Words With Fiends (4 page)

Darla covertly glanced over to see which parent was taking out her frustration on the sensei. She'd quickly learned that martial arts, like any other sport that catered to children, had more than its share of “karate moms.” These mothers—though a few fathers also fit that bill—spent class time on the sidelines alternately cheering on their kids and attempting to countermand the sensei's instruction.

To his credit, Master Tomlinson was not one to tolerate that sort of interference for any extended period, so it wasn't as disruptive as it could have been. And, to be fair, those same involved parents were the first to volunteer to take tickets and run the food concession at the local events.

Tonight, the mom currently venting was one whom Darla had seen most class nights.

Of course, Grace Valentine was hard to miss.

With her “mob wife” wardrobe that leaned heavily toward tight leopard prints, short hemlines, and dominatrix boots, Grace stood out from the other, more conservative moms. In her mid-thirties, and with black hair that had been straightened into a submissive long bob, she'd also been Botoxed and enhanced to the point that she resembled a living Barbie doll. Even with the windowed panel serving as a barrier, her strident “New Yawk” accent was always noticeable as she offered nonstop correction and encouragement to her son, Chris, during the course of every class.

But the other thing that distinguished her was the fact that she, too, was a student. A few other parents took beginner classes with their kids, but most never progressed beyond a couple of belt ranks. Grace, however, was working toward her black belt. From what Darla had heard, the woman mainly took private lessons with the sensei, apparently not wanting to mix with the other students. Every so often, however, she joined in the sparring class with her son. According to Robert, who'd seen her in action, the woman was a pretty competent fighter.

Not surprisingly under her self-important tutelage, her high school freshman son Chris had an overdeveloped ego regarding his own skill on the mat. While the other students routinely went through a basic aerobic warm-up prior to class, Chris could never resist showing off. He tirelessly performed spinning and leaping kicks straight out of a Jackie Chan movie, his Bieber-inspired blond do swirling with equal vigor.

Most of Robert and Darla's class was male, though tonight there were two other women, both red belts. And the age span amongst students was large—the adult class was open to any student over fifteen years old. Darla always dreaded being partnered up with Chris during drills. This was partly because, though only a high school freshman, he was already several inches taller than her five feet four inches, with a reach to match, and partly because of his obnoxious attitude. He always seemed to conveniently “forget” the dojo rule against higher-ranking students making actual physical contact with the newbies. More than once, she'd come home from class with bruises because of him. If she wasn't careful, she'd end up with ten crooked toes just like Master Tomlinson, who, from the sorry look of his swollen feet, had obviously broken every single digit at least once.

And Master Tomlinson had grown tired of the junior black belt's attitude, too. A week ago, he'd warned the boy in front of the entire class that one more breach of dojo rules would leave him sitting on the sidelines at the next tournament. From the current argument Darla was overhearing, it seemed that Chris had not taken the warning seriously. He must have transgressed in some way, and Tomlinson had enforced his threat, banning Chris from participating in the event. Much to his mother's vocal displeasure.

Darla could hear the rumble of the sensei's calm voice explaining the situation to Grace, but she could only make out a word or two . . .
self-control
and
opportunity
being among them. A wave of sympathy for the sensei swept her. Retail could be challenging enough, but at least it wasn't usually personal. She didn't envy Master Tomlinson's ongoing balancing act between parents and students.

Apparently, the sensei won this particular match. Darla saw Chris's mom throw up her hands in disgusted surrender and flop into one of the hard plastic chairs, her bright red lips pressed into a hard line. Master Tomlinson, looking equally disgusted, reappeared around the divider and signaled to the two black belts lounging in the far corner.

“Hal, Hank, line them up and warm them up,” he ordered between coughs, waving in the direction of Darla and the rest. “I'm going to grab another lozenge, and I'll be back in a few minutes.”

Trailed by Roma, Tomlinson limped off in the direction of his office—apparently his gout, as well as a head cold, was kicking in—leaving the class to the tender mercies of his two stepsons.

