Ignite the Shadows. Ingrid Seymour
room and throw my sweaty karategi in a plastic bag. I fold the belt and drop it on top. The contrast between the white canvas pants and the black belt isn’t as startling as it should be. The uniform has been washed too many times and it’s now starting to look more yellow than white.
New leather pants. New karategi. New helmet. New computers? I sigh.
I don’t have enough money to pay for all those things. Not after having spent my savings on the Kawasaki. Clearly, it’s time for a hacking gig, except for the minor inconvenience of my system being infected by some punk’s virus.
I sling my sports bag over my shoulder and wince. I hit the heavy bag too hard while I was drilling and hurt my wrist. Sensei took a look at it, bending it this way and that. It hurt like hell. He said I should ice it and then bandage it at least. I told him it would be fine. It already feels better.
“You’re a lucky sucker, Guerrero,” he said.
“It has nothing to do with luck,” I told him. “It’s all about toughness.”
He laughed and frowned at the same time. “It’s gotta be. I don’t know how you always bounce back so quickly.”
I walk through the dojo, sports bag bouncing against my side. The short, forceful battle cries of the 7 A.M. students fill the air, as well as the flat sound of their uniforms snapping with each of their kicks. I wrinkle my nose at the gym-sock smell and wave Sensei goodbye.
“Nice workout, Guerrero,” he says with a quick grin, before turning back to instruct the class. “Check out the tournament website, will ya?”
Steve Yakamoto, your ass is crazy if you think I’m joining that tournament.
“Sure deal, Sensei ’Moto.” I wonder when he’s gonna give up. He thinks I should care about winning trophies and medals. I don’t.
As I walk down the sidewalk toward my bike, I relish the calm left behind after the hard workout. Kicking and punching the bag and pads make my limbs sore and heavy. The physical exertion grounds me, roots me to the pavement, makes me worry about my body. Not my mind.
Sensei ’Moto doesn’t understand that this is all I need from karate. He always asks me why I don’t want to learn Kata or try meditation again. He says it would improve my technique even more. But Kata, with their repetitious, choreographed moves, require me to concentrate on one thing for too long, while meditation demands that I think of nothing at all. Yeah, like I want that kind of trouble.
I strap the gym bag to the back of the bike, on top of my book bag. Running gloved fingers along the curve of my helmet, I cringe at the scratches from last night. I’d just bought the stupid thing and now it’s less than perfect. Man, I’m so glad we took Clark’s Yamaha and not my new Kawasaki. Lovingly, I pat the bike’s leather seat. My new toy was worth every hard-earned penny, every line of glorious code.
I check my phone. No answer from Xave to my earlier text. I hope the idiot can still think for himself this morning. After putting on my helmet, I straddle the bike and start the engine. It roars to life, putting a smile on my face.
I tear down the street, slipping between two SUVs. The driver of the Blazer screams at me through his open window. I flip him the bird and punch the bike for more gas. Within minutes I’m at school.
Oh joy!
Dragging my feet, I join the throng of equally enthusiastic students. I wish I could skip ahead to trying to find out who hacked me, but I’ve pretty much maxed-out my absences. For now, I’ll hold on to the few I have left, just in case. The way things are with Xave and the virus attack, I have a feeling I may need them soon.
Classes are a blur. I make sure to sign in and, after that, I pretty much nap. I don’t perk up until five minutes before the last bell goes off. Then I head to the gym, where chess club, my only mildly entertaining school activity, meets every Friday.
I enter the chatter-filled gym and scan the floor. Tables are set up in the middle, topped with chessboards and timers. The teacher, Mr. Gallager, walks around, handing out papers to the students.
Small cliques stick together. A few Asians here. Two Hispanics there. Whites elsewhere. I belong to none. I keep scanning, but I don’t see the person who makes this activity challenging enough for me to stick around. I start to turn when Mr. Gallager moves a few steps, revealing the table behind him.
“So you are here,” I mumble to myself when I spot Luke.
My shoulders square off as I take a deep breath and walk toward him, boots clicking on the polished wood.
A few heads turn my way, including Mr. Gallager. “Boots, Marci, boots. I’ve told you, they scratch the floor,” he says, pointing at my shoes with disapproval. He really doesn’t care about the floor. He’s just supposed to say that.
“There are no jocks here today, Mr. Gallager. They can’t stop me,” I say with a smirk.
He shrugs and keeps handing out sheets.
“Unless we count you. You’re a jock, right?” I say, as I sit in front of Luke, who looks up from the chessboard and lifts a perfect, blond eyebrow.
He reclines back on the chair and bends his head to one side, appraising me. “Didn’t think you were gonna show up after your sad defeat last week, and the week before and the week before that one, and the week … should I go on?” His tall frame looks almost too big for the chair. His sandy blond hair slides to the left and brushes his temple.
Luke Smith, the conundrum. Jock by day. Lady’s man by night. Straight-A student and chess player extraordinaire. I’ve known him since kindergarten and he always manages to surprise me some way or another. Like the day he asked me out on a date. Yeah, that was different and totally unsettling for some reason. He’s good looking as all get-out, and many a girl would give a lung to go out with him. Me? I got sick to my stomach. Violently. Like never before in my life—not even after that time I ate the street tacos that nearly landed Xave in the hospital and barely made me feel queasy. But, judging by the way I reacted with Luke, you would have thought my own dad was making a move on me. He played it cool, though. Even when I made a beeline for the girls’ bathroom, ready to puke. To this day, I still don’t know what came over me and I can’t stomach the idea of being romantically involved with him. In all, it’s a surprise he still talks to me.
I narrow my eyes into small slits and give him a fake grin. I would promise him an ass-whipping, but if I knew I could beat him, I probably wouldn’t be here today. No. I’m sure I wouldn’t be. I wonder if he would? I wonder if, like me, he comes for the challenge. It’s true he has won every game we’ve ever played, but I make him sweat for it. And I know that pretty soon I’ll finally beat him.
As I lean to put my book bag down, he asks, “Had a rough night last night?”
My eyes flash back to him, suspicion rising in me. What does he know about last night? Could Luke be the IgNiTe dude? My mind examines this possibility, weighing in all the variables.
He’s certainly smart enough. The way he plays chess and beats me every time serves as proof. There’s even a small chance he’s smarter than me. Okay, not really, but still. His IQ has to be pretty up there. I wonder if he’s into computers. I know he’s into football and girls and … parties, but what else? I frown. The truth is I have no idea. We’ve been classmates on and off all these years, but, for all I know, every night he turns into a flesh-eating transvestite. Like me, he might have this other life that no one suspects.
“Your eyes are red,” he adds when I don’t answer. He smiles, crosses freckled arms over the logo of his black Under Armour t-shirt. He sounds innocent. Clearly, I’m just being paranoid.
“No, they’re brown,” I say.
He leans into the table.