ON WEDNESDAY, WHEN THE BELL RINGS AFTER FOURTH period, I stay in my chair until everyone else leaves. Mr. Donovan, my statistics teacher (yes, I'm a junior in statistics, the training bra of math), looks at me over his glasses, eyebrows raised, but doesn't say anything.
Crowds in the hallway make me feel claustrophobic. I just need them to shift open a bit before I make my way out there.
I wait another couple minutes and then suck in some air and gather my nerves. I trudge through the hallway carefully, eyes down. I've become one of the slow movers who amble along without purpose. For the first time I can remember, there's absolutely nowhere I want to go.
I pass the water fountain and there's me and Shelly, notebooks open, charts and diagrams, standing around like research assistants in a lab. Freshman year. She's writing an investigative report for the Spectator, rating each of the school water fountains. I'm helping her. I'm the control group.
"Temperature?" she asks.
"Lukewarm."
"Tepid, would you say?"
"Yes."
"Taste?"
I make a sour expression. "Metallic."
"Height?"
"A bit high for me, and the arc of the spray always nails me in the nose."
"Convenience of location?"
"Eh. It's central, but there's always a line. The one outside the art room's a better bet."
"Breaking up" with Shelly was simple because we don't have any periods together except lunch. It was simple, but it wasn't easy. I see her constantly in my head, like the hallway's a portal to every time we walked it together and at any moment I might run into a different time-line version of us.
At lunch, I hide in the gym. I sit in the bleachers, all the way at the top, and pretend I'm watching my demo from a month ago.
It was the best day of my life.
It was everything this year was supposed to be: a series of goals checked off one by one. The demo was first on my list, and I'd already made it come true. I'd assumed all my goals would come true. Now I don't even remember what they were.
There's comfort in reliving a day when I was completely in control of my actions, like maybe it'll provide clues on how to proceed from here.
I'm late arriving because there's a crowd at the gym door, and they all want to wish me luck; even a couple of my teachers are waiting to get in. The air is charged with excitement and anticipation.
I scan the bleachers for signs of obnoxiousness, threatened earlier by my friends, and see Hannah, DJ, and Shelly bobbing up and down, arms stretched high, doing a three-person wave. My face relaxes into a smile.
I gather my teammates, put my hand in the middle of the circle, and say, "Go Demo-licious!" It's silly, but they look nervous, so I want to make sure they have fun and don't freak out. I'm the oldest so I feel responsible for them.
Two whole minutes pass before the audience settles down and finds their seats. Looks like three hundred people showed up—that's ten percent of the school! When it's finally quiet and Principal Simmons walks over to the mic, Hunter cups his hands over his mouth and yells, "Go Imogen!"
Laughter fills the gym, centered on Hunter and his lacrosse friends in the first row, rippling out from them to the farthest corners of the gym. I laugh and cover my mouth.
"That's my sister!" Hunter yells, standing up, pointing at me and egging on the crowd. "She'll kick your butt! She'll destroy you!"
My teammates all laugh now, too, looking happy and less nervous. I don't even mind that Hunter's stealing attention from my moment. He can't help it. The spotlight's usually fixed firmly on him. Besides, he's probably responsible for half the audience being there.
Principal Simmons clears his throat and says, "All right, Hunter, thank you for your enthusiasm. With your permission, I'd like to start by introducing Glenview Martial Arts's very own demo team, led by Imogen Malley."
I tap the remote to my iPod and the Kill Bill sound track rips out of the loudspeaker. Since I organized the rehearsals and it's my "territory" (like I'm a drug lord or something), Grandmaster Huan thought I should get a chance to choose the music.
I call "Charyot! Joon-bi," and my teammates and I snap our arms to our sides and bow. Then Thomas and I move out of the line. He's just a freshman, but he's already a dark blue belt and knows the demo cold. Our sneakers screech loudly against the gym floor. At the dojang we always practice barefoot, but the high school won't allow it for sanitation reasons. Our uniforms look wrong with sneakers, a too-stark combo of ancient and modern.
Grandmaster Huan always makes guys the attackers and girls the defenders, because it looks awful to see men punching and kicking women and heaving them to the ground, but it's funny and awesome to see the opposite. And Grandmaster Huan wants to prove that his classes teach the weak to defeat the strong, no matter how unlikely it seems at first.
Thomas swoops at me with a left hook and I glide to the side, blocking his punch, grabbing his wrist, and yanking him forward, off-balance. I'm practically behind him now, and I feign a sharp kick to the back of his knee. I can feel the crowd lean forward in their seats, impressed.
The two yellow belts—I forget their names 'cause they were added at the last minute—demonstrate a simple front snap-kick block and a drop-sweep of the leg.
We exchange discreet high fives as they return to ready position. Their faces are flushed and exhilarated.
Even though everything's a blur, I try to slow time down and acknowledge the moment and remember exactly how it feels.
