Brendan Buckley's Sixth-Grade Experiment (18 page)

Morgan nodded eagerly. “Of course. I don't want to throw you off.”

“Right. Gladys and my mom are over there if you want to sit with them.”

“Sure!” Morgan smiled again.

Why had I suggested she sit with
Gladys
? My
grandmother would love having the opportunity to tell a girl all kinds of embarrassing things from when I was a baby. Like the time I stuck a Cheerio up my nose and they couldn't figure out why I wouldn't stop digging up there—until it finally popped out … two days later.

“Where are they?”

I didn't need to point out Gladys. She stood waving her gigantic
#1 FAN
finger.

Morgan giggled. “Oh, I see her! See you later.” Morgan's face suddenly bumped against mine, and her lips brushed my cheek. “Good luck.” She hurried off.

It felt as if someone had cranked up the heat to a hundred and two. Had Morgan just kissed me on the cheek?

I stood there, dazed. Dad came up. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Have you done any of your stretches?”

I shook my head slowly. What had just happened?

“Well, let's get on it. Things are about to start.”

I searched the bleachers. “Is Grandpa Ed here yet?”

“He just came in.”

I spotted Grandpa Ed making his way to where Mom, Gladys, and now Morgan sat. He saw me and gave me a thumbs-up. I waved back.

Dad and I started my warm-up. First, Dad called out stretches, and then different kicks, punches, and blocks. I followed, even though only half of me was listening. The other half jumped with the Jitters as big questions poured in. Questions like, what did a kiss on the cheek
mean? Was it only to wish me luck, or did it mean something more?

“Spinning kick,” Dad said.

I spun backward and my leg shot out behind me, right into Dad's hand.
Bam
!

“Watch the contact, Brendan,” Dad warned. “Forward jump kick.”

I jumped up and extended my leg from my knee. This time Dad pushed back when my foot hit his palm. I lost my balance and fell on my butt. My face burned hot.

“What's going on?”

I got up slowly.

“Are you
trying
to make contact?”

I didn't know whether I was actually trying or just not concentrating hard enough. But I for sure wanted him to know I wasn't weak. And I wasn't a geek. Or an egghead. I shrugged, then quickly added, “No, sir,” when Dad's eyebrows lifted. We did a few more moves. I was careful not to make contact.

Dad put his hand on my shoulder. “Look, I realize I've been on you a lot recently—but you've worked hard and you'll do well.”

Dad always gave me a pep talk before a competition. Usually I gobbled up his words as if they were candy. They gave me a last shot of energy before going into the ring. But this time his words just sat on my shoulder, as heavy as his hand pressing down on me.

“You're going to tell the referee you just tested for brown stripe, right?”

If I told the ref I'd only recently been promoted, he'd probably give me a break and I wouldn't have to do the form for brown stripes,
Hwa-Rang
, which I hadn't had time to learn yet. Instead I could do the form for purple belts,
Toi-Gye
, which I knew backwards and forwards after the last two weeks of practicing.

I nodded.

“Good.” Dad knocked me in the arm with his fist. “Go get 'em, partner.”

I joined Khal at the edge of our ring, where he sat watching the junior blue belts perform their
hyungs
. We'd be next. “Hey,” I said.

“Hey.” Khal bumped into me. “How's your girlfriend?”

“For the last time, she's
not
my girlfriend.”

“Oh yeah?” He grinned. “Then why'd she kiss you over there under the basketball hoop?”

The hairs on my arms stood on end. “I don't know. I mean, she didn't. She was just wishing me good luck.”

“Come on. Just admit it. You like her.”

“No I don't.”

“Then why do you act so funny around her?”

“I don't.” I got hot again. I had heated up and cooled down so many times since getting there, I was like one giant weather system.

“You get all serious and scientific whenever she's around.”

“That's the way I am!”

“You like her.”

“Say it again and you'll be sorry.”

Khal shrugged. “You like her.”

I gritted my teeth and narrowed my eyes. I jumped up and was about to walk away when the judge called for the purple belts. We lined up and he reminded us of the rules. We'd execute our form one at a time. At the end, if two or more were tied, each one would perform the
hyung
once more so the judges could select a winner.

