was pleased. My hands and feet stopped sweating. First step almost accomplished. I assumed if Dad was pleased with my performance, then Mr. Bollars and Master Cho had no other choice but to promote me to yellow belt. They would pass me, wouldn’t they? My hands and feet sweated again. They had to tell us today if we passed, didn’t they? Maybe that was something Mr. Bollars had covered while I was looking for Donnie. Damn Donnie!
As we went through our forms and sparred, Mr. Bollars, Mr. Cho, Rubin, and the two other black belts kept score on white sheets, checking off black boxes for deductions from the forms and points for sparring. I hoped my forms’ boxes were empty, but for the sparring I wanted my boxes to have lead poisoning. They passed their score sheets to Mr. Cho who nodded over them and pointed at them before writing down our total score.
“All white belts, please, stand,” Mr. Cho said. “When I call your name, come pick up your yellow belt.” The two other black belts carried a table out of the dressing room and it was piled high with yellow belts wrapped in clear plastic.
The names were called in alphabetical order, and no one was missed. Too bad Donnie didn’t make it. He’d have to repeat white belt. I wondered if he’d repeated before? He was already a student here when I arrived, and that would explain why he had the stances down and could punch so well.
Dad filmed the belt ceremony, and I would have liked more pomp and Oriental mysticism like I had seen in kung-fu movies, but having Mr. Bollars take our white belt and Mr. Cho hand us the yellow belt and then bow deeply with a broad smile had its own magic. I turned to walk back to formation and Dad stood beside the metal tube, the red light blinking on the front of the camcorder, and he got all the white belts in the shot. Except Donnie. I knew I wouldn’t see his ugly mug when we watched this tape at home and that took some of the luster off my yellow belt. Without sparring against Donnie and going through him to earn my yellow belt, I didn’t know if I really deserved it.
We were dismissed and most of the waiting area emptied. I showed the belt to Dad, who unwrapped it hurriedly and tied it in a slipknot around my waist. “You did good, son.” He put his arm around my shoulder. “I’m proud of you.” He pulled me to him, smelling of cigarettes and English Leather and VO5 hair grease, which laid his receding hairline down; I saw brown spots
on his balding scalp, and from the side his hairline jutted forward to form a point, which created the profile of an eagle.
Dad whispered in my ear: “You scared the little sonofabitch off.” He laughed and wheezed and his breath tickled my neck. I smiled and my heart felt light. Hearing Dad’s words made me glad that Donnie hadn’t shown up. Scaring him off, making him skip the test was better than beating him.
“I’m gonna make you a shrimp gumbo,” Mom said.
“Well, let’s go,” I said, already tasting the sweet shrimp and spicy gravy.
“We’re gonna wait and watch those two boys test for the black belts,” Dad said.
They’d be the most interesting ones to watch anyway, but we would have to wait through the yellow, green, blue, and brown belts before the red belts tried for their black.
“That’ll take all day,” I said.
“Pay attention to these yellow belts,” Dad said. “You’ll see what you gotta learn, and you’ll get ahead of all those other new yellow belts that left.”
I looked at Mom; she chewed her Freedent fiercely, and put another stick in her mouth.
She chewed excessive amounts of gum when she was nervous. Tae kwon do was Dad’s show and Mom might not want to interfere in public. The bell chimed on the dojo’s door and I expected to see Donnie and his trashy parents ready with an excuse for why they were late. I wondered if Mr. Bollars would let Donnie take the test?
I took a deep breath, plastered a wide smile on my face, and stood so that Donnie could see the new yellow belt around my waist; only, once I turned and looked at the door, it was Mr.
and Mrs. Lopez.
“Sorry we missed your test,” Mr. Lopez said, “but I’m happy to see you passed.”
Mr. Lopez shook my hand and then Dad’s; Mom and Mrs. Lopez spoke to one another while Dad slid over so that the two women could sit next to each other.
“You’ll have to come by the house,” Mr. Lopez said, “and have dinner with us to celebrate.” Mr. Lopez put up his hand, cutting Dad off: “And we’ll eat my steaks this time.”
“I’ve already got some ordered, but I’ll introduce you to my butcher,” Dad said. “And why don’t y’all come over this evening for gumbo? My wife’s a Coonass and fixes the best gumbo around.”
Mom blushed a little at Dad’s statement.
“Ok. We’ll do that,” Mr. Lopez said. “But I’m providing the wine and everything else for Wesley’s meal.”
Mr. Lopez and Dad shook hands as if they’d just come to some great agreement that far outshadowed dinner arrangements.
“If we’re gonna eat gumbo tonight,” Mom said, “I need to start cooking it now.”
“Maria,” Mr. Lopez addressed his wife, “why don’t you bring Mrs. Royal home and help her cook. Rubin and me will ride home with Mr. Royal and Wesley after the tests are finished.
How’s that sound?”
“Sounds damn good,” Dad said.
Rubin walked over. “Good job, Wesley. You nailed those forms.”
“Thanks. But you’re the one who showed me how to do them.”
“Just doing my job.”
Job? Why couldn’t he say just helping a friend? But job was a more accurate description; he was paid in steaks, burgers, swimming, video games, and trampoline use. Maybe Rubin knew
what Dad was up to.
Mr. Bollars called Rubin back to the floor for the yellow belts’ test, and Mr. Lopez said to his son: “We’re having dinner at the Royals’ house today.”
“Good.” Rubin winked at me.
Four hours and three breaks later, the red belts came up and Dad turned on the camcorder.
“This’ll give you a tape to study,” he said, squinting one eye and focusing the camera. The first red belt was a little guy, but with muscles. His gi was open at the top revealing a narrow yet well-defined chest. He did his form with grace and quickness; each punch and kick snapped in the air.
For the black belt test there were lots of flying kicks: front kicks, double front kicks, side kicks, and this little guy flew with ease.
“You’re gonna have hell, boy,” Dad said, “if you’ve got to do all those jumps.”
The other red belt was larger, more my size, though he was a grown man, and I wanted to see him fly. The big guy’s gi poked out over his belt a little, just like mine did. This big one was my favorite. From a fat boy to a fat man, I hoped he would get his black belt. If he could execute all the maneuvers same as the little guy, then I knew that with practice I could, too. Their form ended with three jumping front kicks, and the little wiry guy nailed the first two perfectly, but a slight wobble on the last one cost him points. I hoped the big guy wouldn’t wobble.
The first part of his form was fine. His sleeves and pants legs snapped with each punch and kick, but he was coming up for the finale. Rubin, as well as the other black belts and Mr. Bollars and Mr. Cho, zeroed in on the red belt, looking for any little reason to deduct points.
His gut jiggled as he landed after the first kick and he landed with his feet shoulder-width apart. No one wrote on their score sheets. The fat man didn’t lose a point, and he didn’t lose a
point for the second kick and landing. Now for the final kick. Sweat shone on his chubby face and his gi spread open, revealing a flabby, sagging chest like mine, minus the acne. Dad kept the camera focused on him, and I watched as he jumped for the last time, kicked, snapped his pants leg, and landed without a wobble. I yelled and clapped and none of the judges marked their