The Awakened (2 page)

“Hey, Mr. Valentine!”

I groaned again. “Hey, Ash, how’s it going? Season is going pretty well, isn’t it?” Dad asked, eagerly. My dad
loved
Ash and spent way too much time talking to him about football and baseball. Ash wasn’t just the captain of the football team, he was the quarterback. He wasn’t just the captain of the baseball team, but the star pitcher. He was everything my dad would have wanted for me, if I didn’t have, you know, boobs and stuff.

“Dad, can we go?” I hissed at him under my breath.

My dad looked down at me with a familiar look on his face. He thought I was being “dramatic.” My mom had given my dad a lecture when I turned thirteen. She told him all about the “terrors of raising a teenage girl.” Since then, he seemed to take that to heart and every reaction I had to anything was “overdramatic” and “irrational.” “I’m talking to Ash, Z.”

My mouth dropped open, and I turned to Ash who was trying and failing not to laugh. “God, not you too. My name is Zoey. Z-O-E-Y! Not Z. You can call me champ, if you’d like. But not Z. I am more than one letter.” I glared at Ash. “Will you just stop?”

Ash shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and started walking backward toward his own house. “One day, Mr. Valentine, your daughter is going to figure it out, and it’s going to be all good from there,” he called before disappearing into his apartment. Sometimes I felt really bad for his neighbors in the brownstone. It was bad enough living next door to him.

I turned my glare on my dad, who was chuckling. “Why do you have to encourage him?”

He had already changed into a comfortable outfit, which I was grateful for. I checked his jeans, noticing the bulge of the gun and tried hard not to sigh. My dad brought his gun everywhere with him, and I should have learned not to be so surprised at this point. “That guy is crazy about you, Zoey. I don’t know why you hate him so much.”

I grabbed his arm and started pulling him in the direction of the subway. “Seriously? No…just, no. He’s awful. Do you know that he told Ol’ Barb the lunch lady that he was pining for her, and she gave him extra pie? I mean, it’s disgusting.” I made a face. “And he just tried to trick me into kissing him and squirted water in my face. Like I wanted to kiss
him
.”

“Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt,” he said, as we descended the steps.

“Shut up, Dad,” I said, but only half-heartedly. “Let’s just go enjoy the game, okay?”

Later that night, while on the subway home after a crushing defeat at the hands of the Yankees and my dad I were arguing different points of the game, I realized how lucky I was. I had a great dad, a great place to live, a great best friend, and I was a senior in high school, with an impressive grade point average which guaranteed me admission into a decent college. Life was good, and the future was looking bright.

It was the right moment for the shit to hit the fan.

MOST TEENAGE GIRLS DIDN’T HAVE
the sort of schedule that I did. I was in honor society, always making sure that I had the best grades. I helped Madison with whatever cause she was currently on, whether it was decorating for the latest dance or collecting food for the local food banks.

But most of my time was spent in classes. My dad is extremely protective of me. This wasn’t a bad thing of course, but it had led to me being way more equipped to protect myself than was actually necessary.

Mondays were karate, Tuesdays were kickboxing, and so on. I was proficient in so many forms of self-defense and fighting that it was almost embarrassing.

It was Thursday and as soon as I was done with cheer practice and homework, I packed up my bag, and hopped on the subway to that day’s class: mixed martial arts. MMA was just the newest of my dad’s obsessions. I had been taking it for a couple months now and was getting fairly good at it.

I spent most of my time there with the punching bag, practicing my kicks, punches and blocks. I had slipped on my ear buds, turning up the volume of my iPod so that the music was the only thing that I heard. Even though I constantly gave my dad a hard time for making me take these lessons, I kind of liked it. I had muscles in places I didn’t know could become muscle and I knew that I could take care of myself, if anyone came my way. Sure I had absolutely no social life outside of these various martial arts studios but who needed a social life?

Lost in my music and the satisfying smack of my skin against the rough fabric of the punching bag, I didn’t notice when the room had gone silent and the practice fights had begun. Someone went careening into me, causing me to wrap my arms tightly around the bag to keep from falling over. I turned around and noticed the fight. I smiled sheepishly and took a seat on the floor by the mirrors, using a towel to wipe the sweat from my brow.

