Zen and Xander Undone by Amy Kathleen Ryan

is in the second floor of an office building. It shares a space with a dance studio, so there are mirrors covering the walls, and wooden rails for people to hold while they stretch. I inhale the smell of our dojo deep into me. It’s a musty smell, like old paper, but I love it anyway.
    The first thing I notice is that the mats aren’t set up on the floor yet, so I guess I won’t be able to stretch at all. I pull them off the pile and start dragging them into place. They’re superheavy, and I feel the sore muscle in my back give way. My back hasn’t really felt right since the night I kicked Frank in the head. It was still totally worth it.
    Mark comes out of his office. “Zen!” He bows, and I bow. My back complains. I better take a time out and stretch no matter what. “What’s the good news?”
    â€œMy belt smells like onions. What’s news with yous?”
    â€œMy belt smells like rancid turtle effluence.” Mark’s son has a turtle who throws up a lot. Turtles are very sensitive pets, apparently.
    â€œInteresting,” I say, like I really mean it. “I’ve never smelled that. What’s it like?”
    â€œIt smells a lot like rancid gecko effluence.”
    â€œYou guys should get a dog.”
    â€œOh yeah? Dog barf smells better?”
    â€œOh. Much,” I say, and roll my eyes. I consider telling him about how I kicked Frank in the head, but I think better of it. Mark might lecture me about the responsible use of my skills. “What’s on the program today?”
    â€œEscape from bear hug,” he says with real enthusiasm. “Ready to get thrown to the floor eleven times?”
    â€œOnly eleven?”
    As instructors, we have to let the kids practice the moves on us before we let them loose on one another. It’s the only way to make sure things stay safe. Mark does half the class and I do the other half.
    The first student comes in—Lacy Jackson, a tiny fifth-grader who wears glasses and has an evil overbite. She folds her hands and bows deeply in front of me. I bow at her, and she goes and sits down, her legs tucked primly under her the way we’ve taught them.
    â€œLacy Jackson!” Mark yells, startling her. “You win the prize for arriving first! You get to pick out our warm-up routine!”
    â€œThe swan!” she squeaks. The kids don’t know that the warm-ups have all the same moves, we just mix up the order and give them different animal names.
    â€œThe swan it is!” Mark yells, and then he does a headstand to make her laugh.
    Mark loves, and I mean
loves
teaching shotokan, but then again he seems to love everything he does. When I hear the words
good attitude,
I think of Mark. He’s supershort, and he has a wide nose that’s so turned up, it makes him look a little like an anteater. His weird nose didn’t stop him from getting a great wife, though, and she’s just as happy as he is. So are their two toddlers.
    It’s nice to be around such happy people. That’s probably why I’ve kept coming for so long, even when Mom was sick. It really helped, getting a break from watching Mom’s body fall apart. When the doctors finally told us there was nothing more they could do and I thought my world was ending, Mark hired me as his assistant. He said there really wasn’t anything more he could teach me. So I got my black belt, and now I’m teaching. Sometimes when I’m here I think I’m almost as happy as Mark is. That is, when I’m not thinking of Mom.
    Mark and I arrange the mats on the floor as the kids trickle in. Today we’re teaching a bunch of fifth-graders, which is my favorite age because they’re finally big enough to start doing some real shotokan without risk of injury.
    â€œHai!” Mark yells at them to start class, and he bows.
    â€œHai!” all the kids say as they bow back.
    We go through the motions of the swan, which