I was up first, which often happened with a last name that started near the beginning of the alphabet. I bowed to the referee, then approached him to make my request to do
Toi-Gye
. He agreed.

“Kam sa ham nida, nim,”
I said, then bowed again and entered the ring, making sure not to look at the bleachers—where Morgan sat cheering in her head and where Gladys was for sure waving that foam finger. The judge gave me the okay to start.

I nailed each movement, never once losing focus. Double-fisted punch. Forward kick. Right punch. Left punch. Dad had made me do this
hyung
so many times I could have done it in my sleep. In fact, I probably had. My favorite part was a series of crescent kicks. A crescent is a spinning high kick to the side that ends with a stomp to represent crushing your enemy's ankle. Stomp. Stomp … 
Stomp. Stomp. I did a one-eighty with each kick, my arms up and out to the sides like Godzilla marching through town.

I finished the form without a hitch. “Ha!” I bowed and kneeled with my back to the judges as they tallied my score.

Gladys hollered. “Woo-hoo!” I looked over to see the finger flying high. Grandpa Ed had his thumb and first finger in his mouth. He let out a shrill whistle.

After another boy and then a girl, it was Khal's turn. He entered the ring, bowed, and waited. Wasn't he going to ask permission to do
Toi-Gye
, too?

“Shi jak,”
the ref said, signaling for Khal to begin. I shrank inside. Khal had come in prepared to do
Hwa-Rang
. How had he gotten it down so quickly? He must have practiced 24/7 since our promotion test. His moves were as sharp as a samurai sword. I didn't like being jealous of my best friend, but he was making me look bad.

“Hee
-yah
!” Khal shouted, finishing the form. More hollering and finger waving from Gladys.

A few more kids performed. The three judges huddled to compare our scores. The head judge faced us and called out two names: Khalfani's and mine.
Shoot
. I would rather have had Khal win it outright than have to compete in a tiebreaker.

I went first again, but this time, right in the middle of the jump in which I'm supposed to land in a cross stance—right foot over left—I glanced at the risers.
Big mistake. Morgan stared intensely, watching my every move.

I lost my balance and stumbled. I recovered the best I could—being sure to make the last few punches strong and convincing—then kneeled, breathing hard. I kept my eyes on my hands, clenched in my lap.
Dumb, dumb, dumb
. Had Khal seen me look at Morgan? Had
Dad
?

When it was his turn, Khal punched and kicked, no fumbles or missteps. His eyes stayed glued to one spot the whole time, as if he were taking on one of the kickboxers from his Jujitsu Rumble video game.

He was named the winner.

I was fine with him winning—honestly, it didn't mean that much to me—but still, I was mad at myself for making such a dumb mistake. I'd have to figure out something to tell Dad when he asked why I'd lost focus.

Khal and I bowed to each other, then headed for the
kyepka
area. Of course he gave me a bad time about tripping myself, but at least he didn't say anything about Morgan.

After breaking boards, I went to sit with my family until time for sparring.

“You were fantastic, Boo,” Mom said. She pulled my head down to kiss my forehead.

“Mo-om,” I whispered. Didn't she know she shouldn't be kissing on me in front of all these people? Anywhere, really, but
especially
at a Tae Kwon Do tournament.

I avoided looking at Dad … and Morgan, who still sat next to Gladys.

“Save some sugar for me!” Gladys puckered her lips and swatted me with the floppy finger. I scooted past Mom and bent over for Gladys's kiss. No use trying to deny Gladys.

Grandpa Ed reached over Gladys and slapped me on the back. “Way to go, kiddo. You looked great out there. That board-breaking stuff is dynamite!”

I smiled, finally. My grandpa had been there to see me.

Morgan slid over, making space for me between her and Gladys. “You were awesome!” she whispered in my ear. Her hand brushed mine.

A tingle ran from the ends of my fingers up my arm and down my back. All the way to my toes. And it wasn't the kind of tingle I got when I had a question. I had never felt a tingle like this.

