Chapter Seven

Max’s dad threw out his arm over Max the way Mom does to me when she has to brake the car suddenly. “Um, sorry to disturb. Is this the Raymond residence?”

“Yes, but I’m not buying cookies or hot dogs or whatever it is Boy Scouts sell.” Gramps crossed his arms.

“Gramps, this is a kid from school. Max.”

Gramps nodded, making the sprigs of hair standing straight up flop over to the wrong side. “First day of school, already has buddies coming over.”

I fell into a massive coughing fit.

“I’m Josh Waters. This is my boy, Max. May we come in?” Max’s dad asked.

The traitor cat twirled in between Max’s legs as we sat around the dining room table.

Max slumped in his chair, half turned away from the rest of us. Mr. Waters, a broad man whose muscles bulged around his crossed arms, sat straight in his chair. Gramps kept making stupid jokes. I hoped for instantaneous Cat Scratch Fever and death.

“The thing is,” Mr. Waters said, “I got a disturbing phone call after school today from Miss Singer. It seems Max here was bullying Richie Ryder.”

“It’s just Ryder,” I said under my breath.

Mr. Waters continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “Miss Singer said Max was poking fun at Richie Ryder’s visual condition.”

“Yeah, that’s something we have to keep an eye on,” Gramps said. Then his mouth twitched. “But just one eye, of course.”

Mr. Waters’s nostrils flared but he didn’t say anything.

“It was a misunderstanding,” I said. “Lash—I mean, Max—wasn’t referring to my eye when he called me a freak.”

“You called him a freak?” Mr. Waters’s mouth turned dead-man white, he was pressing his jaw together so tightly. Max squirmed more than one of Mom’s bugs under his dad’s glare.

“Oh, now, I’m sure Richie Ryder deserved it. Kid signed up for quilting class, for Pete’s sake. Cah, cah, cah.”

“Thank you, Gramps. Real helpful.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Max said. “He was hanging all over Jocelyn and wouldn’t back off.”

Mr. Waters’s chin popped in the air like he had gotten slugged. “Wait. What?” He turned his death glare on me. “You were giving Jocie a hard time?”

“No!” I threw my hands up. “No, man. I was just talking with her.”

“I prefer to be called Mr. Waters or sir.” Mr. Waters crossed his arms. This time the muscles bulged a bit more than necessary, I thought.

“And I prefer to be called Your Royal Highness.” Gramps had a sudden sharpness to his voice. “Sounds like this was all a misunderstanding. Richie Ryder would never harass Jocelyn. The two of them are buddies. Saw them talking—laughing even—on the way home this afternoon.”

This news had very different effects on the Waters men. Mr. Waters’s face relaxed back into its normal position. But Max’s flamed.

“That’s good,” Mr. Waters said. “Not that Jocelyn can’t take care of herself.” This came out a little bit like a warning. He took a deep breath. “The thing is, we’ve come to make amends. Max, here, has to be in good academic and social standing with his teachers in order to remain a student at our martial arts studio. He’s up for a promotion to second dan black belt. If Miss Singer doesn’t endorse him, he doesn’t test. And then he’s off our sparring team. It’s that simple.” He turned to Max while I processed the fact that the kid who currently looked like he wanted to chop me into bits for talking with his girlfriend could probably do just that with his bare hands.

“You’re a black belt?” I asked stupidly.

Max nodded. “Since I was eleven.”

“Huh.”

“What?” Max snapped. Mr. Waters narrowed his eyes at me, too. Both seemed waiting for me to make some snide comment about martial arts.

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s just—I sort of pictured you more as football material. You know …” I waved my hand toward him. I mean, the guy was pure muscle.

“I didn’t want to be on the team,” he said.

“Oh, right.” I nodded, remembering. “The Guinea Pigs.”

Max’s jawbone clenched. The General hopped up onto his lap. The two of them glared at me. “I’m sorry I pointed out that you’re a freak. It has nothing to do with your eyes.”

