Miguel attempts meditation with Daniel. Miguel's POV.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Karate Kid or Cobra Kai. I'm not making money from this. I'm just a fan.

Chapter Eight:

Ebb and Flow

"Your strikes are excellent," LaRusso says. "You have good form, good aim, and your force is powerful and swift."

The other students are paired up and practicing drills, and it's the first time LaRusso is working with him one-on-one. Miguel is surprised the man found it in himself to compliment him. He curls his lip up in something between a smile and a smirk, despite the fact he doesn't even like the man. Until –

"But right now, you're working with one style of karate, and that style can be limiting. Yes, you can punch, and kick, and hit better than most. But what are you going to do against a fighter who's twice your size?"

Miguel narrows his eyes at the passive-aggressive dig at how skinny he is.

"Who needs significantly more force and more hits to cause the same amount of damage? I had your build when I was your age. Actually, I was way scrawnier."

(Okay, so maybe he's reading into things.)

"And let me tell you, no matter how hard you strike, if you're up against the Incredible Hulk, striking's not going to be enough to bring him to the floor. Your movements are strong and stiff, and there's a time for that. But you need to learn how to soften as well. You need to understand the ebb and flow of bodies in motion. Let's practice working with your opponent's force, not against it.

"Here, hit me. I'll demonstrate."

Miguel aims to strike LaRusso's neck at a forty-five degree angle. He's shocked as LaRusso fluidly steps aside with mirrored footwork, catching Miguel's arm, LaRusso's movement matching the exact speed of Miguel's strike. LaRusso continues Miguel's motion, only shifting the angle of Miguel's wrist into a twist, and guiding that wrist upwards towards Miguel's head, so he's thrown off balance and forced to roll backwards onto the floor.

It's similar to a technique Sensei Lawrence had taught him early in his training, though LaRusso's movements had been more circular than angled. But the difference, though subtle, is immediately apparent. When Sensei Lawrence blocks him, it always hurts, even when he doesn't use full force. The goal of Sensei Lawrence's block and twist is to inflict pain on his opponent. The goal of LaRusso's is to escape his opponent.

"Now you try." LaRusso waits until he's ready (which Sensei Lawrence would never do) and aims to strike him. Instinctually, Miguel completes the technique the way he is already familiar with, going full force, apologizing halfway through as LaRusso lets out a pained hiss and he realizes what he's done.

They try it again, and he does the same thing. And again, and he still can't force himself to ease up, to melt against LaRusso's strike.

"You're still tense," LaRusso says. "Try to loosen up. Here, let's relax for a second. Roll your shoulders. Do some stretching exercises."

"Yes, Sensei." It's hard to get the word Sensei out of his mouth, but he does, more out of respect for the wishes of his real sensei than LaRusso.

Miguel straightens his back. He locks his arm up straight to the ceiling and folds to his side, focusing on long lines and perfect form, forcing the stretch as far as he can go –

"No, no!" LaRusso is shouting. Not cruelly, but loudly, with lots of expressive handwaving. A few heads turn their direction and Miguel is momentarily humiliated. He usually picks things up so quickly. He stands at attention.

"It's not about executing a perfect stretch. It's about relaxing your body. Being in tune with it. Loosen up."

Miguel tries again, but nothing he does satisfies LaRusso. Let go of your abs. Drop the tension in your shoulders. Feel how you're tightening your thighs.

Miguel tries over and over and over again, the simplest, stupidest stretches, and he still can't get them right. The better he performs the moves, the more LaRusso criticizes. He's desperate now for Sensei Lawrence to stop in and tell this fraud to quit the bullshit, but it's not his lesson, and he's not showing up.

"Okay Miguel, that's enough. Let's try something new. Come outside with me."

o - o - o - o - o

He can't believe he's actually doing this. This is more hokey than the namaste yoga idiots who'd sublet the Cobra Kai dojo.

He's sitting in lotus position, on the grass by the rock garden and a trickling fountain. LaRusso has him close his eyes like he's at church and about to recite the Padre Nuestro.

"Listen to the sound of water," LaRusso is saying. "Visualize the movement of waves. The ebb and flow, the give and take. Feel your breath. Inhale, exhale. This is how I want you to visualize your movements on the mat. Like a wave, that bends and folds, soft but powerful as it strikes the shore. Now, I want you to imagine a beach, and hold the image of waves cresting in your mind."

He tries. And surprisingly, a vidid image comes to him, of an ocean he's heard about in a thousand bedtime stories, an ocean he's never seen.

