Zen and Xander Undone

  “Was kicking him necessary?” he finally asks. His tone is clinical, but his eyes are grave.

  I try to remember back to that night. It was important that Frank be prevented from forcing Xander into his car, but part of me wonders why I didn’t try screaming first. He might have let her go. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was scared.”

  “And you were angry,” he says, reading me perfectly. He takes a deep breath. He has never looked at me this way before, as though he’s not sure what to expect from me, like he thinks I’m dangerous.

  “Yes,” I say softly. “I was very angry.”

  “What move did you use?”

  “Roundhouse kick.”

  “To the head?” he asks, surprised. “That was your opening move?”

  “He was trying to force Xander into his car,” I say to defend myself. But I sound false.

  He tilts his head. “Did you call the police?”

  This stops me cold. We didn’t call the police. Why didn’t we call the police?

  He watches me a long time, his eyes narrow and appraising. He seems about to speak, but then we hear a reedy little voice call, “Hai!”

  “Hai!” Mark says, but his eyes are on me. “We’ll talk later.” He rubs my back, right in the sore spot, but it feels nice. “No moves, right?”

  “Okay,” I say reluctantly.

  The students trickle in. Nick’s freckled face colors when he sees me, and he seems to want to say something, but he can’t bring himself to speak. “Hey, Nick, want to help me with these mats?” I ask him.

  He nods, eyes on his feet, and starts pulling the blue mats across the floor to make a large square in the middle of the room. He kicks the last one into place, and then sits down with his feet tucked under him, his eyes screwed shut.

  I sit down with my knees touching his and I wait for him to look at me. When he does, he bites on his bottom lip hard enough to turn it white.

  “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

  “I thought you would be heavier!”

  “It’s not your fault. Honestly,” I say as gently as I can. “My back was already injured, and I fell wrong. That’s all.”

  “Okay,” he whispers. His freckled forehead wrinkles up, but his shoulders relax.

  Once all the kids are present, we go through the tiger warm-up routine, and then we line them up to demonstrate side-grab defense. Mark demonstrates on Nick, slowly working through the move several times, going over the points of contact.

  “Okay, folks,” Mark says, clapping his hands. “Break into your groups. Zen and I will show you how it’s done.”

  I pair the kids with one another and order them to make their moves in slow motion. Everyone seems to have it pretty well except for Emily Baxter, who can’t seem to straighten out her partner’s arm enough to apply the proper force.

  “Emily, you’re not rotating his arm in the right direction,” I tell her, and without thinking, I grab her partner’s arm and show her the move. As I bend down, a searing pain burns through the muscles in my back and I crumble to the floor.

  I feel a palm on my back, and Mark kneels beside me. “I knew it.” He’s really mad. “Lie down in my office. We’ll talk after class.”

  I hobble to the back of the room and lie down on a yoga mat, whispering to myself over and over, “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.”

  My back whines with pain when I keep still, but screams if I move any part of me. All that rest has been undone. I’m sure I can look forward to another three days flat on my back, staring at the crack in my ceiling, driving myself crazy talking to Mom.

  I hear the kids going through our cool-down exercises, and it makes me want to cry. The dojo has been my sanity since Mom died. I have to be able to teach. I can’t do without it.

  Finally I hear the mothers arrive, and the kids all put on their shoes, shouting and giggling together. I hear a quiet voice call, “Bye, Zen! I hope you feel better.”

  “Bye, Nick.” I lift my arm to wave goodbye. Even that hurts.

  Finally Mark steps over me and sits down in his chair. I don’t want to have this conversation lying down, but if I try to get up, he’ll see how much pain I’m really in and he might ban me for life.

  He sighs loudly. From here I can see the hair in his nostrils. “Zen. You’re very important to this dojo.”

  I smile at him. For a second, I feel relieved.

  “But you’re not taking proper care.”

  I feel the smile wipe off my face. I look away from him, toward a poster on the wall of Mount Fuji. From the corner of my eye I can see Mark shaking his head as though he doesn’t know what to say next.

