It’s now Thursday afternoon, and my brain is crammed after my lesson with Holly earlier. We spent the entire morning learning about the specifics of the different Houses and court etiquette.
Elle has been throwing punches in my direction for the last thirty minutes as she tries to teach me the basics of self-defense. Our first lesson has been her teaching me how to dodge blows without falling over.
I haven’t been successful.
“You have to move, Mae,” she says, exasperated.
“You change up the direction of your punch every time! I don’t know where to move to!” I say, equally exasperated.
“You can’t be serious. Do you think people are just going to punch you in the same direction every time?”
“Well, no, but I’m learning, and you’re supposed to teach me!”
At that, she throws another punch at me but pulls back before it can make contact because I, once again, stumble the wrong way and almost land face-first into her fist.
“Okay,” she says, pulling her fist back and standing straight.
“Okay, what?” I ask, trying to regain my balance.
“This isn’t working. Let’s try something else. I’m going to tell you what side I’m coming from, and I’ll throw my punch slowly, so you’ll have time to think and move. Focus on keeping your feet shoulder-width apart and stable while using your core to move your trunk out of the way.”
I nod and withhold my gratitude because why the hell couldn’t she have done this from the start? I do as she says, then look at her and nod.Come at me, Elle.
“Right,” she says while bringing her left fist toward me, and I immediately get confused. I step back several feet and say, “Wait,myright oryourright?”
“For the Mother’s sake.Yourright.”
“You could use a little patience,” I say through gritted teeth.
She doesn’t respond, waiting for me to re-set. When I do, she picks up her left fist and says, “Right,” while bringing it toward me. This time, I keep my feet planted and dodge to the left. She repeats this on my right side ten times then switches to my left side. We work in silence, the air between us tense.
She picks up the pace but sticks to ten reps at a time for each side. After three rounds on each side, she begins alternating between the left and the right. We settle into a pattern, her speed increasing with each rep. I feel more confident with each dodge and begin to notice that each time she lifts a fist, I’m not even paying attention to whether she’s saying which side she’s about to strike. Instead, I’m saying “left” or “right” in my head, then dodging away. She begins to stray from the pattern, trying to make it less predictable.
Left. Right. Right. Left. Right. Left.
I dodge each one, my feet never moving from their positions. After about five minutes of dodging her punches, she says, “Okay, now that I feel better about your ability to dodge a simple punch, let’s work on you throwing a punch.”
I groan internally. I was expecting this, but that doesn’t mean I was looking forward to it.
She motions toward my feet and says, “Plant your right foot behind you, but keep your feet the same distance apart. You still want to be stable, but you’re going to use your right foot to power the punch, so you’re going to be moving instead of remaining stationary.”
She models the movement while narrating every movement she’s doing. She’s honestly not a bad teacher. I’m just a bad student with no patience, I guess. Her lean body springs forward as she propels off her back foot and drives her fist into the air. She looks powerful. She models it again but with her back turned to me this time so I can see how her elbow stays in line with her fist.
“Your turn,” she says, stepping back. I arrange my feet and make a fist. “Stop, stop, stop.”
I groan outwardly this time. “What now?” I ask.
Her gaze flits to my hand. “Look at your fist. Where’s your thumb supposed to be?”
My thumb is pointing straight up, resting against the knuckle of my pointer finger. I tuck it so that it’s bent and resting below my first two knuckles.
“Okay, great,” she says. “Remember, keep your elbow in line with your fist.” I drive from my back foot, punching my fist into the air in front of me. She nods and says, “Not bad. Keep going.”
We continue this for about fifteen reps, her offering minor corrections or words of encouragement with each rep. We continue working on my punching and dodging, adding in some blocking later in the afternoon. I’m beat by the end of our training session.
As we leave and walk back to the castle, Elle apologizes. It takes me by surprise. I turn my head to look at her, but she’s looking at the ground, red wisps of hair floating in the wind as we walk together.
“What?” I ask her. “Why?”