“Eye,” Gramps broke in.

“Um, thanks,” I said. “Cool. See you tomorrow.” I stood up and moved toward the door, giving a silent prayer of thanks when the Waterses and Gramps followed suit. The General hissed as she slid to the floor.

“If there’s ever anything we can do, please let me know,” Mr. Waters said. He handed Gramps a business card. I saw a profile of someone doing a martial arts kick on it.

“So you’re an instructor?” Gramps squinted at the card. “At WMA?”

“Waters Martial Arts,” Mr. Waters filled in. “I’m the owner. Fourth-degree black belt.”

I thought about Jocelyn practicing in the front yard the day we moved in. I had a good guess where she took her karate lessons.

“This school of yours? It got any openings?” Gramps asked.

Mr. Waters’s eyes raked down the old man’s pudgy frame and floppy hair. “We could certainly find a way to accommodate anyone interested in learning the sport in our beginners’ lessons. They’re led by newer black belts. Most of them are a bit younger than—”

“Anyone, eh?” Gramps cut in. “Even freaks?”

Both Max and his dad’s jaws dropped open.

“Gramps, knock it off,” I cried, feeling my cheeks flaring red.

“Cah, cah, cah.” Gramps smirked at us. “I think lessons—toughening this kid up, you know—would make amends. Don’t you think, Richie Ryder? Might be a good hobby.”

“I don’t think martial arts is really my thing.”

“It used to be,” Gramps said. “You were an orange belt, I think, before …”

“Green,” I cut in.

Mr. Waters cocked an eyebrow at me.

“I took tae kwon do lessons before I got …”

Here’s the thing: I know it’s just a word. Cancer. Just a word. But it’s a thick, sticky word that gets gunked up in my throat sometimes. So I just finished with, “When I was littler. Like seven. Master Johnson said I was a natural fighter.”

Mr. Waters nodded, his lip jutting out. Max crossed his arms and scowled at me.

“But that was a long time ago,” I added.

“Yeah,” Gramps, with his impeccable timing, laughed. “From the looks of you and that girl, I’d say you’re more of a lover than a fighter now.” He poked his wrinkly elbow into my ribs. Ribs that Max clearly wanted to snap. In fact, I heard this crunching sound and thought the force of his glare was doing just that—cracking my ribs—before realizing it was just his teeth grinding together.

“I think we could whip you back into shape,” Mr. Waters said.

“Nah. I don’t think I’ve got an inner ninja anymore.” I forced a grin. The whole idea of it was insane. Me? To prove it, I went into the crane pose and flapped my “wings” like it was the chicken dance.

“Yes, mastering martial arts requires strength, drive, and dedication.” Mr. Waters stared hard at me. Seriously, I felt myself shrinking, arms mid-flap. I wasn’t a crane; I was one of Mom’s bugs, getting dissected by his glare. “It tasks athletes to focus. You’re right. That doesn’t seem to be your thing.” Mr. Waters turned toward the door. Max’s smirk felt like he was squashing bug-me under his heel.

Then Mr. Waters suddenly turned back to me. He cocked his head to the side as he took me in. Quickly, I dropped my arms and stood straight. I glanced at Max, who rolled his eyes and groaned softly. “Luckily,” said Mr. Waters, cocking his head to the other side, “martial arts also provides those skills. Classes are every weeknight. Come as often as you can, Richie Ryder. Beginners class starts at five-thirty sharp.”

“But, Dad—” Max yanked on his father’s sleeve. I heard him whisper Jocelyn’s name.

“Oh, I think she can handle it.” Mr. Waters was the one to smirk this time. Max shook his head at me once and followed his father out the door.

“Cah, cah, cah.” Gramps clapped his hands together.

“What have you gotten me into?” I sighed.

“Ah, calm down, boy. Maybe this will help you with your anger issues.”

“Me? What anger issues?”

“Exactly,” Gramps said just as the doorbell rang again. This time, it actually was the pizza guy.