Words With Fiends by Ali Brandon Page A

he shot Darla a frantic look that said,
Dude, back me up here!
    Though fleetingly tempted to indulge in a bit of payback, Darla’s sense of fair play kicked in. “It was my fault, Sensei,” she agreed. “I let myself be distracted and forgot to block him.”
    â€œThat doesn’t matter,” was his stern reply. Turning to the teen, he went on, “Chris, you’re the senior-ranking student. You should have been able to avoid hitting her. Now, go to the back of the room and do push-ups until the rest of the students finish the drill.”
    â€œYes, Master Tomlinson.”
    His tone sullen, the youth made his bow to the sensei. Then, with a resentful glare in Darla’s direction, he stomped off to the far corner. Feeling guilty now, Darla opened her mouth to protest what she considered to be an unfair punishment. Just in time, however, she glimpsed Robert standing behind the instructor and anxiously pantomiming lips being zipped. She prudently shut her mouth again. She might be boss of her bookstore, she reminded herself, but the sensei was boss of his dojo. How he ran it was his business.
    Tomlinson’s stern visage relaxed into amusement, and Darla realized in embarrassment that the man had probably seen Robert’s performance reflected in the mirror behind her. All he said, however, was, “Since you lost your partner, you can finish the drill with me.”
    For the next few minutes, she practiced blocking techniques with him, silently marveling at the difference between working with him and working with Chris. She’d often heard her father quote the old saw about old age and treachery overcoming youth and skill. Here was an actual example of the concept . . . at least, the old age part of it. Compared with Chris’s flashy if uncontrolled athleticism, the aging sensei seemed slow and out of shape. But Darla swiftly found that appearances were deceiving.
    Despite his gouty legs and arthritic hands, Tomlinson was able to move effortlessly from her path at every attack and defend against her fledgling efforts with a silent economy of motion that came only from a lifetime of dedicated practice. Forget the wild flying through the air and punching through boards, Darla thought in awe. This was the real deal. In fact, she suspected that even his stepsons would be hard-pressed to best him in a fair fight . . . six-pack abs and impressive guns notwithstanding.
    With a final “good job” for Darla, Tomlinson called a halt to the drill. Hank and Hal, who’d been assisting some of the other students, sauntered back up to the front of the training area.
    â€œAll right, people, line up,” Hal called again.
    Chris, who’d been gamely carrying out his punishment in the corner, rushed to claim his spot at the front of the class. Sweat now drenched the Bieber bangs, but from the sour look he shot in her direction, Darla could see that enforced exercise had done nothing to quench his resentment. A glance toward the sidelines convinced her that, unless someone had installed twin lasers in the waiting area, Grace Valentine was equally peeved at her.
    Maybe she’d take a rain check on watching the sparring class, after all. The last thing she wanted to do was sit beside Chris’s mother for the next hour while the woman chewed off her red lipstick and stared holes in her.
    After a quick cool down and a moment of meditation, Hal dismissed the class. Darla and Robert bowed their way off the mat to find Master Tomlinson waiting for them.
    â€œSo, are you two looking forward to your belt test?” the sensei asked with a smile.
    Robert’s nod was eager. “I practice, like, every night at home. I know I can ace the test. I just wish we didn’t have to wait until next month.”
    â€œMaybe you don’t have to wait.” When Darla and Robert gave him a quizzical look, the man said, “I have to be here at the dojo on Sunday