Chapter 19
Unforeseen Problem #2: My grades are starting to slip.
March 25
I completely spaced my science lab report, and Mr. Pee won’t give me an extension. He may still be bitter about the cafeteria puddle incident.
I failed a spelling quiz in English, which is pathetic, because one glance at the list of words and I’ve got it. I just forgot to look at the stupid list. And then I used the word über in math class and Mrs. Reed got mad and threatened my participation grade. Report cards come out in three weeks, and I have to seriously get it together or my mom will yank me from the police force.
Art class is no longer my place of peace, mostly because I’m fighting a losing battle with the barf-knots in my gut.
Jenny studies my hands for a while, this time in a position like I’m holding a pen. We’re learning about Escher’s Hands piece today, the one of the hands drawing each other. I watch as her blue eyes dart from my hands to the page, her brow wrinkled in concentration. I can count her freckles from where I’m sitting. Not that I would do that. When did I become such a lovesick idiot?
She chews her pencil pensively, her lips a candy shade of pink. I wonder if Happy Kat Cat pencils contain lead or other toxins. I hope not. But it seems like something an evil cat company might put together.
Suddenly she speaks and I almost slide off of my chair. “I have something for you, Edmund,” she says, smiling and reaching into her bag.
She hands me a Happy Kat Cat eraser.
“I notice you use an eraser a lot. I thought you’d like a new one.”
“Thanks,” I say. Jenny Miller has given me a present. It’s a cat, but nobody’s perfect. She’s given me a present!
I sit there and look at it, trying to think of something intelligent to say. The more the clock ticks on, the more I just appear to be a moron who is staring at an eraser.
“Edmund hates cats,” blurts a voice from behind my shoulder. “Don’t you know that? Everybody knows that!”
Jenny blushes and apologizes before I can turn around and knock the voice’s block off.
Thank you, Jonah Schwartz.
Spanish class isn’t much better. We’re studying adjectives: singulars, plurals, masculine, feminine, colors, you know the drill. We have to go around the room and say things about different people, like Jonah es heróico. (His sentence, not mine.)
If I hear “Edmundo es bajo” one more time, I may lose it. (Bajo means “short,” in case you didn’t know.) Pick another adjective. How about guapo? Inteligente? Heck, I’d even take the occasional estúpido. There are other words out there, people.
Eric Johnson is just as short as I am but he’s built like the son of Zeus and is awesome at every sport on the planet, so the teacher says “Eric es atletico” and the girls make swooning noises. And I’m stuck with “Edmundo es bajo” and no one sighs with admiration.
But the promise of kung fu wisdom is giving me strength.
Okay, it’s not truly kung fu. It’s just self-defense moves, but close enough.
After school my mom takes me to the station. She decided to tag along for my first self-defense lesson because she heard the words “sparring mat” and translated that to mean “Edmund is playing with knives and WILL die,” so she’s here to observe.
I change into sweats in the bathroom, then head to the police training gym, psyched to get cracking and work out some aggression from the Kat eraser disaster. I debate whether to tie a cool Karate Kid bandanna around my head. Maybe not. Might come off as a bit desperate.
My mom lifts an eyebrow at the shiny weaponry hanging on the walls but says nothing, taking a seat on a red bench by the boxing gloves.
I walk into the middle of the blue floor mat and start to stretch. It seems like the appropriate thing to do. I breathe deeply and close my eyes, awaiting my Master, my Sensei, my Guru of All Things Ninja.
In walks Detective Bovano.
I guess I must look stunned to see him (which I am), because he starts to guffaw right then and there, slapping his knee and laughing his head off.
“You were expecting Mr. Miyagi?” he snorts, his big belly bouncing up and down at his joke.
I stare at him blankly, then avert my eyes. Detective Bovano is a scary man on any day, but seeing him in a police-issue gym suit is über-alarming. The cotton-polyester blend is not very forgiving around his waistline, and we’ll just leave it at that.
My mom is giggling as well, as if some sort of dumb grownup joke has transpired about me that I don’t get, and I am annoyed. I step up in front of him and square my shoulders.
He stops laughing. “You think you’re gonna fight me, eh? All right, Eddie, let’s see what you’ve got.”
What? What I’ve got? I’ve got nothing. That’s why I’m here. To get something.
I shrug and get into my best defensive stance, knees bent, fists up. What now?
He pulls up his droopy pants and leans in, hands on his thighs so he can look me in the eye. “Eddie,” he whispers, “there is only one move that we are going to learn here today. I am going to tell you about this one move, and every time you get into a sticky situation, it will save you. It’s called the Nike defense. Are you ready?”