  “I feel a very strong instinct to protect you, and I’m going to obey it.”

  “I’ll be okay. I just need to rest.”

  “That’s right. You do.” His face is drawn with anxiety. “You know, in Eastern medicine, there’s a strong belief in the mind-body connection.”

  “I know,” I say, but wish I hadn’t. I sound insolent.

  “The story you told me, about kicking the man. It concerns me.”

  “I’m concerned too,” I say, so Mark will drop it.

  “And you were hurt doing a simple demonstration with the gentlest student in our class.”

  He pauses, waiting for me to make the connection, but I won’t. I’m not going to say I let myself get hurt on purpose to make amends for kicking Frank. The guy deserved it. I set my jaw and wait for Mark to finish.

  “Your back won’t heal until you deal with the imbalance in your art. Then you can stand straight again.”

  He sounds like an episode of Kung Fu, and I want to laugh, but I hold it in. Mark is a cheerful person, and he’s the nicest guy I know, but he’s a very strict sensei, and he takes shotokan very seriously.

  “Zen. I want you to take the summer off, get your balance back.”

  The summer?

  “But I can come back for class, right?” I look into his eyes pleadingly, but he’s got a shield up between us.

  “Come back in the fall. You’ll always have a job here.”

  “Mark! I need this place!”

  “And this place needs you. But you need to heal. And you need to find your balance again.”

  I try to sit up to protest, but my back feels like it’s being raked with a pitchfork, and I have to lie down.

  Mark raises his eyebrows, and I know there’s nothing more I can say.

  Getting Ready

  I THOUGHT I COULD use my back as an excuse not to go to the prom, but Xander would have none of that. To make sure I followed through, she enlisted Dad, who bought in to the “it was your mother’s dying wish” argument. I’ve been lying down for a week, but yesterday the doctor ordered me to get up and move around every day. Xander forced herself into the examination room with me so she could ask the doctor if I could go to the prom. With a tender look at me, he said, “Oh, I don’t see why not, if you wear sensible shoes.” Then he smiled graciously as though he’d just given me my heart’s desire.

  When I glared at Xander, she smiled wickedly.

  The truth is, I’m going along with it, because ever since Xander started on the Prom Project she’s let up about John Phillips, and it’s a nice break from the gut-twisting worry that plagues me at the mere mention of his name.

  Now I’m a life-size Barbie doll for Xander’s friend Margot, who insisted on being my personal stylist. We’re in Xander’s room, where Margot smears my face with what feels like shellac before picking up a disturbingly large tube of mascara.

  The skin on my face feels so stiff, I’m afraid if I smile the makeup will crack off. “Are you sure this is working for me?” I ask her.

  “Stop fidgeting!” Margot whines. The mascara wand wings my forehead. “Damn it! You moved your head.”

  “It’s hard to stay still this long!”

  “That’s what Zen says to her lovers,” Xander says to Margot. “Or she would if she had any,” she adds out the side of her mouth.


  I let this go by. Xander has been sniping at me all evening, and the only way to deal with it is to ignore her.

  Margot wipes the mascara off my forehead with her thumb and clamps her palm over my head. “Now hold still!” I can smell the garlic on her breath from the pizza she brought earlier. Her parents run the best pizza parlor in town, and she always smells like warm dough and garlic. I like Margot, but I’m not sure she’s good for Xander. Since Mom died, the two of them have gotten wilder and wilder. Sometimes I wish she’d find another partner to go trolling for men with and leave my sister alone.

  “Okay,” Margot says, and leans back to squint at me. She nods approval and screws the mascara wand into the container. “I did a very subtle Queen of Sheba thing because that helps offset your smallish eyes. Right, Xander?”

  Xander looks up from the Maxim she’s reading. “At least she doesn’t look like she has fetal alcohol syndrome anymore.”

  Margot shakes her head at me. “You’re just jealous because Zen looks so pretty.”

  “Yeah, pretty in a birth defect kinda way.”

  I finally snap. “If you’re so jealous, why did you fight so hard to make me go?”

