Unveiled: A Paranormal Urban Fantasy Novel (The Dark Skies Trilogy Book One) (6 page)

When that is exactly what Ms. T instructs us to do, he looks at me like I am the smartest girl alive. "I thought you said you did an octopus at your last school?"

"I did," I reply. "But at the school before that we dissected a shark. Which is sort of similar to a squid."

He nods, and I can feel his eyes on me as I organize our scapulas. "So I heard that you've been to like 100 schools or something?" he says, and I wonder if he's trying to make conversation with me.

"Only 10."

"Ha! Only. You say that like it's nothing." He shakes his head and gives me a heart-stopping smile. "Man, I think that'd be so great. To get out of this lame school and this puny town to start someplace else. Anywhere new."

Assuming he's not all that interested in doing any of the dissection, I take the knife and make a slow, steady incision. "Yeah, I guess it's okay. Be sort of nice to stay in one place for long enough to actually have a life and make some friends, though."

For the briefest second, his eyes flick over to Meegan, and he says, "Yeah, well, having a life can be a little overrated sometimes."

What? Could there be trouble in paradise?

"I think your girlfriend is a little upset that you guys aren't partners."

"She'll get over it," he replies. Then adds, "I'm sure your boyfriend was super bummed when you moved away?"

"Oh." Despite never having had a real boyfriend, I smile a tragic little smile. "It was hard, at first, but I'm sure he was able to move on."

Just then the bell rings. "Okay people, cover your specimens and place them in the fridge. We'll pick up where we left off tomorrow."

I place our instruments in the tray with the squid and cover the poor little soul back up. Just as I'm about to pick up the tray, Chad takes it.

"I'll put it away." He smiles. "You did everything else."

"Thanks."

"Well, fun working with you," he says as he heads toward the fridge.

"You too." I'm afraid my heart might melt in my chest like a crayon left in the sun. Yet, somehow I manage to form the words, "See you tomorrow."

T
he rest
of the school day sails by in a happy blur. I replay my conversation with Chad Olson, at least, a thousand times in my head.

After school, I amble across the street to the small cluster of shops that includes my uncle's karate studio.

Finishing the Snickers bar I bought at the school store, I walk over to the dumpster that sits like a boxy sentinel in the far corner of the parking lot to throw away the wrapper. I stop cold when I see a shadowy figure hunched next to the dumpster.

It's that creepy Jax guy. Again.

He’s kneeling, and at first, I can’t tell what he’s doing. Inching closer, I think I see him feeding part of a burrito to a pair of red squirrels out of his open hand. That’s odd. It also looks like a tiny finch is hopping down his wrist toward the food in his hand.

I lean in to get a closer look, but the movement must spook the animals because the delicate bird blusters off and the squirrels scramble like mad over the fence.

“Hey.” He stands, turning his green eyes to me and pointing at my jacket. “Nice blazer.”

"What are you doing?!" I swear my heart skips a beat. "And why are you hiding back here?"

"I'm not hiding. I'm on my coffee break." Apparently to prove his point, he hoists up a brown paper bag that's probably covering some bottle of cheap liquor. Gross.

"Right." I can't believe my uncle would hire such a deadbeat.

"Want some?" He holds it up and flashes a smile. I have to admit if this guy wasn’t so skeevy, he might actually be cute.

"No, thanks. I'm headed to class." For some reason, this conversation is annoying me. I find myself compelled to ask, “How old are you anyway?”

“How old are you?”

“I’m 16.”

He nods, “I’m 19.”

He’s staring at me, and I feel my cheeks start to burn. “Should I mention to my uncle that you're out here on your, um, coffee break?"

I don’t know why I’m being so mean. I guess it doesn’t matter anyway because he just grins at me, totally unfazed.

"Go ahead," he says like it's a dare. "I told him I'd be done painting the exterior of the building today."

I look up at the huge brick and stucco, two-story building that takes up half a block. He's got a good 3, maybe even 4% completed. No way he'll finish today.

"Good luck with that." I swivel on my heels heading toward the studio door.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be done. Always finish what I start.”

As he says this, something occurs to me. "Hey, by the way. You did a lousy job fixing the drainpipe."

"Really?" he asks with that cocky little grin. He's slowly ambling back over to the mess that appears to be his painting supplies.

“Yeah, really.”

"Ever occur to you that maybe he doesn't want something attached to the wall that could aid someone making a pathetic teenage attempt to sneak out of the house?"

This, in fact, did not occur to me.

"Whatever..." I shake my head and keep walking, but now I'm wondering if that could be true.

Moving through the studio's front door, I’m immediately assaulted by the sound of seven lunkheaded teenage boys, with more testosterone than sense, all yelling "Ai-ya!"

