She worked the pattern methodically. Made sure her empty hand backed up her checks, aiming for the targets without actually watching where she was aiming, listening to the sticks thwack together.
Trying to wake up.
She had been doing the training drill since she was eight. After eight years, she was much better at it than most of her father’s students.
“Maddy, you awake in there?”
She met his eyes. “Yes, dad.”
“Then where are you?”
He threw a random punch as he talked. She checked it, then fired back a low strike toward his knee, which he countered, and they flowed back into the pattern. He moved forward, she moved back and to her right, counter for counter. It wasn’t unlike dancing.
“Got a test today.”
“Yeah?” This time his stick stabbed toward her midsection. She parried it aside, threw a spinning back kick at his ribs. He slipped backward, deflected the kick to the side. She used the parry’s momentum to spin her back around to her stance, sent another strike at his left collarbone. The pace intensified.
“Physics?”
“Yes.”
“You worried?”
“A little.”
“Good.” He stopped the drill, offered the customary bow. “The water should be warm by now. Go get cleaned up and I’ll cook us some breakfast.”
She bowed back, headed for the bathroom. She stoppered the sink, turned on the hot water and watched it until it was deep enough to submerge her hands. She looked sideways at the shower head she had never seen used, and wondered what it would be like. Enough hot water to soak in it standing up without having to worry.
She fished a frayed gray washcloth from the stack, sniffed it, then dipped it in the water and did a passable job scrubbing herself clean. When she was finished, she dressed herself in her cleanest pair of threadbare jeans, pulled on an old white t-shirt, then covered that with an oversized gray sweatshirt. Last, she pulled on some patched, thick gray wool socks and pressed her feet into a pair of well-loved black combat boots.
She looked at herself the mirror, gathered her hair into a pony tail, tied if off with a green rubber band, and called it good. Her brown hair ended jaggedly just below her ears in a bob, though she would never call her father’s handiwork an actual haircut. She stomped into the kitchen and found an egg and a thick piece of homemade bread waiting for her. Her stomach growled.
“Just the one then?”
Her dad’s voice echoed out of the kitchen. “The Millers were supposed to bring us more last night to pay for their lessons …”
“Right.” She sat down, flipped the egg onto the bread and started eating. About the fourth bite, she stopped chewing.
“Dad, wasn’t there only one egg left?”
“It’s alright, munchkin. I’m not hungry.”
She sighed, took one more bite, set the food back on the table. She moved the plate where he would be sure to see it from the door, then headed for the front room.
Her bicycle was mostly black, broken with painted orange and white symbols and designs, grips held on by duct tape in structurally integral spots. Her black nylon messenger bag hung from the handlebars. She rifled through the bag to make sure her textbook was inside, then slung it across her chest.
She pulled open the door, rolled the bike through, yelled “bye” as she slammed it behind her.
skepticlysm 