Kung Fu High School (6 page)

It probably goes without saying that Jimmy was the most famous kid in the world of martial arts. They even put his face on a Chinese edition Coke can without his permission. That's how famous Jimmy was: fifteen years old and the legend of all legends. Kids would play tournaments in their backyards and actually get into real fights over who could be Jimmy Chang, All American, All World, All Invincible.

So why did everyone at Kung Fu know him? Because Jimmy Chang isn't real. He's a myth: the kid who couldn't lose. You probably heard about piano prodigies who can start playing at four or some ridiculous age, well Jimmy was like that, except with martial arts. His dad started him out at three, training him in the fields. See, his dad was a farmer and a good one but somehow he found time to run a farm and train Jimmy at night. He started Jimmy out with simple Tiger Fist forms, just practice stuff to do in the morning and at night in the barn. Of course, it didn't take him long to progress. He was on to full contact by the time he turned six. So his dad taught him what he knew of Hung Gar and Yong Chun styles. By the time Jimmy was eight he was competing.

When he quit just before his sixteenth birthday, his record was 2,412-0-0. He was a ghost. Never been injured. Never even been thrown. And for his last full year on the mat in Hong Kong, NEVER EVEN BEEN HIT. Get your head around that. Not a single opponent scored a hit on him. All the scorecards are kept in the main tournament hall in HK. You can go look if you want. But that's not really necessary, because if you saw Jimmy's final fight to defend his world championship in the open category (any style was acceptable), you would've seen everything you'd ever need to see. That was the day he fought The Bulgarian.

Nobody I know knows The Bulgarian's real name and if they did they couldn't pronounce it, so everyone, even the TV announcers, just called him The Bulgarian. Supposedly he was the biggest-ever threat to Jimmy's domination of the sport. Cue and I didn't believe that for a second. We heard the same thing every year. It was all just hype. We knew Jimmy couldn't be defeated. It didn't matter that The Bulgarian had been stolen from his gypsy parents and taken off to Mongolia when he was a kid and raised in the mountains like some wild, latter-day Genghis Khan warrior.

The World Championships were being held in London that year and there was this huge procession in front of Buckingham Palace and then down in front of Big Ben, I remember watching that. The best part though was the standing room only in the giant event hall. There must have been twenty thousand people in there. Serious. The atmosphere was ridiculous. People were even singing: "Hey throw that fellah / We said a-hey throw that fellah / Jimm-y throw that fellah / hey throw that fellah," to the tune of "Guantanamera." But Jimmy didn't throw that fellah. He looked disinterested for much of the match, and it was amazing to watch him avoid full-strength spinning kicks by centimeters, and hammer-throw punches by millimeters. The timed first and second rounds ended with no points scored and the third and final round was much the same until the last two seconds.

To this day, every person who saw that fight swears Jimmy somehow teleported himself behind The Bulgarian to score the hit that won it. They showed it on television for months on super-slow-motion replay but watching it was like watching a jumpy old movie that was missing frames somewhere. See, Jimmy was in front of The Bulgarian, not two inches from him, with his heels on the out-of-bounds line, as the big challenger opened his arms wide and was bringing them down on Jimmy. There was no way he could escape. There was really no room, nowhere to go. I remember grabbing Cue's leg in the shady bar we had snuck into to watch the match on pay-per-view at one in the afternoon. I knew he had had it. Cue knew it was over. Everyone watching knew it was over.

The announcers were even starting the sentence, "A remarkable run has finally en—," when Jimmy disappeared/reappeared behind The Bulgarian, extended his right leg, and executed a perfect kick to the back of his opponent's weight-bearing knee and sent him sprawling forward onto the out-of-bounds part of the mat. I'd love to be able to tell you that I jumped and screamed and shouted and was so happy that Jimmy won, but I didn't. My mouth was just as open as Cue's and we were trying to figure out how he did it. It was shocking for real.

The cameras timed it afterward. Jimmy literally disappeared for a thousandth of a second before reappearing and winning the match. This didn't go over too well. Back in China, a leading priest denounced Jimmy as a dark spirit and people really got scared.

His time at Fire Mountain School ended and Jimmy returned to the farm. His dad was real sick by then though, so Jimmy took care of him day and night for three months until he finally passed away. Lung cancer. His dad never went to the hospital because he said he didn't believe in it. That was less than a year before he came to live with us. Me and Cue talked about it once and in a way, we think that was Jimmy's first loss ever. Because after that, Jimmy went a little crazy and got in that brawl that forced his mother to make him promise never to fight again and also, to send him here.

