a frown. She clears her throat. As a small ray of hope, her mouth gradually forms into a smile. "As I've said, you have plenty of promise, Gumball. Let's see if we can't tap into that potential and transform it into something truly amazing. That is what you want, right?"
Fervently I nod to her. "Hai!"
"That's the spirit. But first off, let's take a break."