Thomas flies at me with a right straight punch and an immediate left. I redirect his fist using a crescent kick—echo-SMACK—spin around, and finish with a right ax kick to his shoulder. He recovers, gripping my shirt at the collar of my stiff cotton uniform, and I jab his armpit with my fingertips, which seems like nothing but is actually one of the most painful things I know how to do, then nail his side with a roundhouse kick and throw him to the floor.
The crowd gasps, then applauds, so I run a few maneuvers like my favorite block, where I do a cross-step hop and stamp on Thomas's foot, pinning him in place so I can pretend-bash him in the nose with the back of my fist. We never actually hit each other in the face, not even in sparring class. It's a rule.
"Should we do the flip at the end?" I ask him as he moves into a solid front stance and positions two boards high with both hands.
"Only if you break these," he says, adding a third to the stack.
I smirk. Triple-boards is supposed to look badass, but it's not any harder than one or two if you're used to it.
I take a few steps back, pause, and count to three. I close my eyes and visualize kicking all the way through the boards. I can do this. I open my eyes, right at the crescendo of the Kill Bill music, and take a running start, springing into a jumping front snap-kick, and YES—all three boards are cracked in half, causing six pieces to fly through the air.
Thomas looks alarmed for a second (he's supposed to hold on to them), but the fact that the force of my kick basically exploded the boards is a plus in my mind.
The crowd goes nuts, stamping and cheering!
Thomas catches my eye and gives me a nod. We'll be doing the flip. A totally unnecessary maneuver that nevertheless manages to make us look like superheroes. He bends at the knee and lowers his back so it's straight but parallel to the floor. I leap toward him, spinning in the air so my back rolls over his. I feel our vertebrae skid lightly across each other's as the world goes sideways, and then I land on the gym floor in perfect splits.
Standing O!!! The crowd leaps to their feet. They love us forever; they'll follow us off cliffs!!! I've never had so many people cheering for me before—I mean, people who matter. Not mall moms or kids at fairs.
My ponytail's come loose and strands of hair tickle my face. I brush the strands away and soak up everyone's adoration. My black belt test was comparatively low-key, with few witnesses. This is what my black belt test should've been. A celebration. A crowd. Sweet acknowledgment from hundreds of my peers. I've earned this.
Someone from the yearbook's filming me with a minicamera so I can show the demo to Grandmaster Huan later. He'll be happy with the size of the crowd and their response.
But then Grant Binetti shouts from the third row, "Who cares if you can break a bunch of boards? Anyone can do that!"
"Shut up, Grant. Why are you even here?" someone shouts back.
He doesn't answer right away, until more people chime in. "I'm just saying, it's not hard. Breaking a board doesn't mean anything."
What a massive tool! "Do you want to try?" I yell back, rolling my eyes. "Why don't you give it a try?"
"Yeah!" more people yell, pushing and shoving Grant out of his seat.
"Whatever." He nearly trips on his way down the bleacher aisle steps, onto the gym floor. He picks up a broken piece of wood. "These aren't even thick," he says. "They're like plywood."
I grab a fresh board from the unused stack and hold it out for him. "Here. Give it a shot."
Grant winds up and slams his fist into the board.
Nothing. Not even a crack. He's doing it completely wrong, and it's hilarious. He shakes his hand out, clearly in pain but pretending it doesn't hurt.
Grant tries again. And again.
Hollow. Thuds.
Principal Simmons rushes over to put a stop to it, looking stunned. He places a hand on Grant's shoulder.
"Okay, Grant, take your seat."
The crowd's laughing and taunting him now. "You're such an idiot." "Sit down, loser."
Grant glares at me, shoves the boards at me, and storms out the gym doors, letting them slam shut behind him. Whatever.
Principal Simmons grabs the mic again. "Okay, that's enough for today, I think. Thank you to …" He consults his note card. "Glenview Martial Arts for that exciting show. The owner of Glenview Martial Arts, Grandmaster Huan, invites anyone who's interested to stop by his Tae Kwon Do studio for a free lesson and uniform." He consults another index card as I silently mouth along, "First month is only $24.95."
I open my gym bag, pull out a colorful stack of promotional flyers, and hold them up so everyone can see, and then I set them down on a table near the exit.
In a wave, people tumble off the bleachers and crash to the gym floor, coming toward us. Toward me. My friends can't even get to me. That's never happened before.
I don't know who to look at. People swarm me; everyone wants to say something to me, to exist to me, to get a moment or a smile or a nod or a "Thank you for coming" from me. Handshakes, back pats, a few hugs from people I don't even know.
"Imogen! Hey, Imogen!"
"That was amazing."
"Oh my God. I had no idea."
"Can you believe Grant? He's such an ass."
"How long did it take to get your black belt?"
"Does it hurt to do splits?"
"How much did you have to practice?"
"When did you start taking lessons?"
"Are your dates scared of you?"
"What dates?" I almost say, but don't. That would be a dork's answer. So instead I just laugh in a manner that could be considered "knowingly," like "How right you are," but don't actually answer. They'll supply a witty comment in their own heads. Because when you're suddenly popular, it doesn't matter what you're actually like. Everything you say and do is the most perfect thing to say and do in any given moment.
Is this what it feels like for Hunter after he leads his team to victory? It's addictive.