Two girls were already in a practice fight, and I watched them carefully, mentally correcting a step or a punch when it went the wrong way. It had always come as a surprise to me that despite never having the desire to learn to be a fighter, I was kind of a natural. I wasn’t really good at anything. I liked to read, but past second grade, they didn’t exactly hand out awards for being able to read. I wasn’t social and intelligent like Madison, and I definitely wasn’t able to try out for basketball or swimming or anything. I reluctantly cheered for the football and basketball teams because Madison was head cheer captain, and she always managed to convince me, year after year, that it was a good way for us to spend time together.

And to find cute boys to date. That part was true at least.

I wasn’t musical, and I couldn’t sing. I could recite entire scenes from
The Lord of the Rings
series from memory, and I knew the current batting average for every player on the Mets. I was fashionable enough to know how to dress myself well, with the odd shape that I was. But I wasn’t talented, not until I started taking defense lessons.

So, yeah, I wasn’t always fond of the next form of fighting my dad had found for me, but secretly, I was a little excited every time. It was a challenge. I liked challenges, and each form of fighting was met as a challenge I wanted to defeat.

I had spaced out a bit, my eyes glazing over as I watched the fight in front of me, which meant I had missed seeing my dad enter the studio. The room erupted into fierce whispers, and I felt my face flush.

Dad was something of a celebrity, in the only way that a police chief could actually be a celebrity. He had worked his way up the ranks fairly quickly and was a really young police chief. New York City was an impossible place sometimes as a cop: people died every day, there was crime everywhere, and you couldn’t solve every crime. But that didn’t stop my dad from trying, and it didn’t stop him from making a small dent in that crime rate. He was also known for not always following the rules, which got him into trouble but the city saw him as a hero. They loved hearing that he had beaten a serial rapist in the face until he bled.

“Valentine, you’re up,” my instructor shouted at me and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I didn’t fight most classes because I usually ended up winning, and the other girls didn’t learn anything from receiving a beating. I was only being thrown into a fight because my dad was here to watch.

He stood against the wall, his arms folded tight across his chest. He was in civilian clothes, but he was never truly a civilian, and you could see the outlines of his guns beneath the fabric of his jeans. Dad was in his late thirties, young to have an eighteen-year-old daughter. He and my mom had married young, after finding out they were expecting me. A lot of girls at school were always finding ways to come to my house and I suppose it was because he was good looking or something. He was my dad, though, and that was something I avoided thinking about it.

Right now, for instance, I could see more than a few of the girls stealing glances his way. He had his “serious cop” face on that made him look intimidating and a bit mysterious as well, as if there was a wall that couldn’t be broken down, a wall that any woman would just be dying to break down.

To me, he was just my dad. He was the guy who helped me pick out my prom dress, took me to baseball games, and challenged me to eat an entire medium size Hawaiian pie all by myself, which I accomplished thank you very much. He was the guy who sat on the couch drinking a beer, watched crappy action movies and had a weird addiction to professional wrestling.

I pushed myself off the ground, making sure the tape around my hands was still tight and ready. I jumped around loosening myself up a bit. My opponent was a girl named Stacy, who was good but doubted her own abilities. She could pack a punch, no problem, but she didn’t want to and that was her weakness. I felt bad every time I stepped up to fight her.

Her arms were up in a block, and I paced in a circle, my arms up and ready. I threw a punch, and she dodged it. Her leg came up in a kick, and I grabbed it, twisting it so she fell to the ground. She scrambled backward, trying to gain the momentum to stand back up, but I was quick, and I had her pinned down to the ground.

“Good work, Zoey,” my instructor said, sounding anxious, tossing a glance at my father.

“Thanks,” I said, standing up and offering a hand and an apologetic smile to Stacy. She smiled back, taking my hand, and I hoisted her up.

“You weren’t evenly matched,” Dad said, his deep voice carrying across the room. Everyone turned to look at him, and then back at me. “You win because you’re fighting those who aren’t matched to you or, frankly, just don’t want to fight.” He offered Stacy a smile and she smiled shyly in return. “You should be in a boy’s class. They would at least offer you a challenge.”

I felt a wave of irritation roll through me. He was the reason I was even in these classes and when I was good, I still wasn’t good enough. “Well,” I said, sarcasm seeping into my voice, “you could always arrange that, couldn’t you? I think my Wednesdays might be free.”

I was being sassy and pushing buttons, and I knew it. My dad had a small smirk at the corner of his mouth. I heard a girl sigh behind me, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

“Well, I don’t know that I have to go that far,” he said, uncrossing his arms, and coming toward the mats. He rolled up his sleeves, and I heard a few laughs behind me. I was totally in trouble now. “Why not try fighting someone who is a challenge?”