When his Yaya was a little girl in Ecuador, she'd lived in a small costal town. The shore there wasn't like out here in LA, with crowds and boardwalks, trash and cement, a thousand retail stores and billboards trying to grab your attention. The way she tells it, it was the most beautiful place in the entire world, with more creatures than you could ever imagine, sea lions and tortoises and dolphins and tropical songbirds, with the clearest water and the whitest sand.

He's never been to the country where his mother grew up, where his abuela spent most of her life. Besides other immigrants from church, the only people he knows who've been to Ecuador are his rich (mostly white) classmates who went to the Galapagos Islands as part of West Valley's spring vacation study abroad science program. His Facebook feed last spring was filled with photographs of sunburns and ocean sunsets, endangered animals and expensive bikinis. There's a photo of Kyler making a karate chop next to a Galapagos tortoise with #ninjaturtles that got 262 likes. The silent, painful jealousy returns. He hates the thought of these rich tourists using his homeland as a backdrop for social media attention. It's like they're violating a place that is sacred and his, and it's not fair he's never had the opportunity to even visit –

"You're tensing again," LaRusso says. "Rein in your thoughts and find your breath. Listen to the sound of water."

Miguel tries. He does. But he's too riled up, over nothing really. Why should he care where his classmates vacation? The Galapagos are hundreds of miles away from the coast where his abuela grew up. He sees his abuela, a little girl looking out at the water, wearing her favorite blouse that her mother had hand-embroidered. He wonders what the gestapo did with her rosary beads, a family heirloom that she always keeps in her purse. This might be all he ever sees of her again, images he's made up in his head from her stories. He might never again hear her dry, sarcastic humor. What if he forgets her face –

"Where are your thoughts?" LaRusso says. "Notice them and let them go."

Miguel opens his eyes and the ocean is gone. There's just LaRusso, sitting beside him and looking concerned. "It's okay. It's hard to focus in the beginning."

But he doesn't want to let his thoughts go. His thoughts are worth keeping. His anger and his tension are, too. There's a lot to be angry about in this world, and letting it go won't change shit.

"Fuck it."

Miguel stands up and storms out.

o - o - o - o - o

"Sensei, you won't believe the New Age bull LaRusso put me through today in class!"

Miguel shoulders his way through Sensei Lawrence's front door, his hands full with barbecue chips, Mountain Dew, and a video cassette tape of Rocky II he bought on ebay. "Oh." He stops in his tracks, because it's not Sensei Lawrence who greets him. "Hi Robby." His face flushes, and he doesn't even know why.

Robby stands there, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. "Hey Miguel."

Miguel peeks behind Robby's shoulder, like an idiot. "Is Sensei here?"

"Um…no. I'm not sure where he is. I think he's out on a date? He was acting all suspicious when he left, so that's my guess. Not to be a jerk but…how did you get in?"

Miguel tucks his hands into his jeans pockets and shrugs. "We got a key to his place, he's got a key to ours. You know, we're neighbors. So. Just in case we get locked out or forget to turn off the stove or something. You know."

"Yeah." Robby coughs. "So was he expecting you?"

"Naw. I mean, no. I just…sometimes I come over on Friday nights?" Which he realizes, belatedly, makes him sound like the biggest dork in the whole world. A loser who has no friends his age. Which is kind of true, now that he's no longer talking to Hawk. Dimitri's a constant downer and actually a bit of a snob, and when he hangs out with the other Cobras, it's more a group thing than a close friendship.

"It's like, not set in stone or anything." Miguel traces his foot against the carpet. "So uh…why are you here? Sorry, that came out wrong. I meant –"

"Nah, it's okay." Robby pauses and meets his eyes. It's almost a challenge. Miguel doesn't look away. "I'm actually moving in."

Miguel feels his chest tighten and suddenly everything seems very still.

"Miguel?"

"Oh yeah. That's great. Good for you. Wonderful. Excellent." God, why does he always sound like such a loser?

"Yeah," Robby says, snidely.

"I should… go."

"Wait, is that Rocky II on VHS? That's the best one."

"Yeah, I just had it lying around –"

"Man, that thing is ancient."

"I know."

"Thank God my dad finally got a fire stick."

"Wait, he did?"

And for some reason, that kind of hurts too. It's bad enough Sensei rejected his mom (probably because of him) and is out on a date with some stranger. It's bad enough he forgot that Miguel stops by pretty much every Friday night. Or maybe he didn't forget, and he just doesn't care. It's bad enough Robby's moving in and Sensei's moving on. He has to go and change something fundamental about himself.