So as far as any person at Kung Fu was concerned, Jimmy Chang was Count Dracula, Houdini, and Bruce Lee all rolled into one when Cue and me walked him out into the unusually bright sunlight for early winter to find that every single student at Kung Fu had circled up. Kids were packed in sixteen deep, all the way to the front of buildings. People had dragged tables out of the cafeteria and were standing on them. I could see that Ridley had positioned himself in the usual place so that he could look down on the circle from the second-floor bay windows of the main building, in what used to be the guidance office. Even Dermoody was on the far end of the quad with Cap'n Joe, just standing still and observing like they were Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday. They knew this was Ridley's time. They wouldn't interfere with the circle. It was moving, as people pushed against shoulders and bodies, stuck their elbows in ribs to get a glance at Jimmy, to size him up. I could tell the conclusion they were all coming to: he was so much smaller in real life.

From high enough above the Kung Fu quad, it must've looked like some kind of growing tropical storm rolling toward an unseen coast. These students, these fighters, just pinpoints of streaming cloud mass pushed by hurricane winds around a silent center, had been waiting.

That was the quietest I ever heard Rung Fu. Out in the open air of the quad, it was cold enough to snow but there were no flakes. White clouds clotted up the sky like rough skin after the old scab gets picked and it didn't look like they'd be dropping anything anytime soon. There was no wind, and I could smell one of the last operating factories. Sulphur-y, but not as strong. It was harsher than usual. For real though, I was surprised I even noticed. Everyone at Kung Fu was used to them after about two weeks.

When we got to the middle, you could just feel the stares of two thousand-plus kids on me, Cue, and Jimmy. That was when I started to get nervous. Usually, I don't get nervous before rolls. Well, not my own anyway. After a while it's just like going to work. Nothing special. But I had this feeling in my gut that Jimmy wasn't going to fight back. I knew he wasn't. I hoped at least that he would dodge but I had a feeling that he wouldn't. Everyone making up the circle had no idea though. They thought Jimmy was the Prince of Darkness and when he smiled, it made it worse. Previously, fear was Ridley's territory. He must've felt threatened.

From up on his perch, the bastard was looking at me too. I could feel it. Whenever he did, it felt like I hadn't taken a shower in three days, just greasy. Anonymous hands were pushing us farther to the center as people tried to get closer, but not too close, to Jimmy. It wasn't just the reputation that drew eyes to him. It was something inside him that no one else had. Just as I could feel Ridley's eyes on me, I could feel when Jimmy was nearby.

When we broke through the mass of kids, Karl Fellar-Hahl was waiting in the circle, the Blades' Pop, big white guy with a shaved head. He wasn't so tough but he was a cutter and he was quick. The guy would fold if Jimmy threw a punch. He had almost no power but he picked his shots and made them count. A real TKO kind of guy, his strategy was always just to cut you, put your own blood in your eyes 'til you gave up or couldn't see where the next blow was coming from.

Karl was dangerous because he would fight dirty. Like after-it-was-over dirty, which isn't all that uncommon around here but Karl was probably the worst. If he got the upper hand on you, you better pray that your family had your back because if Karl lost it, got in a rhythm, he'd just keep going. He'd be all the sharks and the feeding frenzy too. Nine times out of ten it isn't a big deal because someone'd jump in and end it, but one time, Karl put a freshman in a coma. That was two years ago now. The kid is still in that coma.

In fact, they showed a picture of the kid in the newspaper last year in some plea to stop all youth violence. Clustered around the story were wicked pictures of the kid's head looking like a tennis ball with curving scars across the top. They had to remove pieces of his skull and put in a plate, then staple his scalp back on. His hair grew back all patchy because of it too. Kid has this weird circle of hair on his forehead now. That was all Karl's handiwork. He has the newspaper clippings in his locker. He'd show them to you if you asked him.

"Don't do it, Jimmy. Cue'll fight him for you, he'll rip that guy." I didn't grab his hand or get emotional.

"Don't worry, Jenny." That was all Jimmy said.

Don't worry, Jenny. The last time anyone called me Jenny was when Cue was stitching my stomach up and I was fidgeting. For some reason, I don't do so good with deep torso wounds. But before that, it was my mom. True. I was Mom's little Jenny. Of course, Jimmy couldn't've known that I had to turn away for that reason. Maybe he thought I was getting huffy or mad at him for needing to do this. I wasn't. I don't get like that when it's time to roll. I guess I just couldn't look in his eyes and hear him call me Jenny again.