Nike defense? Sounds athletic and über-cool. I nod eagerly. I am ready.
I tilt toward him, hanging on to his every word. Unfortunately his wisdom is laced with breath that smells like salami and garlic.
“Run away, Eddie.”
I straighten up. “What?”
“I want you to run away. As a child, you cannot possibly defend yourself. The movies have lied to you, Eddie. You think a kick to the privates, or an elbow to the nose is going to help you? You’ll miss, and the perp will be ready and hopped up on adrenaline and God knows what else. They will knock you down. And then you’ll be . . .” He pauses for dramatic effect:
“In trouble.”
“Detective, I thought you were going to teach me some moves,” I protest. I glance over at my mom, like maybe she’ll confirm this statement. She’s busy texting, lost in a world of real estate transactions. Suddenly her phone rings. She stands and walks to the other side of the gym, chatting merrily about a brownstone on the Upper East Side, abandoning me to my doom.
“I’m going to teach you to run. I know kids, and I know they want to fight. At least, they think they want to fight. Just like in the movies. But you need to learn to run before someone levels you and you can’t. You want to be a hero, Eddie, I can see that. You tried to be one when you grabbed that Taser like a tough guy. So that’s why we’re here. To teach you to do the right thing. And run.”
My jaw clenches; I want blood. This is the most bogus self-defense lesson I’ve ever heard of.
Bovano squats lightly on the balls of his feet. “All right, I’m going to try to rob you. You see me coming. Do you run, or throw an elbow?” He lunges at me, all three hundred pounds of Italian meatball. I try to block him and bring my elbow to his face. He sweeps his leg under mine and flattens me on my stomach.
“If you had run, you’d be safe,” he hisses in my ear. My body convulses on the mat. I scramble to my feet, spinning to face him again.
“Now I’m a creep in a parking lot, following you,” he says. “Do you run, or try a karate kick like you’ve seen in the movies?” He slinks around the mat edge, pretending to be a stalker.
Slowing my breathing through my nose, I summon the spirits of karate. I lift my leg up like a ninja crane, ready to strike. Anger races through my veins. I want to kick his teeth in.
Bovano grabs my kicking leg and flips me onto my back. The slam of my spine on the mat knocks the wind out of my lungs. He squats next to me as I lie there paralyzed and dying.
“If you had run, you’d be safe. Now you’re roadkill. Get up!” he barks.
I get to my knees, coughing, eyes watering in the direction of my mom. She’s still a good twenty feet away, frowning off into space with the phone pressed by her ear. Where’s the motherly panic? The protection? I’m getting my butt handed to me by a grownup here—an officer of the law, of all people! She and I are going to have serious words tonight.
“Do you get it now, Eddie? You run. You always run. Until you are all grown up. And judging by your size . . .” He scrutinizes me and smirks. “You should probably run when you’re an adult as well.” He chuckles.
I am seriously going to kill this man.
I crouch, teeth bared, legs bent, like a tiger ready to pounce, my body tense with rage. Use what you have, Edmund. A low center of gravity. Lure him in, knock him off-balance.
Bovano sees me ready myself, his exasperation showing in his red blotchy skin and darkening expression. He’s had enough of our lesson. Eyes bulging, he comes at me like he’s got a knife in his hand.
Kick him! my brain screams.
I focus all energy, all of my puny wimp power, and kick hard as he lunges. He trips on the edge of the mat and my foot makes contact with his groin. With a yelp, he crumples to the floor.
“Oops,” I say, instantly regretting this entire situation.
My mom rushes over. “Frank . . . Frank, are you okay?”
Sure, now she clues in to what’s happening.
She kneels by his trembling body, giving him a few friendly pats on the back. I shuffle over to stand safely behind her, anxiety squeezing my lungs (which are still not working at full capacity, by the way).
This was not what I intended. I just wanted a karate lesson, for Pete’s sake.
“Hmph,” Bovano huffs, pulling himself into the fetal position, eyes still closed. He lies there, breathing hard.
My mom bites her lip. It’s obvious she doesn’t know what to do. Girls just don’t understand these things.
Ice? Heat? Either way, I’m not offering to help hold it in place.
“It’s probably better to let him be, let him breathe,” she whispers to me.
Sounds like a good idea. Learn to run? I am running outta here, and never coming back. Once he gains his composure, I am a dead man.
She turns to Bovano and leans over his body. “Frank, I think we’ll go now, and leave you to your . . . self.”
She throws me a stern look, gesturing with her head. My cue:
“Sorry, Detective Bovano,” I whimper.
Thus endeth the lesson.