I felt a wave of doubt wash through me. The last person that I wanted to fight was my dad, a guy who took down drug dealers on a daily basis. I sighed like I was bored. “I don’t want to hurt you, old man.”

His smirk grew a bit more, and I nearly stopped. I nearly backed down and admitted that there was no way I could actually try and take down my dad. My pride always got the better of me though. I was the star of this class, and there was no way I was admitting defeat. “Defense position,” he ordered, nodding at me.

I rolled my eyes, but raised my arms, fists clenched. He was standing there, not even in position. I knew I had to act quickly, catch him off guard before he could take me down in one swipe. I stepped closer. He studied me, his eyes intent on mine. I threw a left punch, and he dodged it effortlessly. My right hook was coming up not even a split second later, aimed for his throat. He reached almost lazily for my fist and twisted my arm around. His hand grabbed my leg, and I flipped, landing with a hard “oomph” on my back, seeing stars.

“YOU KNOW, YOU DIDN’T HAVE
to flip me,” I said.

Dad laughed, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He stopped in front of a street vendor, handing over a wrinkly five-dollar bill. “Want one?” he said, pointing to the admittedly tempting hot dogs spinning in the case. I shook my head. “Someone had to teach you a lesson in humility.”

“I have plenty of humility,” I grumbled, shifting the strap of my bag so it fit more comfortably on my shoulder.

“No, you really don’t,” he said, taking an enthusiastic bite out of the hot dog that was just handed to him. “Your real weakness is your pride. You’re good, so you think nobody can beat you.”

“Well, I’m obviously wrong about that,” I said, wincing at my sore back.

He laughed again. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I would put you in a men’s class. Maybe going up against those who are much stronger than you would make you better and less cocky and flashy.”

I scowled. He was mostly right about that. “I
am
good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you are,” he said, looking down at me appraisingly. He wrapped his arm tightly around my neck. “Come on, let’s go get pizza.” He finished the last couple bites of his hot dog. “I’m starving.”

“IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE DRAPING!
How do you even consider that draping? They’re vines. It’s supposed to look effortless!” Madison stomped her foot down, her small face red with exhaustion and frustration. I knew a meltdown was probably coming soon.

Brody, high atop a ladder, paused for a moment in the middle of his work and looked at Madison. “Babe, this is not effortless.”

“Well, it should be,” she said, not meeting his eyes but consulting her clipboard instead. “Zoey, have we heard from the DJ?”

“Hmm?” I said, vaguely. I was sitting on one of the black iron benches that lined the open courtyard in the middle of the square buildings that were St. Joseph’s Prep. A book was open in my lap,
American Gods
by Neil Gaiman, one of my absolute favorites.

“Get your head out of the book for like an hour, can you, please?” Madison begged. She had pulled her slick black hair in a perfect bun, and had no less than three or four pens stuck in the bun. She was still wearing her workout clothes from cheer practice. “The DJ, Zoey, the DJ?”

“Last I heard, he’d be here at 6 p.m., to be ready in time for doors opening at 7 p.m.,” I said. “Everything is going to be fine.”

“Yeah, right,” she said. “Does anyone have a pen?” My eyebrow rose in response, and she immediately reached for her bun. She smiled sheepishly, and then her eyes went wide. “Ash, no, seriously? What are you doing?”

I turned and glanced over my shoulder. Ash had been put in charge of draping the Christmas lights that Madison had purchased, a task that I had thought was way too optimistic for him. True to form, none of the lights were put up, and instead were wrapped around his body, lighting him up like a Christmas tree. I rolled my eyes and turned back to my book.

“Please, will you go help him?” Madison said, her hands over her eyes. “I can’t handle this. I’m a wreck.”

“Maddie, it’s going to be great, just like every single dance turns out great,” I said, irritated at being interrupted again. I was only present at the setup for the dance under duress. Madison had signed me up herself, of course. She did that for most of her committees.

She turned her evil eye on me for a moment. “This is a pivotal dance, Zoey. The fall dance sets the tone for the entire school year. It shows everyone here at school whether I am capable of planning Homecoming or Winter Formal or prom. This is the beginning and end of our entire year as seniors.”

I held my hands up in surrender, biting back the laugh that was threatening to burst out. “All right, all right,” I said, looking at all the action around us. Brody was on the ladder, draping the vines, and it looked just fine to me. Everything else was coming together very nicely. “I’ll go help Ash.”