“Great, the Steroid Twins,” Robert murmured as the pair sauntered to the front of the room. “Hope you ate your Wheaties this morning.”

Darla gave a commiserating nod. Hal and Hank seemed to delight in tormenting the students. Their favorite pastime was piling on the warm-up exercises, whether it was running laps around the mat or doing sit-ups and push-ups. By mutual agreement, however, the class had found a way to undermine the twins' petty tyranny. After the first dozen or so of each set, they'd begin “accidentally” accelerating the shouted count by skipping a number every so often, which ended up knocking down the total by a significant number of reps. So far, Hank and Hal did not appear to have caught on to the subterfuge.

Darla snarkily attributed the plot's ongoing success to the fact that the men simply didn't know how to count past ten.

If someone in the class hadn't told her, Darla never would have guessed that the brothers were fraternal twins, for they looked about as much alike as she and Robert did. Hal was close to six feet tall and rocked the bald head, tattooed neck look. In flagrant violation of dojo rules, he'd lopped off the sleeves of his black gi jacket to better display an impressive set of tattooed biceps. Hank was shorter and stockier than his brother, and had chosen to let his black hair grow long enough to wear in a ponytail, rather like his stepfather had worn in his younger days. Hank, too, went in for the sleeveless look, with arms even bigger than his brother's, but minus the tattoo ink.

Though now in their early twenties, the pair apparently had been part of the dojo since their grade school days. A good portion of the trophies and ribbons on display in the front case belonged to them.

“All right, people, line up,” Hal called, despite the fact that the students had already arranged themselves into two lines in order of rank, meaning that Robert and Darla were in the back.

Hank chimed in, “Now, bow to the flag, bow to the instructors, bow to each other. Oh, yeah,” he added in a bored tone when the bows were completed, “don't forget to repeat the creed.”

“Run when you can, fight if you must, never give up, and never let injustice go unpunished,” Darla obediently chorused, preparing herself for a dose of Hal and Hank boot camp.

The twins must have been in a better mood than usual, however, for the warm-up was relatively short and comparatively painless. By then Master Tomlinson, accompanied by Roma, had returned to his usual spot in front of the class.

“Let's run through a couple of katas, and then I have some new self-defense techniques to show you,” he began.

The hour-long class flew by, the students rotating partners as they moved through the various drills under the sensei's direction. Darla suffered a momentary bit of angst when she found herself paired up with Chris during one technique, but apparently the lesson of being banned from the tournament had sunk in, for the teen was remarkably subdued. As the drill commenced, he was careful to pull his punches and even offered Darla a grudging compliment on her progress. She was so shocked by his unexpected praise, however, she forgot to block his next attack—and for that momentary inattention, promptly found herself on her rump on the mat.

Unfortunately for her ego, Master Tomlinson had turned his attention to her just in time to witness her ungainly landing. But barely had she hit the ground when a panicking Chris was grabbing her hand and dragging her upright again.

“Sorry, Master Tomlinson, it was an accident. I thought she was blocking me, honest,” he sputtered, blue eyes wide beneath his curtain of bangs as he shot Darla a frantic look that said,
Dude, back me up here!

Though fleetingly tempted to indulge in a bit of payback, Darla's sense of fair play kicked in. “It was my fault, Sensei,” she agreed. “I let myself be distracted and forgot to block him.”

“That doesn't matter,” was his stern reply. Turning to the teen, he went on, “Chris, you're the senior-ranking student. You should have been able to avoid hitting her. Now, go to the back of the room and do push-ups until the rest of the students finish the drill.”

“Yes, Master Tomlinson.”

His tone sullen, the youth made his bow to the sensei. Then, with a resentful glare in Darla's direction, he stomped off to the far corner. Feeling guilty now, Darla opened her mouth to protest what she considered to be an unfair punishment. Just in time, however, she glimpsed Robert standing behind the instructor and anxiously pantomiming lips being zipped. She prudently shut her mouth again. She might be boss of her bookstore, she reminded herself, but the sensei was boss of his dojo. How he ran it was his business.