  “Who said I’m jealous?” she scoffs, and turns the magazine to get a closer look at Jessica Alba’s thighs. “Do I see cellulite?” She shows the picture to Margot.

  “You wish you did, honey,” Margot says as she packs up all her makeup. She notices me slumping on Xander’s squishy bed and tosses her silver evening bag at me. “Don’t you want to look at yourself in the mirror?”

  “Not really,” I tell her. The foundation makes my skin feel like it’s coated in plastic, and the lip gloss makes my mouth stick together. The dress is a little scratchy under my arms, but otherwise it’s the most comfortable thing on me. Xander actually had to hold me down while Margot twisted my hair and curled it and poofed it, and then sprayed enough hairspray on me to kill all the weeds in our yard. I fully intend to strip myself of the entire outfit, even the dress, but then I stand up to humor Margot and I see myself in the mirror.

  Margot is a genius. I’m a knockout.

  The semi-sheer, bone-colored silk drapes over my hips in an elegant curve. The tiny sequins and rhinestones sewn into the bodice sparkle and shimmer. My shoulders are bare, which shows off my shotokan muscles and the tan that’s just starting on my skin. The makeup makes my eyes look less squinty, my lips fuller, my cheekbones more pronounced, my skin milky and soft. My fine hair has been tucked into a gorgeous French knot, and wisps have been curled to form a fringe around my face.

  Margot stands behind me, her hands on my arms. She has tears in her moss green eyes. “If your mother could only see you,” she whispers.

  Xander looks up from Jessica Alba’s ass and lets an appraising eye run over me. “Yeah, Margot,” she says coolly. “You did a decent job.”

  “I can’t believe it looks so good!” I say. I put the strap from the silver bag on my shoulder and admire the way it blends so perfectly with my dress.

  I’m usually a T-shirt and jeans kind of girl, but I could get used to feeling . . . what is this feeling? I guess I feel beautiful.

  Xander silently snaps a picture of me. She hands me the digital camera without looking at it, and sits down at her vanity to start her own makeup. On her cheek she glues a tiny butterfly, and brushes bronzer across her cheekbones. “Anyway, you don’t look twelve anymore,” she says lightly.

  That’s as much of a compliment as I’ve ever gotten from her, but of course I don’t thank her. “You guys are going out again?”

  Margot won’t meet my eyes, but Xander spits out, “I can do what I like. I’m almost eighteen, and there’s no one to stop me.”

  “Just because you can stay out until dawn doesn’t mean you have to.” I know I sound like our mother, but someone has to, even if Mom was only pretending to be a devoted wife and mother to hide her affair with John Phillips.

  The thought wrenches my stomach, and I press in to my belly with my fists to make the horrible feeling go away.

  I’m not the only one who feels weird these days. Ever since we talked to Nancy about Mom, Xander has been acting strange, moodily shuffling through the house, wearing her pajamas until two in the afternoon, then going out at night with Margot, refusing to tell me where she goes. When she comes home, long after Dad has gone to bed, she smells of beer and cigarettes, and she can barely keep her eyes open. I’m used to her acting like a slut, but this new level of badness is starting to make me nervous.

  Margot adjusts her minuscule skirt on her hips and turns in front of the mirror. “You ready to go?” she asks Xander.

  “Yeah.” Xander grabs her denim purse. To me she says, “Don’t let Adam pop your cherry.”

  “Jesus” is all I have to say to that.

  “Damn it!” Margot roots through her purse. She flips open her billfold and goes through it, card by card. “Xander, we need to swing by my house. I forgot my ID.”

  Xander looks at me nervously. “No problem.”

  “Your driver’s license is right there,” I say, and point to where it’s poking out from behind a ten-dollar bill.

  “I forgot my other ID.” Margot winks at me.

  “Let’s go.” Xander grabs her elbow and yanks her out of the room.

  “Where are you guys going?” I’d thought they were going to parties, but they wouldn’t need fake IDs for that.

  Margot, ever oblivious, says, “Spirits, on Mulberry. The bartender is so nice there!”

