Brendan Buckley's Sixth-Grade Experiment (17 page)

It had taken Khal and me a solid three hours to clean up the rec room after the disaster. We'd found specks of manure as far away as the dartboard on the opposite wall from where the two-liter had fired, which, after I got over being mad, I admitted to Khal had been pretty awesome. We'd dubbed it the “poop cannon.” He'd called his parents to explain and ended up spending the night. So he got to watch Einstein eat crickets after all.

Mom had turned the crisis into an opportunity, as she liked to say, by convincing Dad it was the perfect chance to get rid of the old, shaggy green carpet and replace it with fake wood flooring.

We'd taken the bottles outside and dumped the contents into the flower beds, just like the last time we'd done an experiment in two-liters. Only this time, I was
confident that what we were dumping would help the plants grow and not turn them brown.

All in all, everything had turned out all right in the end.

Even things with the experiment were going to be okay. That Monday, in science, Mr. Hammond assured Morgan and me that thirteen days of measurements were enough to qualify as a valid experiment and we should go ahead and write up our report for submission to the contest. Applications were due the first week of November, just a couple of weeks away.

“That's great!” Morgan said. I breathed a sigh of relief.

We left Mr. H's class, headed toward the lunchroom. Morgan was being unusually quiet, and it was starting to feel awkward. I was about to say “See you later” when she blurted out, “Do you want to write up the final report together? You could come over to my house this time. For dinner, maybe.”

My face scrunched, as involuntarily as my heart jumping around in my chest.

Morgan's cheeks turned hot pink. She spoke quickly and her eyes darted around. “Never mind. Dumb idea. Uh … I'll write something up and email it. We can discuss it over the phone. Bye!”

I grabbed her arm. “No. Wait. I want …”

She turned and looked at me hopefully.

I just couldn't get the words out of my mouth. “I mean, that would be great if you wrote up a preliminary report. I can give you my notebook with all the measurements.”

“Oh. Okay.” Her smile drooped, like the balloons after they'd gotten knocked to the ground.

“It's just, the only extra thing I really have time for in the next couple of weeks is Tae Kwon Do,” I said, trying to cover for myself. “I've got a promotion test this Saturday, and our big annual tournament is the Saturday after that.” I didn't tell her that I had to be ready so I could prove I wasn't a science-nerd wimp. “I'll definitely help with the final report.”

“Sure. No problem. You did all the measurements, after all. And the cleanup.” She smiled a little. “Sorry about that.”

I shrugged. “Wasn't
your
fault.”

“I know. But still …” Her face perked up. “Hey, could I come to your tournament?”

My heart started jumping around again. “I guess. If you really want to.”

“I do! Get me the data before school's out, okay? See you later!” She bounced off toward the lunchroom. I hung back, trying to get my pulse to chill out.

Morgan was coming to see me compete in the annual tournament. I had better be ready. I no longer had just Dad to impress.

The morning of the Friendship Tournament, I got up early. Kids and adults from studios all over Washington and Oregon would be at the Tacoma Y to compete.

Over breakfast, Dad gave me pointers for the tournament. I nodded a bunch and said yeah a few times, but what I was really thinking was how Dad was showing way more interest in
this
competition than the other one I was in.

I chugged my orange juice, then headed to my room to give Einstein his two crickets and one of the wax worms Grandpa Ed had brought over the other day.

The last thing I did was put on my
do bok
. My purple belt now had a nice brown stripe on it. I had thought a lot about the argument I'd heard my parents having and I'd decided: Getting my black belt
was
important to me. It wasn't just my dad's goal. It was my own—for myself. I
had worked hard for my brown stripe and I had earned it. At the tournament, I would prove I deserved it.

On our way to picking up Gladys, we passed Shari's Restaurant. After the tournament, we'd go there to have breakfast for dinner, like always. Only this time, Grandpa Ed would be with us. He was even skipping a rock club expedition to be there. He said he couldn't miss his grandson doing kung fu. I didn't tell him kung fu is Chinese and what I do is Korean. I was just glad he was coming. It was going to be a great day.

We pulled into Gladys's parking lot, past the sign that read
WELCOME TO BRIGHTON FIELDS—WHERE LIFE IS IN FULL BLOOM
. “But withering quickly,” Gladys liked to add. It was a nice day, not too cold. Red and orange leaves glowed like fire against the gray sky.

Gladys waited on the bench out front.
Oh, brother
. She waved her big foam finger. We pulled up and Mom got in the backseat. Gladys got in front. “Ready to crack some skulls?” She snapped her seat belt into place.

“Brendan's school of Tae Kwon Do is noncontact, Mama.” Dad waited while Gladys took a swig of bright blue drink from one of her two Gatorade bottles.

“I say we liven things up a bit. What do you say, Brendan?” She looked at me over her shoulder.