Tomlinson's stern visage relaxed into amusement, and Darla realized in embarrassment that the man had probably seen Robert's performance reflected in the mirror behind her. All he said, however, was, “Since you lost your partner, you can finish the drill with me.”

For the next few minutes, she practiced blocking techniques with him, silently marveling at the difference between working with him and working with Chris. She'd often heard her father quote the old saw about old age and treachery overcoming youth and skill. Here was an actual example of the concept . . . at least, the old age part of it. Compared with Chris's flashy if uncontrolled athleticism, the aging sensei seemed slow and out of shape. But Darla swiftly found that appearances were deceiving.

Despite his gouty legs and arthritic hands, Tomlinson was able to move effortlessly from her path at every attack and defend against her fledgling efforts with a silent economy of motion that came only from a lifetime of dedicated practice. Forget the wild flying through the air and punching through boards, Darla thought in awe. This was the real deal. In fact, she suspected that even his stepsons would be hard-pressed to best him in a fair fight . . . six-pack abs and impressive guns notwithstanding.

With a final “good job” for Darla, Tomlinson called a halt to the drill. Hank and Hal, who'd been assisting some of the other students, sauntered back up to the front of the training area.

“All right, people, line up,” Hal called again.

Chris, who'd been gamely carrying out his punishment in the corner, rushed to claim his spot at the front of the class. Sweat now drenched the Bieber bangs, but from the sour look he shot in her direction, Darla could see that enforced exercise had done nothing to quench his resentment. A glance toward the sidelines convinced her that, unless someone had installed twin lasers in the waiting area, Grace Valentine was equally peeved at her.

Maybe she'd take a rain check on watching the sparring class, after all. The last thing she wanted to do was sit beside Chris's mother for the next hour while the woman chewed off her red lipstick and stared holes in her.

After a quick cool down and a moment of meditation, Hal dismissed the class. Darla and Robert bowed their way off the mat to find Master Tomlinson waiting for them.

“So, are you two looking forward to your belt test?” the sensei asked with a smile.

Robert's nod was eager. “I practice, like, every night at home. I know I can ace the test. I just wish we didn't have to wait until next month.”

“Maybe you don't have to wait.” When Darla and Robert gave him a quizzical look, the man said, “I have to be here at the dojo on Sunday morning. If you two want, you can come in and I'll give you your own private belt test.”

“If you're sure it's not too much trouble,” Darla began, only to have Robert cut her off.

“Sweet! We'll be here,” he agreed, his grin as broad as Darla had ever seen it. “What time?”

“How about eleven?”

Robert hesitated, his enthusiasm obviously dimming as he looked at Darla for confirmation. Both of them were scheduled to open the store at noon on Sunday, which would be cutting it pretty darn close. But seeing how much this meant to Robert—and looking forward herself to trading her beginner's white belt for a yellow one—Darla gave him an answering smile and then turned to Tomlinson.

“Eleven would be fine . . . and if the store opens a few minutes late, I'm sure everyone will survive it.”

“Sweet,” Robert happily repeated. He gave a few air punches to punctuate the sentiment, while Roma enthusiastically bounded up and down at his feet. “Thanks, Master Tomlinson.”

“Thank
you
. Nothing is better than finding students who truly want to learn. So come ready to show me your best.”

“We will,” Darla promised.

“We will,” Robert echoed, and then bent to tussle a moment with Roma, who promptly grabbed hold of his gi sleeve with tiny sharp teeth and began play growling as she tugged at it.

Tomlinson smiled a little even as he assumed a stern tone. “Leave it, Roma. You know better than that.”

The small canine obediently let go of Robert's sleeve, but her bright brown eyes still flashed with mischief as she sat beside the instructor. Hank, meanwhile, strolled past them on his way to the equipment area, pausing a moment to give Roma a disapproving look.

“We're about to start the sparring class,” he announced. “That rat's gonna get stepped on. Why don't you stick it in its cage?”