“Who’s a little shit?” Dad asked.
“Those boys from earlier,” Rubin said. “They are some little”—he hesitated and wouldn’t curse in front of Dad. “They were sore losers, that’s all.”
“Well, they’re originally from Alabama,” Dad said, “and you can’t expect much from a bunch of rednecks.”
Rubin and I laughed at this, but I wasn’t sure if Dad was joking. Redneck was his word for anybody from Alabama, Mississippi, or Georgia. For those three states, Dad didn’t have any respect. Even our own state of Florida wasn’t good enough for Dad. Nothing compared to Texas, the site of Grandfather Royal’s exploits and accomplishments, all of which Dad was proud of but wanted to distance himself from.
“How many burgers you want, Rubin?” Dad asked.
“Two would be nice. Thank you, sir.”
Dad walked out of the room.
“I told you,” Rubin said, “not to talk to me like that.”
I was beginning to think that having Rubin for a friend was a bad idea. I should have joined forces with Roger and James and run Rubin away.
“But you can call me a little shit?” I said.
“When you are one, yes.”
I opened my mouth to tell Rubin he was being a little shit right now, but I remembered Dad telling me to listen to Rubin. If he called me a little shit, then maybe I was one. I was having doubts about Rubin being my friend, but I still wanted him to help me with tae kwon do, and in order to do that, I had to be nice to him. Plus, I didn’t want to ruin Dad’s plans. He had
swallowed his pride at the Lopez house when Mr. Lopez disagreed about having a little blood in the steaks, and if Dad could do that, I could tolerate Rubin’s remarks. Besides, if I messed up Dad’s grand scheme to make me the youngest black belt in the state, I’d have to deal with his fury, and Rubin, smart mouth and all, was much easier to handle.
“You can take that game home with you,” I said. “See if you can break your own high score.”
Rubin held the game without playing it and stared into space ignoring my last comment.
That was all right. According to Dad, one of Grandfather Royal’s favorite sayings was You catch more flies with honey than vinegar. And my offer of the game came straight from the beehive.
“Thanks,” Rubin said, no longer staring off but smiling and playing the game again. He played twice more before Dad called us to eat.
CHAPTER 8
Saturday morning and the dojo was packed for the belt tests. All those parents who normally dropped off their kids showed up to witness the results. Many of the dads were in the Navy, pilots for the Blue Angels, and they were decked out in their whites sitting rigid and straight. Not showing up for their kids’ classes but making it to the belt test didn’t seem fair. Why should the parent miss all the work the kid had put in, but then show up on the day of the test and either gloat about a passing score or deride a failing one? Dad, though I didn’t always want him to be, was at least there.
The waiting area only had enough folding chairs for about a dozen people, but there was double that number standing like a herd wedged between the door and the metal tube separating the waiting area from the workout area. And there was a larger than normal number of students, too. Kids I’d never seen or had seen once or twice were here as well as the usual students. Except for Donnie.
We sat on the floor grouped by belts and waiting for Mr. Bollars. He was talking to some other men in front of the wall of mirrors. All of the men were black belts, and one was Asian—he
seemed to be the one they all deferred to. Rubin, since he wasn’t testing, stood a little ways from the circle of men, looking as if he wasn’t sure if he should join them or not.
I couldn’t see the door for all the people, but it had a bell tied to it that rang occasionally and I held my breath, expecting to see Donnie’s freckled face and dingy gi come walking through the crowd. I was interested to see his parents, too. I already saw whom I took to be his mom, and she was something else; I couldn’t wait to see his dad. Then it hit me: Maybe Donnie’s dad wasn’t around.
Whether his dad was around or not, I was ready to finish my sparring match with Donnie.
We had each ended with two points, though I had knocked him down and made him bleed. But that third point went unscored. I wondered if Mr. Bollars hadn’t let either of us earn that third point to build tension for today? I was nervous as a pregnant nun—(one of Dad’s sayings), and I could only guess at how nervous Donnie was. Maybe he was scared of me and that’s why he hadn’t shown.
“Look alive, boy,” Dad said, with the video camera focused on me. Mom sat next to him in the front row—we arrived early of course—with her camera, and as Dad zoomed me in, Mom clicked a photo. All the other parents had snapshot cameras with bright flashbulbs and superspeed film for the action shots. But Dad was making a movie, recording everything as it was, sounds as well as pictures. The video camera was huge; he let me pick it up once and it weighed as much as the sacks of sugar I got off the grocery store shelf for Mom. The camera killed Dad’s shoulder, and he bitched about it every time after he filmed class. That was probably another incentive for him to stop filming me. But today he wanted to document my first belt test. In the future, I could see Dad with a library of tapes, a different tape for each belt. The one with me earning my black belt would be kept under lock and key and shown to guests, and on my birthday; and, possibly, on the anniversary of the belt’s test date—a new Royal family tradition.
Rubin, at signal, called formation. The four other black belts stood to Mr. Bollars’s, left with the Asian man the nearest to him. I heard the bell and looked over my shoulder, but Dad pointed at Mr. Bollars, my cue to turn around. Out of the corner of my eye I looked for Donnie.
White belts took up the last two rows of formation, which was larger than normal, and I made sure and got on the back row so Donnie would have to walk by me.
Looking for Donnie, I missed the first few moments of Mr. Bollars’s speech, but when I looked up again, Mr. Bollars was introducing the Asian man as Master Cho from South Korea, and Mr. Bollars had been one of his first and best students. In broken English Master Cho wished us good luck with our tests. While I had never doubted his ability, Mr. Bollars did gain some authenticity in my eyes when I learned that he had been instructed by a Korean master.
There were over two dozen white belts testing, but the number of students testing decreased as the belt levels increased, with only two men taking the black belt test. I didn’t know if it was tradition or simple expedience, but the white belts went first, while all the others sat on the floor against the wall. As kids went through their forms, flashbulbs popped and parents moaned and sighed for every wobble and missed step.
I kept waiting for Donnie to make his entrance. Maybe he wasn’t scared at all, but was trying to psyche me out; let me relax and then BAM-O, he’d walk in focused and ready to whip me. My feet sweated, my hands sweated, and I played with a loose string of carpet until my name was called for the form. I counted, just as Rubin taught me, and got through the form with
no problems. Sparring wasn’t a challenge either. I got three new opponents this time. The second one was a girl. I didn’t jab her in the face, at first, but she got up two-nothing on me, and girl or not, I had to let her have it. Lose to a girl and Dad’d never let me hear the end of it. Three jabs to her face quickly ended the bout.
All the white belts sat back on the floor nearest the waiting area. Dad turned off the camera, set it in his lap, and winked at me. It was a hard wink that snatched up his top lip. He