lady protecting? What was the beeping? One thing I’m certain of is this place is full of secrets. Intrigued, I make a silent plan to explore more if given the opportunity. For now though, I have to focus on the upcoming tasks.
♦
I thought the second and third tasks were jokes. Apparently, they weren’t. My performance was. The second task, PK Party, named for a fad created in the eighties, was administered by James, the tallest scientist I’ve ever met. His curly brown hair piled high atop his head overshadowed his prominent canine teeth. He thought it was fascinating that in the eighties people would have parties where they tried to “awaken” their abilities to manipulate metal. The people of this generation sounded dumb and lame, but no one asked me. Since bending metal was apparently quite advanced as far as telekinesis went, we were asked to move a nutshell. He called us into a room individually and placed a single peanut shell at the far end of a table. With all our mental strength we were expected to move the casing. My nutshell sat quite still for a good two minutes. I was then dismissed.
After eating a sack lunch in a remote hallway I head to the third task. The gymnasium is filled with multiple athletic stations. I should have turned around immediately. During P.E., I spent many solitary hours hanging out on bleachers. My gym coaches had given up on trying to force me to play volleyball or walk around the track. But now in this strange metal box of a compound, I’ll be forced to perform endurance and strength tests in front of a bunch of strangers.
We’re issued a pair of shorts and T-shirt. I’d decline, but I’m afraid I might sweat in my only set of clothes. Once I change, I line up in front of one of four stations. I’m to perform at each one of them in rotation.
The only thing that makes me feel any better is that most of the other kids are really quite wimpy too. Most everyone in my line can hardly do more than one pull-up. There are a couple of kids who perform fine, but the rest of us are beet red and exhausted by the end of it.
“Why is this even a task?” the girl named Samara says between gasps for breath.
I shrug, guessing she’s probably talking to me.
“I can’t even lift that bar by itself,” she half laughs, “and the guy asked me how much weight I wanted to add to it.”
I suppress a snicker. I’d been in the same predicament.
The next task is kung fu. I shockingly find myself excited. The room for this task is large, with a cushioned floor. Mirrors line one wall. We’re asked to file into four lines. At the front of each line is a person wearing a long-sleeved white top and black pants. One by one we’re called from our line and asked to block assaults.
I don’t know what to expect when I step in front of the man in the white suit. He bows and then begins throwing punches at me. It all happens too fast. I find the man’s attacks to be obtrusive. Invasive. They strike me, not hard, but in a manner that suggests they can. With every part of my being I try to deflect the assaults but each time one comes at me I miss it. My arms move aimlessly around as I just hope by luck I’ll block something. Completely out of breath after only thirty seconds of this, I ask him to stop and give me a minute.
I take this time to gather myself. Everyone stares. I do my best to block them out and focus the way Bruce Lee suggested. After I catch my breath, I open my eyes with a renewed energy. It courses through me like blood in my veins, like the DNA in my being. I step back up and beckon the man forward.
This time things are different. I see the man’s hands before they move. I sense them seconds before they push the air in front of me. Allowing my mind to follow this blueprint I throw block after block, always in perfect timing. Again my reflexes are heightened. The man raises an eyebrow at me after I block three rapid attempts. Then he straightens and dismisses me with a
♦
I thought the second and third tasks were jokes. Apparently, they weren’t. My performance was. The second task, PK Party, named for a fad created in the eighties, was administered by James, the tallest scientist I’ve ever met. His curly brown hair piled high atop his head overshadowed his prominent canine teeth. He thought it was fascinating that in the eighties people would have parties where they tried to “awaken” their abilities to manipulate metal. The people of this generation sounded dumb and lame, but no one asked me. Since bending metal was apparently quite advanced as far as telekinesis went, we were asked to move a nutshell. He called us into a room individually and placed a single peanut shell at the far end of a table. With all our mental strength we were expected to move the casing. My nutshell sat quite still for a good two minutes. I was then dismissed.
After eating a sack lunch in a remote hallway I head to the third task. The gymnasium is filled with multiple athletic stations. I should have turned around immediately. During P.E., I spent many solitary hours hanging out on bleachers. My gym coaches had given up on trying to force me to play volleyball or walk around the track. But now in this strange metal box of a compound, I’ll be forced to perform endurance and strength tests in front of a bunch of strangers.
We’re issued a pair of shorts and T-shirt. I’d decline, but I’m afraid I might sweat in my only set of clothes. Once I change, I line up in front of one of four stations. I’m to perform at each one of them in rotation.
The only thing that makes me feel any better is that most of the other kids are really quite wimpy too. Most everyone in my line can hardly do more than one pull-up. There are a couple of kids who perform fine, but the rest of us are beet red and exhausted by the end of it.
“Why is this even a task?” the girl named Samara says between gasps for breath.
I shrug, guessing she’s probably talking to me.
“I can’t even lift that bar by itself,” she half laughs, “and the guy asked me how much weight I wanted to add to it.”
I suppress a snicker. I’d been in the same predicament.
The next task is kung fu. I shockingly find myself excited. The room for this task is large, with a cushioned floor. Mirrors line one wall. We’re asked to file into four lines. At the front of each line is a person wearing a long-sleeved white top and black pants. One by one we’re called from our line and asked to block assaults.
I don’t know what to expect when I step in front of the man in the white suit. He bows and then begins throwing punches at me. It all happens too fast. I find the man’s attacks to be obtrusive. Invasive. They strike me, not hard, but in a manner that suggests they can. With every part of my being I try to deflect the assaults but each time one comes at me I miss it. My arms move aimlessly around as I just hope by luck I’ll block something. Completely out of breath after only thirty seconds of this, I ask him to stop and give me a minute.
I take this time to gather myself. Everyone stares. I do my best to block them out and focus the way Bruce Lee suggested. After I catch my breath, I open my eyes with a renewed energy. It courses through me like blood in my veins, like the DNA in my being. I step back up and beckon the man forward.
This time things are different. I see the man’s hands before they move. I sense them seconds before they push the air in front of me. Allowing my mind to follow this blueprint I throw block after block, always in perfect timing. Again my reflexes are heightened. The man raises an eyebrow at me after I block three rapid attempts. Then he straightens and dismisses me with a
Similar Books