These are the superstars of the advanced class, who also get to take my uncle's sparring class. Right now they're working on their block/punch combinations.

"These attacks are sloppy. Your practice is sloppy!" my uncle scolds them, demonstrating a solid arm block. He paces the mat in front of his students like a fierce general inspecting his soldiers. His black karate uniform makes him look even more menacing than usual.

Believe me; no one goofs around or talks back in my uncle's class.

"Practice creates habits,” he continues. “If your practice is sloppy, then sloppy becomes your habit. If you practice with focus, determination, and precision, then that will become your habit."

They nod, all wide-eyed, soaking up his ancient wisdom. But, frankly, I've heard this speech about habits and focus and determination, at least, a thousand times. It's gotten more than a bit old.

He continues, "Strong trees grow with adversity."

Okay, here we go with the whole trees and the storm bit.

"It is only through weathering the storm and the raging wind that a tree gains strength. If you do not push yourself, if you do not allow yourself to struggle to improve in your practice of karate, then you will not grow strong."

I tune out the life lesson on how karate makes us all better people and head to the tiny girls' locker room to change into my uniform. He has one female student for every seven males, so we girls pretty much get an oversized broom closet as our changing room.

As I walk past, my uncle turns his back to his students and gives me a quick wink with just the smallest trace of a smile.

Generally, there is no smiling in karate.

Pushing through the locker room, I smile back.

My starched white karate uniform hangs from the hook in my locker. You don't get to wear the way better, so much cooler black uniform until you're at the master level.

Okay, so, I'm pretty good at karate. I mean, I should be, right? I've only been doing it since I was 5-years-old. If you attack me in an alley, there is no doubt I’ll go all ninja on you.

Unfortunately, my weakness is combat with weapons. I'm all thumbs if I have to swing, thrust, parry, or strike with any sort of weapon.

Also, I hate it.

I prefer just to fight the old fashion way - with my hands and feet, not to mention the occasional head-butt.

For any regular student of karate, that would be perfectly acceptable. Unfortunately, for some reason, my uncle refuses to accept this flaw in my character and is determined to fix me. Which is why I have to be here three times a week to work on weapons training.

Twenty minutes later, I'm standing on the mat with my white helmet tucked under my arm. My arms and shins are padded; I'm wearing clown-like red sparring gloves and foot gear; plus I'm holding my weapon -- a bow staff -- basically just a big stick, sort of like the wooden handle of a broom except it has a slight curve or "bow" to it.

Oh, if only Chad Olson could see me now, surely he'd be unable to resist my charms. That is if he has a thing for the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.

I look at the 5-foot long piece of wood in my hands and curse my nemesis.

Although the bō is now used as a weapon, it is believed by some to have evolved from the long tenbin, a smooth stick balanced across your shoulders and used to carry buckets of water. Back in the day, peasants in the Japanese countryside used tenbins for training because they didn't have fancy metal swords.

To me, it's nothing more than a big ugly stick.

My class consists of seven teenage boys, all at least twice my size. But I'm not worried. I have more training, technique, and ability than any of them. The only thing they have on me is size and strength. Along with male aggression, determination, and an unwavering desire to please my uncle.

As class begins, we stand at attention with our hands folded behind our back as my uncle addresses us.

"Today, we will have a challenge round. Whoever wins will be excused from the three mile run at the end of class," my uncle explains as he walks down our line. "If you win your challenge round, you will remain in the circle to fight again. Whoever is left standing at the end is the winner. Do we understand?"

"Yes, sir!" the class barks in unison.

"Astrid, you're first." He points at me.

Really?

"Yes, sir!" I bark with military precision, stepping into the center of the sparring circle with my bow staff.

"Jonas!" he points to the biggest and meanest of my classmates. "You're up."

"Yes, sir!" Jonas answers with a glint of excitement in his eye.

He’s a pretty decent guy with the exception of his big ego. He's also the oldest and most senior member of this group at nineteen. Six months ago my uncle hired him to be an assistant teacher with the little kids.

Anyway, I know what Jonas is thinking. He thinks he's got this one in the bag. Fighting the only girl in the first round will be an easy win.

Well, we shall see about that Jonas.

Uncle stands to the side and says, "Bow-kinya." Which means that we hold our bow staffs in our right hands, slide our feet together, and bow to each other with perfectly straight backs, while never, ever taking our eyes off each other.

You never let your eyes wander away from your opponent, lest your opponent should decide to attack at that instant. That’s Martial Arts 101.

"Remember, it is harder to control your strikes than it is to hit someone hard," my uncle reminds us. You're expected to show restraint and not clobber your opponent with abandon when you're just practicing.