For a full week people stopped me to congratulate me, especially for what I did to Grant Binetti. He was always knocking into people—girls—in the hall, and last year he slammed his shoulder into Shelly, and she tripped and twisted her ankle. She had to sit out the spring dance recital—couldn't even be in the background—all because of him. It'd be like if I got demoted to white belt all of a sudden. I'd die of humiliation.
It wasn't just the best day of my life because of the crowd. It was the best day because of who was in the crowd. Shelly. Hannah. DJ. Hunter. All of us, friends.
And now, a month later, I'm not even sure who that girl was—that girl who stood up in front of her classmates and pretended to know how to fight.
I'm ripped out of my memories by the bell ringing. I haven't touched my lunch. I chuck it in the garbage on my way out the gym door.
The next couple nights I don't sleep. I just lie there staring at my now-empty walls, and then the sun comes up, and I realize I never drifted off, and now I have to go about my day, which is nothing more than a series of movements I make to fool people into leaving me alone. Mom has to come upstairs and drag me out of bed, as though I've slept, as though I've had some time off.
When I finally turn my cell back on, there's a text from Shelly, dated three days ago.
"Heard what happened. I'm here if U want 2 talk."
I should be relieved, but it feels wrong, somehow, to text back. Like it's unfair or against the rules to take advantage of this olive branch. If we're going to talk again, I want it to be because we're friends again, not because she pities me or feels obligated.
I read the text a million times until the words don't make sense, until they're just a bunch of unrelated letters and spaces that can't hurt me, and then I shut my phone off.
Friday night again. One week since the diner. One week since my heart transplant.
Hannah and DJ insist on taking me to the movies, as though I'd never snapped at them. Philip's coming, too. My parents think it's smart for me to get out of the house for a few hours and take my mind off things. Interesting that Mom didn't suggest I go to sparring; it's the second Friday in a row I've missed it. Does she know I can't possibly face anyone at Glenview Martial Arts? Is that why she wouldn't put me on the phone with Grandmaster Huan?
Hannah and I meet up at DJ's to help her get ready.
"Okay, this is how we'll play it," Hannah says, pacing around the room and slapping her hands together. "Imogen, you and I will get up right at the start of the last preview and act like we forgot to get a snack, and when we come back in, the theater'll be dark and we 'won't be able to find our seats'…"
"No, I don't want to be alone with Philip—the whole point is it's a casual group thing and not a real date," says DJ.
"That's just for your dad," Hannah says impatiently. "We don't actually have to do it that way. It just has to appear that way." She grins. "Do you want to get kissed or not?"
"Imo, hey, earth to Imo," DJ says, waving a manicured hand in my face.
"You okay?" says Hannah.
"Huh?"
"You've been spacing out. Philip's gonna be here any second, and we still haven't come up with a list of conversation topics."
"Are you sure you're up for this?" Hannah asks, sitting down next to me on the floor. "Do you want to stay in and rent something instead?"
DJ nods. "We could totally do that. Whatever you want."
They stare at me, all concerned, and I know if I said the word, they really would stay in. They're better than backup best friends; they're the real deal.
"It's fine," I say, striving for a cheery voice. "But Hannah, you should ditch the skirt and wear jeans like me, so Deej will stand out more in her dress, and Philip will think she looks extra-feminine."
"Brilliant!" says Hannah, immediately grabbing her pants, slipping them on under her skirt, and then shucking off the skirt.
"You're a genius," says DJ.
I can do this. One word at a time. It's not too hard, really. Acting normal.
I spend the entire movie feeling trapped because I'm in a middle seat instead of an aisle seat. How psychotic is that? It's a romantic comedy, and people behind me laugh a lot, so it must be wacky fun. I don't remember anything about the plot.
Outside, I gasp in lungfuls of cool air and wipe sweat off my neck. DJ and Philip are holding hands so I guess Hannah's ploy worked.
Grant Binetti and one of his jerk friends exit the theater at the same time. He catches me looking and snaps, "What?"
"Leave her alone," says Hannah, pulling me along. "Loser," she mutters under her breath.
Grant and his friend walk off, dropping their ticket stubs on the ground. They were at Legend of the Fist, a martial arts flick—probably the same one I would've chosen before the diner.
My friends and I zip up our coats and turn on our cell phones. I'm the only one whose phone beeps, indicating a text. I have to pass Shelly's message en route to retrieving the text.
"Hunter's closing at Dairy Delight and wants us to stop by," I report.
"Free cones?" says Philip way too ecstatically.
Behind his back, DJ gives me the "please, please?" puppy-dog eyes. Even though I'm not really in the mood for Dairy Delight aka Dairy Dump aka Hunter's Harem, this is all part of being normal, and I find myself agreeing.
As soon as we get there I regret it, because the place is packed.
The horrible thing in my chest that's not my heart starts thumping like crazy and rising up my throat, too big to fit inside me.
All Hunter's friends are there, the who's who of Glenview High, including Gretchen and everyone from the diner. Worse, they're standing on tables and clapping for me.