  “Shut up, Margot! Jesus.” Xander swears under her breath as she charges down the stairs ahead of us. She obviously wants to get out of here before I can ask any more questions.

  Just as Xander reaches the landing, the doorbell rings. “Oh, great!” she yells. She changes course abruptly and heads for the back door.

  Margot wrings her hands. “Don’t tell your dad, okay?” She implores me with her eyes for a moment before following Xander out the back.

  The bell rings again, and I walk down the stairs slowly, careful not to jar my back. I open the door to find Adam in a black tuxedo, holding a yellow rose, standing next to a beaming Nancy, who’s huge eyes bug out when she sees me. She cups her face in her hands and squeals, “Oh, honey, you’re gorgeous!”

  Adam seems taken aback, and for a second he doesn’t say anything, but then seems to find his voice. “Wow, Zen. You look—”

  “Thanks,” I interrupt, because I don’t want to know what adjective he has lined up. “You too.”

  And he does. He’s tall and well framed, with shoulders that seem broader every time I see him. The bridge of his nose is freckled slightly, which seems to heighten the pale blue of his eyes. His hair is shiny and slicked back, which makes him look perfectly clean-cut. His sideburns are a little too long, but this somehow makes him look very masculine, and uncomfortably sexy.

  Widdle Adam is hot.

  Dad emerges from the basement. I’m relieved to see that he’s fully clothed in jeans and a sweatshirt. “Wow!” he exclaims when he sees me. “Wowie wow wow wow!”

  I can feel my entire body blushing. Even the roots of my hair.

  “You look—”

  “Thanks, Dad.” I hand him Adam’s rose. “Can you put this in water please?” I say to keep him from staring. I knew I would hate this! I’m so annoyed with Mom right now, I could punch a hole in the wall. Literally.

  Nancy makes Adam and me stand by the fireplace. She snaps so many pictures that my eyes ache. Then she takes my picture with Dad, and he takes her picture with me, and then they have me stand by myself. They start bickering about how I should pose, and Adam holds up his hands in a time-out signal. “Okay, folks. We have reservations so . . .”

  He grabs my hand and we sprint for the car.

  Prom

  THE FIRST THING that happens at dinner is I drop a meatball into my lap and the tomato sauce soaks through my napkin to leave a quarter-size spot of grease on my dress. I spend fifteen minutes in the bathroom wa
shing it out, and when I get back to our table I see that Adam has ordered me a slice of cheesecake. I hate cheesecake. I don’t like the stupid cherries on top of it because they’re always too cold and they hurt my teeth, and the cake itself is like plaster. I break it up with my fork to make it look like I’m eating it.

  “Don’t you like it?” Adam asks, worried. There’s a dab of cherry sauce on his nose, but I don’t know how to tell him. “I thought that all women loved cheesecake.”

  I could lie. Xander probably would. But lying is not my strong suit, and besides, as Mom always said, there’s no dignity in lying. “Sorry. I actually can’t stand cheesecake.”

  “Don’t eat it. I shouldn’t have ordered it.”

  “I shouldn’t have dropped a meatball in my lap.”

  “Yeah. Watching you eat spaghetti in that dress was like watching Audrey Hepburn hock a loogie.”

  He’s trying to make me laugh, but I feel awful. “This just isn’t me.

  “Getting all dressed up and stuff?” he asks as he wipes his mouth with his tie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It comes perfectly natural to me,” he adds, deadpan, as he takes the little rose out of his lapel and uses it to pick his teeth.

  I have to laugh. “You’re a lunatic.”

  He smiles, and I notice how white and strong his teeth are. There’s a little shadow of whiskers on his chin, and I realize his neck isn’t as skinny as it used to be. He’s starting to look like a man. I don’t know how it could have happened. I’ve seen him every day for almost my whole life and he always looked pretty much the same to me. Not tonight, though. He’s changed, and I like what it’s doing to him.

  I like what it does to me too.

  “Come on, let’s get this over with.” He drops a few twenties on the table, and we leave the four-star restaurant in his mom’s rusty ’87 Civic with a garbage bag taped up where the rear window used to be.