"Yeah, but he still prefers the VHS player," Robby says. "Go figure."

"Well," Miguel says. "I should head out."

"I'm kind of grounded," Robby says. "I don't have anywhere to be, anything to do. So if you're not busy, and maybe wanted to hang out…"

Miguel looks at the door. He looks at Robby. "Sure. Whatever."

o - o - o - o - o

They're yelling at the screen during the final fight (Apollo Creed has just got Rocky good) when Sensei walks in the door. Sensei just stands there, flummoxed, staring at them. Robby grabs the remote and quickly off turns off the TV. Miguel feels like he's been caught with porn or something, he's that embarrassed. Not that he's ever actually been caught with porn.

Sensei's face spreads into a shit-eating grin. "Well this is great," he says, with a pumped-up enthusiasm that makes Miguel want to groan.

"How was your date?" Robby asks. And while Miguel appreciates the deflection so Sensei doesn't go on and on about how wonderful it is they're no longer trying to kill each other, he really doesn't want to know how awesome and sexy the woman Sensei's decided is better than his mom is.

"I wasn't on a date. Is that Mountain Dew?" Sensei grabs the liter bottle and screws off the cap. Robby makes a face as Sensei chugs it right from the bottle, but Miguel's privately happy that Sensei's indulging in the drink he'd bought specifically for him.

"Where were you?" Miguel asks.

"You were acting all shady when you left," Robby points out.

Sensei shakes his head. "Aren't I the one who's supposed to ask you two that question?"

"Answering a question with a question. Yeah, Dad, I know that trick. You're not getting out this," Robby says.

Sensei crosses his arms. "If you have to know, I went to an 80s night at a bar with LaRusso. Only it turned out to be super lame. Just a bunch of college brats wearing neon and dancing to Madonna and Michael Jackson."

Miguel pinches his lips. And then Robby bursts out laughing, and Miguel starts laughing too.

"What?" Sensei declares. "What? What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Miguel forces out between laughs, grabbing at his waist, which is getting a workout.

"Nothing at all," Robby says.

o - o - o - o - o

When Miguel leaves, Sensei walks him to the door. "I'm glad you and Robby are getting along."

"Yeah," Miguel says.

"He's going to be starting at West Valley on Monday."

"Already?"

"Well, what did you think? He moved."

"I guess I wasn't thinking."

"Just…you know. Look out for him at school, okay? It sucks to be the new kid."

"Yeah, sure."

"You doing all right?" Sensei adds as an afterthought.

Miguel shrugs. "Fine."

If fine means spending all of his time when he's not at school or the dojo alone. If fine means growing further apart from his mom because he doesn't feel like he can trust her anymore. If fine means Sensei being so busy with changing dojos and kissing LaRusso and Robby's asses that he doesn't remember they were supposed to hang out. If fine means being so worried about his Yaya that he hasn't been eating or sleeping enough. If fine means getting a D on his AP US History final and messing up his chances at getting into a good college because he couldn't concentrate because all he could think about was the truth about his dad. If fine means wanting Sam so bad he literally can't even stand near her without thinking about sex and feeling like a perv and somehow he's supposed to practice karate with her and actually touch her. If fine means tensing up and having flashbacks to that beating every time he sees Hawk in the hallway.

Yeah. He's perfectly fine.

"Good, good," Sensei says, like he's not even paying attention.

Sensei pats him on the back and shoves him along good-naturedly, but Miguel can't help but feel like he's being dismissed.

o - o - o - o - o

Miguel grabs his history textbook out of the back of his locker and shoves it into his backpack. He'd needed to take a bathroom break and now he has less than three minutes to get his things and run up two flights of stairs, the entire length of the school, and a block down the pavement to catch the school bus. He seriously hopes it doesn't give him an asthma attack, because that's the last thing he needs at the moment. Especially considering he no longer has an inhaler.

"Miguel, hold up!"

Still in the midst of jerking close his jammed backpack zipper, Miguel looks up and hisses as the zipper yields and pinches his thumb. It's Sam and Aisha, strolling down from the end of the hallway like they have all the time in the world. Which, upon consideration, they do. You can always tell the kids who have to catch the bus from those whose mommies and daddies buy them cars. The poor kids have to rush, forgetting homework or leaving their lockers messy, creating a stampede of black and Latino kids bottle-necking the front doors, while the rich kids loiter around, chatting with the other drivers as they wait for the buses to leave first.