See, I might start getting ideas. Ideas about getting out, with him. I hadn't slept much the night before. Thought too much about Jimmy, him sleeping out on the couch. You know, how much he'd be missing his mom and how tough it was with his dad gone. How small and cold that couch could be. Him on top of a rubbed-loose floral sheet stuffed into the back cushion creases, and did he sleep with a shirt on? In his underwear? Or was he naked there? Of course, stupid me, night is always when I think about that stuff. When my brain runs away with me for hours and I'm alone, visions lost on the ceiling while what's left of my consciousness puts together movie figments that will never be. The only power I have is a finger on the remote control, or two.

In daylight, I just switch off I'm good at it. No feelings in. No feelings out. Which is exactly why I didn't appreciate Jimmy taking off his jacket and walking into the middle with no armor, just his tight little white V-neck undershirt and his palms out like he was Jesus about to get handed a free cross and crown. It just pissed me off. Cue could see it on me too. Damn brothers.

Jimmy didn't so much walk to the middle as he strolled into it. He didn't say a word when Karl backed up. Karl shuffled around him for a full minute, all the time getting pushed forward by the inner ring. Jimmy just stood there, palms out. And it was too quiet, from hundreds of kids locking gulps of air in their lungs. Finally, Karl juked and threw a weak jab. It hit Jimmy right in the nose, pushing his head back. Karl couldn't believe it. Neither could the crowd. Whispers sprang up and raced around the circle.

Cue and I had shifted to the right side of the inner ring so we could see Jimmy's face. He was bleeding. And the funny thing was, he looked interested as he touched his lips and looked at the blood on the end of his finger. He smiled, but not the Bruce-Lee-okay-you-got-your-one-shot-in-now-you're-dead wicked kind of smile, just a mystified one. Then he touched his nose and put his hand down, ready for more. I couldn't believe it. I looked at Cue but he was looking at Jimmy and the veins in his neck and forehead were bulging. There was nothing we could do to save him from himself.

When Karl hit Jimmy the second and third time, on a right cross to uppercut combination, the spell was broken. Whatever influence Jimmy's reputation had over the crowd was gone forever. He really was human, and, in the space of a few moments, it was fuckin' Thunderdome in that quad. Every single person was screaming something, just letting out all their pent-up fear, spitting it out into the air with vapor breath.

Karl ate those cheers up. By the time he figured out that Jimmy wouldn't be fighting back, he unleashed it. He opened up cuts on Jimmy's eyebrows, cheeks, and chin. He punched Jimmy in the side of the neck and tore a ragged line above the collarbone so fast that it was like the skin had been unzipped. Blood belly-flopped out the slashed epidermis, turning that white shirt dark red on impact. Then he worked the body. Karl was wearing his infamous gloves, the razor ones, and they were tearing Jimmy apart. If there was anything good about the beating, it was that Karl tried to lift Jimmy and give him the Nightfall throw but he couldn't pick Jimmy up. He tried twice. But he couldn't do it. Couldn't pick up a guy that was about half his size. Jimmy might as well have been a concrete statue. Those that knew what to look for were awed by the technique. He just stood there the whole time, not moving, taking his beating.

"That's enough!" It was Cue that screamed it.

Rarl wasn't stopping. Poor Karl. He only had two seconds, if that. See, the guy really should've looked up earlier to see Cue rearing back, grabbing a fistful of black sweatshirt with one hand and bending his leg at the knee and hip so deeply that his whole body flexed like a pushed-down spring before he brought the Ocean Floor Earthquake Kick right down. Of course, Karl didn't look up until it was too late.

Cue's boot heel connected squarely on the left clavicle and powered downward through the sternum. All of us heard them give too because it'd gotten quiet when Cue moved forward: two quick snaps, like finishing off a buffalo wing and going for the marrow in the twiggy bones. The force of the blow sent Karl right out of his sweatshirt (Cue still had that in his hand) and his body came to a nasty, half-naked-and-face-first kind of splat on the freezing concrete. It was really unlucky that, instead of just splintering at the point of impact like a good little break, Karl's clavicle decided to crack clean and make a sharp left turn, shooting through his trap muscle and breaking out the skin in an open fracture worthy of some high-profile medical journal. It was weird because it kind of looked like a little kid's mouth blowing one of those red party-favor-uncurler things but getting stuck halfway, and oh, there was plenty of blood.