We both whip our bow staffs in front of our bodies and hold them in an offensive position while sliding one foot back into a fighting stance. We are preparing to spar.

"Begin!" my uncle calls out and steps out of the circle.

Jonas instantly lunges forward, attacking, roughly swinging his staff at my head. Just like I knew he would. These dumb boys are so predictable.

I take a step to my right and duck, missing the whip circle of his bow. Then I roll forward on my shoulder while swinging my bow, taking him down at the ankles.

Jonas' feet fly up in the air, and he thumps down hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him.

I'm on my feet with the tip of my bow pressed right over his heart.

I win. Jonas loses.

"That strike was a little low!" my uncle chides me. "That's nearly cheating, Astrid."

Except it's not cheating. Because it wasn't technically too low.

Jonas gasps for air on the mat.

"Still... this first fight to Astrid!" my uncle says as a humiliated Jonas rolls out of the fighting circle and slowly gets to his feet.

Even with his headgear on, I can see that Jonas is both pissed and embarrassed as he slinks back to his place in line.

"Nate," my uncle points to the next biggest student. "You're next."

Oh, so this is how it's going to be.

He plans to make me fight each of these boys from biggest to smallest. Fine. Bring it, I say. In the end, it takes me less than fifteen minutes to defeat all seven boys in my class.

Which means I win; which means I don't have to run three miles; which means I won't be a sweaty mess after class. Yay for me!

"Does anyone want to spar again?" my uncle asks, hoping one of them will volunteer to fight me again.

The group remains silent. Wimps.

Just as I breathe a sigh of relief, ready to step out of the sparring circle, I hear my uncle say, "How about you, Jax? I understand you're quite the trained fighter."

Jax? Not the loser handyman out painting the building? How desperate are we?

I turn to see Jax sauntering across the back of the studio carrying a couple of dirty paint brushes.

"Me? Nah," he replies, uncomfortable with everyone suddenly looking at him. Wearing ratty work clothes covered with paint, he’s completely out of place in a pristine studio filled with students in their crisp white uniforms.

"I'm told you trained and fought under the great We-Lyyn," my uncle adds, smiling at him with hands on his hips. "That should make you more than prepared to spar with a teenage girl."

Jax gives my uncle a thin smile and drops his head. He isn't going to rise to this bait. "That was light years ago, sir. I'm afraid you'll find I'm pretty rusty."

The idea of fighting this guy is almost appealing, but since it looks like I'm off the hook, I'm ready to grab my water bottle.

"I'll double your rate if you defeat the girl," my uncle calls out, and I shoot him my very best death glare. Why is my uncle doing this to me? He sees my dirty look but returns it with a smile.

“Double?”

"She needs the challenge."

Unfortunately, Jax seems to be considering the offer. Why would my uncle pay him twice as much just to spar with me in class?

"I suppose I could give it a shot." Jax sets the brushes down on an old newspaper then removes his dirty work boots. He steps onto the mat without bowing first. We always bow in respect before we step on the mat. It's a tradition as old as martial arts.

My eyes flick over to my uncle, who has noticed the lack of bow but does not say anything. I've never seen him let that go before.

"I don't have a weapon," Jax shrugs.

My uncle points to a nearby corner of the studio where a barrel sits filled with extra weapons.

Jax selects the longest and most difficult staff to use. Rookie mistake. Not a smart choice.

But then, he examines it briefly and spins it, lightening fast, around his head. He's handling the unfamiliar weapon like an expert. Uh oh. My stomach drops. Perhaps I underestimated this guy.

"Ready to rock and roll, princess?" he grins.

"I was born ready," I reply, annoyed. “And don’t call me princess.” Only my uncle can call me that.

"Fight!" my uncle yells.

Before I can attack, Jax juts forward in fighting stance with his bow staff aimed at my head. I struggle to thrust my staff up parallel to the ground and block his strike.

"Excellent block, Astrid," Uncle calls out, circling the perimeter of the sparring ring. "But remember to follow up with an attack. Find that inner calm. Draw on the essence of the inner warrior."

I swing my left hand down, pulling my bow staff toward Jax's head.

He wants fierce. I'll give him fierce.

A strike to the chest or the head counts as a point. Unexpectedly, I connect with his helmet.

Point!

However, I hit him possibly a wee bit harder than I meant to. Jax stumbles back, shaking his head.

"No point! Too hard." I turn to Uncle, who is frowning. "Control, Astrid."

I swear the man is never happy. There is no denying my uncle is ten times harder on me than the other kids.

Any other student at this studio would have gotten that point. Any other kid wouldn't have to take karate five days a week. Any other kid would have gotten their weapons black belt years ago. Not me.

Jax gets back into fighting stance. He looks pissed.