In fact, the whole bus schedule's screwed up. Last year, the board cut funding so the buses no longer pick up after school sports, which pretty much means only the kids who own their own cars or whose parents don't work late can attend practice.

Miguel sighs, trying to quell the bitterness that's been welling up inside him lately. It's not Sam and Aisha's fault they were born rich. And it's not even bad thing to be rich, he reminds himself.

He used to be a happy, easy-going guy. Now, he's constantly aware of the little things he once shrugged off. Miguel's not sure if he was just young and sheltered, or if what happened to Yaya has made him paranoid, or if sixteen years of little things have snowballed into one big thing, or if everything really has gotten worse, but he's suddenly seeing little injustices everywhere he looks. He can't wash off the grime of the word deplorable, and there's a simmering resentment in the mess of a thousand other unnamed emotions.

So he's already in a bad mood when he sees that Sam looks pissed too. Hopefully not at him. He can't help but notice her folded arms are covering the small amount of stomach revealed between her crop-top and trendy, high-waist floral print shorts. God, why does his mind always go there with Sam, even when it's an inappropriate moment, even when he can keep his cool with any other girl? At least it's a distraction from his previous thoughts.

Miguel forcefully shifts his gaze away from her waist, and then away from her breasts, but he's suddenly too bashful to meet her eyes. He meets Aisha's, and she looks amused at the situation.

"I thought everything was cool between us," Sam opens, irritated.

Yup, she's definitely pissed at him. And he's going to miss the bus.

"Um…everything is cool between us?" Miguel says, not bothering to hide his utter confusion. He throws his backpack over his shoulders and tries not to let it off-balance him. It's at least thirty pounds. "I think?" he adds.

"Then why are you acting like a jerk to my dad?"

Miguel winces. While he hadn't thought of walking out on Mr. LaRusso the other day as an insult to Sam, she has a point. He's lost his cool with Sensei Lawrence before, but that's always blown over after a sharp scolding. He should've guessed a pussy like LaRusso would've made a big deal of it. Miguel gives Aisha a pleading look, hoping she'll step in and smooth things over, as the mutual friend.

Aisha shrugs. "Yeah, you were kind of a dickwad. I heard the whole story."

Merciless, that Cobra.

"Sam, I can explain –" Miguel starts, but that's about as far as he gets, and he's left opening and shutting his mouth as he searches for words like an idiot. Because he can't explain. He doesn't even really know why he stormed out.

"I gave you second chance, and already you have to go and be an asshole. Come on, Miguel. I thought you were better than this. Why would you tell my dad to fuck off when he was showing an interest in you?"

"I didn't tell him to fuck off. I said fuck it," Miguel says, rushed and defensive. "There's a difference."

Sam crosses her arms. She does not look amused.

"I'm gonna…go." Aisha interrupts awkwardly.

Sam's anger drops for a brief second when she addresses Aisha. "See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

Behind Sam's back, Aisha mimes a finger slowly slicing her neck, as if Miguel couldn't already tell he was in deep shit. He's going to text her tonight to tell her what a horrible friend she is.

Before Aisha's even out of hearing distance, Sam starts up again. "You know, I asked my dad to get to know you better. I thought there was a chance we would get back together. But never mind. I should've learned my lesson last spring. You're a jerk."

She turns and Miguel grabs her arm. Over her shoulder, Sam glares at where his hand grasps her. She could resort to karate if she had to, but she doesn't. Miguel immediately loosens his grip. He hadn't meant it to be threatening, it was instinct that made him want to stop her from storming away.

"I'm sorry." He lets go of her arm. "I shouldn't have walked out on your dad. I was frustrated."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Frustrated? You have to give me more than that."

Miguel bites down on his lower lip. "I am sorry. I really am. And I'll apologize to your dad, okay? I like you a lot, but I can't explain it. You wouldn't understand."

"What wouldn't I understand?"

Miguel has no idea where to start. Looking at things objectively, Mr. LaRusso had done nothing wrong. Nothing to spark Miguel's outburst. But so much rage had accumulated inside him that Miguel simply couldn't take it anymore. So he stupidly took out his anger on the man who happened to be in front of him.

But what can he say to Sam? She doesn't know about his abuela. She doesn't know what his mom's going through. She doesn't know it's all he can think about. She doesn't know he'll never trust men like her dad, rich white men who brag about their huge contributions to the annual police fundraiser. Sam wouldn't get it.

"I don't know," Miguel mumbles.

