I’d spent almost three days carrying around my inflatable donut and icing my tailbone until it was numb, but Dad still wanted to call Master Kim and tell him I wouldn’t be in class.
“I’m fine,” I told him, walking across the room to show him how I could do it without wincing.
“What about kicking, though?”
I pulled my leg up to do a push kick in the air.
Even though I tried to keep a poker face, Dad said, “You’re grimacing.”
“It’s not that bad,” I protested. “Besides, a good martial artist pushes through pain.” Master Kim never actually said that, but I thought it sounded good.
“Mom and I admire your moxie,” Dad told me. “But a belt test isn’t more important than your health.”
I went back to the couch with my ice and another ibuprofen while Dad picked up the phone.
I didn’t want moxie or anyone’s admiration. I wanted my yellow belt.