I glanced at Dad. “I … uh …”

“Oh, lighten up, you two! I'm just having a little fun.” Gladys passed me the neon yellow Gatorade. “To keep those electro-thingamajigs balanced for peak performance.
But I'm sure you know all about that, Mr. Science Genius.”

I shrugged and looked out the window. I didn't need Gladys highlighting my nerdy science side right now, especially in front of Dad. Today, I was Brendan Buckley, Tae Kwon Do brown-stripe warrior.

The gym was already swarming with people. Most of them wore
do boks
just like mine. The cool thing about tournaments is that you see people of all ages wearing all the different colors of belts. There are adults wearing white belts and kids, some even younger than me, wearing black belts.

First, we went to the judges' table. Master Rickman checked me in. “Here's the schedule. Your forms competition will be in Ring Three around eleven. The
kyepka
will be after that.” Breaking boards had become one of my favorite things to do.

I scanned the listings. Gladys read over my shoulder. All the events would be held in this one gym, in six different rings separated only by invisible lines and people waiting their turns to compete. Tournaments were always crowded like this, but I never got used to it. As usual, I'd have to work hard to stay focused.

“What about sparring?” Dad asked.

“I'm guessing junior purple belts will start around one—in Ring One.”

Dad nodded. “All right. Good. Brendan, you'll have to watch your food intake. Keep it light.”

“Khalfani is around here somewhere.” Master Rickman looked out into the gym. “Over there.” He pointed. Khal was practicing kicks and punches with his dad.

Gladys held up her plastic seat cushion. “I'm going to find my bony behind a spot near the front, if I still can.” The few rows of bleachers were filling up quickly.

I glanced at Master Rickman. Did Gladys have to go and mention her behind in front of my teacher?

“Start stretching, Bren,” Dad said. “I'll take your stuff to the bleachers, then join you.” He took my coat and the Gatorade and followed Mom and Gladys.

I wound my way around small groups of kids and adults doing their warm-ups. The sounds of talking and laughing bounced around the gym.

Everyone wore the same patches on their
do boks
, no matter where their studio, because even though we all belonged to different
dojangs
, we were all a part of Master Kim's school of Tae Kwon Do. We had the U.S. flag on our right shoulders, the Korean flag on our left shoulders, and a red circle patch on our chests that said
KIM'S TAE KWON DO
. Master Kim had started his school, like, a hundred years ago or something.

I loved hearing the
swish-swish
of my
do bok
as I walked, and how it made me feel to wear it.
Strong
.

Whoever invented that Shout stuff—now, that guy
(
or girl
, I heard Morgan's voice say) was a science genius. The cow-poop stain from the fair was so faint it was basically unnoticeable. The only brown on my
do bok
from now on would be my stripe, and eventually, a belt.

I pulled back my shoulders and raised my chin.
I am a brown-stripe warrior
, I thought.
Courageous, self-controlled, indomitable
.

I passed a judge in his black belt uniform. Black belts'
do boks
have black piping along the edges of the jackets and pants, and Korean lettering on the backs. One day, not too long from now, I would wear that
do bok
.

I was about to walk up to Khal and his dad when I heard my name. “Brendan!” Morgan stood under the basketball hoop, waving like a maniac. I glanced over at Khal, but if he'd noticed Morgan or me, I couldn't tell. I ducked my head and sauntered over. If Khal asked, I hadn't invited her—she'd invited herself. Anyway, the tournament was free and open to the public. Anyone could come.

“Hi,” I said. My voice came out kind of deep, like one of those R & B singers on Dad's oldies-but-goodies CDs. My throat tightened. I coughed a couple of times to make sure I'd sound like myself when I spoke again.

“Hi! Did I miss anything?” Morgan smiled her big metal-and-glitter smile.

“It hasn't even started yet.”

“Oh, right.” She looked around. “I just wanted to be sure. I really,
really
didn't want to miss anything.”

“You didn't.” I was sweating like crazy under my
do bok
and I hadn't even done a single kick. Just a small case of pretournament nerves, I told myself.
Don't lose your Kool-Aid, man
. “Where are your parents?”

“They dropped me off and went over to Lowe's. They love that place. That's like their idea of a great date—”

I nearly swallowed my tongue when she said the word
date
.

“—dinner at Five Guys Burgers and Fries and a couple of hours strolling the aisles at Lowe's, checking out the latest in bathroom décor and refrigerator technology. I think it makes them feel like they're making progress on the house remodel they've been talking about since we moved here.”

My mouth had dried up like a slug on hot cement.

“I guess I'll go find a seat,” Morgan said, finally. “I'll be cheering for you.”

“That's okay,” I said quickly. Now the saliva poured in like Niagara Falls. “You don't need to cheer.” I gulped down the excess spit. How embarrassing would it be to slobber right then? “I mean, you can, but maybe do it silently.”