“What’s the difference?”How can it matter?
“Karate is from Japan. Tae kwon do, Korea.”
“How did I not know this about you?”
“That I’m Korean?” Hannah smiled. Then she considered me for a moment. She finally said, “You know, Sam, there’s a lot you don’t see because you don’t choose to. I’ve studied martial arts since I was nine. It’s a big part of who I am. But I doubt Jane Austen would find it ladylike.”
“You’re probably right, but knock-offs likePride and Prejudice and Zombiesmake Lizzy Bennet an amazing fighter. I just read one that had demure Anne Elliot fromPersuasionthrowing punches.”
Hannah sighed and looked away. Did I say something wrong? She left soon after that. Did I miss something? Those questions kept me up half the night. And the whole conversation irritated me because I suspected she was right: I only see what I want to see.
And then today, I added something else to my pool of self-reflection: I only do what I want to do—even if it costs others dearly.
It all started this morning when I stopped at Buckhorn to return some corrected math work sheets. Kyle was rude, as always, and I got ticked that Hannah got respect and I didn’t. Call it jealousy. So when Father John called me later today and asked me to find Kyle, who had missed his anger management session this afternoon, I was already on the offensive.
I started my search at the high school track a few blocks away, where I’d occasionally seen Kyle when I was there running laps myself. Sure enough, he was there. It struck me that racing him might earn me some respect.
“What do you want? You—” He sneered as I approached, and started pacing like a caged tiger, circling me. He acted tough, but a familiar glimmer of vulnerability gave him away.
“Hey! Don’t say it!” I reached for tough.
“Say what?”
“You were about to call me something nasty. At Grace House you can’t swear without getting detention, but I bet you’ve got an amazing arsenal. Don’t say something you’ll regret.”
“I don’t regret nothin’.”
“You might.”
He thrust his chin up and glared at me. This boy knows how to hate.
“I know. I don’t like you either, but we’re both runners. Maybe we have more in common than we realize.”
“We ain’t friends, you—”
“I said nothing about friends.” I looked at the track. “I bet I can whip your butt.” Now I had his attention.
“You can’t beat me. A skinny white girl like—”
“You scared?” I cut him off with a challenge because that’s how you trap a boy, in case you’re interested. You dare him. I looked down at his legs. They aren’t kid legs. At thirteen, Kyle’s legs have enough muscle definition that I questioned my great idea. Yet I refused to back down.
“And stop discriminating. You think because you’re a boy or because you’re black that you can beat me? You can’t.” I poked my finger into his chest.
The poke may have been overkill. His eyes flashed to the finger, to my face, and then to the track. “Name it.”
“One mile, if you can keep up.” I suspected he was faster than me, but a mile takes more than speed. It takes stamina—my strength. Anything longer, he’d probably refuse.
“Let’s go, you—”
“Save the smack and run.” I tapped the timer button on my watch and took off. I thought I could do a 6:30, but not much faster. I glanced down as we finished the first lap in ninety seconds. That’s a six-minute mile—way too fast for me. But I needed to win, or at least keep up with him. Beating Kyle would get me respect.
As we started the second lap, Kyle surged ahead. I let him go, and within a quarter lap he dropped back. He didn’t pace well, and I slowed a touch, hoping he’d fall in line with me. We finished the second pretty tight and I started to break in the third, keeping a few steps ahead.
As we raced, I realized that this kid runs like I used to. All heart and tension with a complete purging of self—no holds barred. Kyle’s vulnerability was tangible. I guess my additional ten years have taught me pacing and hiding; because as I watched the emotions play across his face, I missed the abandon I used to feel about running. About anything. When was the last time I felt something? Really felt it?
Right there in the third lap, I knew Kyle should win. I could see it in his pulled-back lips, every muscle tensed and pushed forward. This was more than a race. Kyle was running for his life. The same run I made many times. Runs I slogged through alone. No one bolstered me or gave me encouragement. I could have done that for Kyle. I should have done that for him. But I hate to lose.
In the fourth he started wheezing, and I pulled ahead. At the first corner I pulled away completely and, despite momentary guilt, kicked up the pace and drove the last half lap in a full sprint. I looked down at my watch as I crossed the line: 6:05! It was the fastest mile of my life. It felt amazing, and I thought I’d die. Kyle came in at 6:39, doubled over, and gagged. If there’d been something in his stomach, it’d have been all over my shoes.
