I smiled.
“Enough.”
“No, seriously.”
“So am I.”
He laughed awkwardly.
Then:
“Could you have hurt me?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly.
His smile disappeared.
“How bad?”
“That isn't useful.”
“Why?”
“Because then you turn the story back into power.”
He frowned.
I continued.
“You're still asking the wrong question.”
Jake waited.
“The important thing isn't what I could have done.”
“It's what you chose to do before you knew I could answer.”
He nodded slowly.
Then:
“Master Kim says I have to help with the beginner class.”
I smiled.
“Cruel man.”
Jake laughed.
“He said you teach here sometimes.”
“Rarely.”
“Could you teach me?”
“No.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you don't need another person teaching you how to fight.”
He looked disappointed.
I continued.
“You need practice not fighting.”
“How do you practice that?”
“Show up Saturday.”
Saturday morning, Jake arrived at eight.
I gave him a broom.
He stared.
“What is this?”
“A broom.”
“I know that.”
“Good start.”
“You said we were training.”
“We are.”
“For two hours, he swept the gym.”
Then stacked chairs.
Then helped a seventy-eight-year-old tai chi instructor carry equipment from her car.
Then held pads for a group of eight-year-olds.
One little boy kicked him directly in the shin.
Jake nearly cursed.
I stared.
He swallowed it.
Progress.
At noon he walked over.
“So when do we fight?”
“We don't.”
“What?”
“You asked me to teach you.”
“This isn't martial arts.”
“Everything is martial arts if your ego is irritating enough.”
He stared.
Then laughed.
He came back the following week.
And the week after.
Daniel lifted his suspension after six weeks.
But Jake kept coming to the community center.
Not because I turned him into some perfect young man.
I didn't.
He still bragged.
Still got impatient.
Still liked attention.
People don't transform because of one dramatic afternoon.
They improve by making different decisions repeatedly.
Sometimes they fail.
Sometimes they don't.
Jake began helping with our senior mobility class.
That was poetic enough to make me suspicious of the universe.
One afternoon I saw him walking beside an eighty-one-year-old man named Frank who used a walker.
Frank moved slowly.
Very slowly.
Jake stayed beside him.
No irritation.
No jokes.
At the doorway, Frank's walker caught on the threshold.
Jake reached down.
Then stopped.
He asked:
“Want help?”
Frank looked at him.
“Yes.”
Jake lifted the front wheels gently.
I smiled.
He had learned to ask.
Months later, Riverdale held another martial arts festival.
I considered staying home.
Margaret insisted I go.
“Why?”
“I want kettle corn.”
“That's your reason?”
“Yes.”
We arrived together.
I had my cane.
Jake was performing in the afternoon demonstration.
When he saw me, he walked over.
He looked at Margaret.
“You must be Mrs. Carter.”
She stared.
“You're the idiot?”
Jake froze.
I nearly choked.
Margaret smiled.
“Relax. Henry told me you're improving.”
Jake laughed nervously.
“Trying.”