“What happened on your
hyung
?” At the sound of Dad's voice the tingle turned into a prickling heat in my armpits.

Mom gave Dad a look, but he kept his eyes on me.

“I just lost focus for a second.”

“There's no ‘just' about it. You lost focus. How many times do I have to tell you, Brendan? When I was on patrol, a second could mean the difference between living and dying. You can't ‘just' lose focus.”

“Aren't you taking this a little seriously?” Grandpa Ed asked. “It's a sport. Not life or death.”

“I second that!” Gladys said. “Leave the boy alone, Sam. The seniors rule on this one.”

Dad's jaw clenched. He looked back out onto the floor.

I pulled my arms and legs in, trying not to touch Morgan and hoping she hadn't figured out that she had been the distraction.

When it was time to check in for the sparring competition, Dad walked with me to the sidelines. I'd seen Mom talking to him after the tense moment we'd had in the stands. “Look, this should be fun for you, but it's not only about fun. Do you understand what I'm saying?” he said.

Dad had told Mom boys like me got beat down. I would show him. I could be tough. I
was
tough.

I sat on the opposite side of the ring from Khal to watch the first two competitors spar. I didn't need him distracting me right now or accusing me of liking Morgan again—not that it would be a crime if I did. Jeez.

The four judges stood one to a corner, their flags ready. Each judge had two flags on wooden dowels, one red and one blue, which corresponded to the two contestants. The red contestant wore a red ribbon tied to the back of his belt. When one person kicked or punched in their opponent's “strike zone,” the judges
would raise that contestant's flag. If three out of four judges raised their flag, the striker got a point—half a point for a kick or punch made from the ground and a full point for a jumping one.

The first two contestants—two boys who looked at least fourteen, the upper end of the juniors division—were done quickly. The tall, skinny one who never stopped moving scored the three points needed to win in about a minute.

Next, the head referee called Khal and me. I was a little surprised Master Rickman had put us together in the first round. One of us would be going out.

We stood in the center of the ring. The referee tied the red ribbon to Khal's belt. Khal hopped from foot to foot while the ref reminded us of the rules. The strike zone—where we aimed for but couldn't actually touch—was anything waist up in the front, including the head and neck, and a six-inch strip down the spine in the back—no kidneys or shoulder blades. We were not to make contact with any part of the body, and if someone called for a time-out, the other contestant was to turn and kneel until the ref said to resume.

“You ready for the Brown-Stripe Bomber?” Khal whispered, still hopping around. He shook out his arms.

I narrowed my eyes. “Bring it on.” Were we fooling around? Or had I just challenged my best friend to an actual fight?

“Kyung ret,”
the referee said, reminding us to bow.
We bowed to him and then to each other.
“Choon bee.”
Ready.
“Shi jak!”

I went straight for Khal's middle with a standing side kick, figuring he was so busy dancing around he wouldn't be expecting it. Three judges raised flags. Half point to the Science Nerd.

I heard Dad on the sidelines. “That's right, Bren. Way to get in there!”

Khal jumped and kicked, but I blocked with my knee. I moved around him, jabbing, but he moved too fast for me to find an opening.

He jerked one way and I followed. As I moved, I lowered my guard and he punched at my chest. All four red flags flew up. Half point, Brown-Stripe Bomber.

“Good job, Khal!” his dad yelled. “Keep it up!”

Khal motioned as if to punch up high. My arms flew up and before I could recover, his foot shot toward my middle. He had been midflight, giving him another whole point.

Now it was my turn to dance. He wouldn't catch me standing still for even one millisecond. We moved around each other like binary stars, jabbing and kicking without extending our arms or legs very far. Neither of us wanted to give the other a chance to find a hole.

Dad shouted, “Time, Brendan! Time!”—telling me that our two minutes was almost up and if I didn't score a full point soon, Khal would be declared the winner.

“Strike, Brendan!” Dad yelled again.

“Hold steady, Khalfani!” Mr. Jones responded.

Show Dad what you can do
.

Morgan is watching
.

This is your chance
.

My thoughts whirled. I jumped, spun, and extended my leg behind me—
pow
!—just as Khal rushed in for a punch.