"Miguel, I'm really trying here. Please talk to me."

He looks up at her eyes, big baby blues, and they're pleading. He doesn't know how to open up to her, but he has to. He has to or she'll walk away. That's the point of being in a relationship, right? Opening up to someone.

Maybe he can get away with opening up as little as possible.

"I've just… I've just been going through a lot lately. At home. And um… yeah, I guess that's it. It's a lame excuse, I know."

"Okay," she says, and it's a little less annoyed. "Did you want to, um, talk about it?"

Miguel kicks his foot up against the wall of lockers. He wraps his shoe lace around his finger. "I don't know."

"Not to sound like a guidance counselor, but um, no one's like, hurting you at home or anything? Right?"

"No. No. It's nothing like that." Miguel's finger is turning purple, so he unwinds the shoelace.

"Sorry, dumb question. Just checking."

"It's my abuela. I'm worried about her." He blurts it out before he can stop himself. There's something about Sam that knocks down all his walls.

Sam's giving him a look like he's an injured puppy, and while it means he's out of hot water, Miguel almost prefers her anger. It's better than being pitied. "Is she sick? My mom's mom had a stroke a few years back. It was a hard time for our family."

He's ready to go with that easy suggestion. It's something she would understand. Everybody's grandma eventually gets sick. But Miguel briefly meets her eyes, and he can tell that she really does care. He has no reason to lie to her. Well, okay. There are a lot of reasons to lie to her, but he thinks he'd rather take the risk of telling the truth.

"No. I mean, she could be, but I wouldn't know. She's uh… she's in a detention center, actually. ICE took her."

"What?"

There's shock and disgust and horror in that one word. She actually has tears in her eyes. That quickly. And he can see the transformation in her face. That instant when the blissful thoughtlessness of life – the baseline assumption that everything will always be okay and that people are generally good – is stolen from you. And she hadn't even know his Yaya.

There's a long stretch of silence. "Miguel, I am so, so sorry."

He doesn't meet her eyes. "Don't…spread it around, okay? The Cobras know, but that's only because Kreese told everyone."

"That man is evil. I will never forgive him for how he hurt you. I hope he rots in hell. I hope the people who arrested her rot in hell."

It comes out as angry as he sounds lately, so angry that Miguel's startled. Sam's the type of girl who's always smiling, a forever people-pleaser, breezing through life with her beauty and charm, friendly with the popular kids and the geeks and the stoners all at once. He didn't know she had that level of anger in her, and it's powerful. He feels solidarity in the strength of her conviction, in the fact her anger is for him, along with an opposing desire to comfort her, to keep her from ever feeling a single negative emotion.

"Don't worry about me," Miguel says. "I don't even know why I told you. It's not like you can do anything about it."

Sam meets his eyes straight on. "No, I can't. But I can listen. I can be here. It's not enough. But I can do that. You don't deserve any of this. And your grandma doesn't either."

And he thinks, in that moment, he might love her. It happens as suddenly and assuredly as it does in every stupid, unrealistic teen romcom, but it really does hit him that hard.

Because she didn't try to justify what happened, or suggest a hundred solutions that he's already thought of, or recite some cheesy platitude, or change the subject, or act like she could possibly understand. She showed him that she cares. She showed him she heard him. He hadn't even know that's what he needed until she gave it to him. The tension he'd been holding in his gut eases up the slightest bit. Nothing is solved. But it's something.

Miguel swallows and meets her gaze. "Thanks."

They're staring, and it takes them a few seconds to remember that it's supposed to be rude to stare. Sam's eyes flicker away and the magic recedes, just a little.

"Well, I guess I should get going," Sam says.

"Okay."

"See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"You're not off the hook for saying sorry to my dad, you know," she adds. She means it, but her tone is gentle.

"I'll call him tonight."

Miguel watches her as she walks away, already of thinking of the best way to make amends with Mr. LaRusso so he can ask her out. He's not going to ruin things this time. He's not going to let some other, better guy come along and steal her away. (Even if she deserves a better guy.) And then he remembers–

Miguel jets down the hall and overshoots himself from sprinting so fast, tripping over the orange cone that blokes off the broken drinking foundation. He pushes the cone upright and it wobbles as it settles in place.

"Actually, could you give me a ride home?" he huffs out. "I missed the bus." Miguel's not sure what he did right, but it must've been something. Sam's giving him a smile like he's not a complete dork.

For a second, overwhelmed by an entirely different feeling, Miguel forgets all the reasons to be angry.