“Does Sensei have a name?”
“She does. Jane.” Josh immediately pictured a tall, strong white woman in her forties, chiseled and hard and militant—a shredded Tilda Swinton. They went into the waiting room, which sported worn blue carpeting, a counter and a line of chairs. Windows showed the larger room with a padded floor, where classes were obviously taught. Freestanding punching bags, kicking shields and myriad other supplies stood neatly on the far side.
“Hello!” cried a woman. She was so tiny he hadn’t seen her behind the desk, and he jumped. She was white-haired—sixties? Seventies?—and wore a black uniform with a black belt around her plump waist. Japanese, with a slight accent. “You must be Joshua Park. Welcome! And hello, dear Sarah!” She stood up, not quite five feet tall, he guessed. Four foot ten and a half. Being an engineer made him good at estimating these things.
“Sensei, this is my friend, Josh. Josh, this is Sensei Jane Tanaka.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said, towering over her. Her hands were gnarled with arthritis, poor thing.
“Have you ever done martial arts before, Josh?”
“No, ma’am. I have a punching bag at home, but . . . no.”
“That’s okay! We are all beginners at some point. So! We’ll do a little karate together, and you can decide if you want to become a martial artist.”
It did sound cool. Joshua Park, martial artist.
“Sign this waiver, please. It says you won’t sue me if you get injured.”
Josh obeyed.
“Now. Come into the dojo. Take off your shoes, then bow to the flag”—a large American flag was tacked to one wall—“and bow to me, your sensei.”
He obeyed. The padded floor felt comfortable under his feet, and the room smelled not unpleasantly of sweat and bleach.
“What do you know about karate, Josh?”
“Very little,” he said. “It’s a Japanese martial art, thousands of years old.”
“That’s right. Great for exercise, self-defense, discipline. Now, stand here, left foot forward, hip distance apart, weight evenly balanced. Fists up, like so. This is fighting stance.”
He imitated her, already feeling like a badass. This was the same as boxing, which Ben had taught him so long ago.
“Wonderful,” she said, smiling. She looked like the epitome of a sweet grandmother. “Let’s do a little demonstration, okay?”
“Sure,” Josh said, smiling a little. It would be cute to watch her do some moves. He hoped she wouldn’t strain anything, or hurt her hands by breaking a board or whatever it was you did in karate class.
“Okay, Josh. Try to punch me in the face.”
Josh flinched. “Excuse me?”
“Punch me in the face.”
“No, thank you,” Josh said, glancing at Sarah, who had her phone out, filming.
“Joshua. I’m your sensei. I gave you an order.”
“I was not brought up to hit my elders.”
“And you shouldn’t, unless they tell you to. Come on. Try to hit me.”
Ben, even when he was teaching Josh to box, had never told Josh to punch him in the face.
“It’s okay, Josh,” Sarah said. “She does this to every new student.”
“I’m not going to punch her,” Josh said. “Sorry, Mrs. Tanaka.”
“Sensei. Okay, try to choke me, then,” she said.
“I really—”
“In this room, I am your sensei!” she barked. “You obey without question! Do it!”
Jesus. Josh frowned, then put out his hands to the air around her soft neck, not actually touching her.
“Is that the best you can do, pussy?” she asked.
“Wow. Yes. I’m not going to choke you, Mrs.—uh, Sensei.”
“Okay. Sorry, Joshua. I warned you.”
“Actually, you didn’t—”
And then he was lying on the floor, facedown, one arm twisted behind his back, smelling the mat, the sound of his body smacking the mat still ringing in the air.
What just happened?
Sensei Jane clapped her hands. “Get up! Now that you see I’m not a helpless little old lady, let’s try again. Punch me in the face.”
Josh got back up, assumed fighting stance again and hesitated.
“Do it,” she said.
“This is not what I had in—”
She kicked his leg out from under him, and he was sprawled on his back, Sensei standing over him, fist drawn. “Kee-ai!” she yelled, and punched. Josh flinched, but her little knobby fist stopped so close to his Adam’s apple that he could feel the heat of her hand. “A punch to the throat immobilizes the enemy and can even kill. Up you go, sweetheart. Ready to punch me in the face?”
He climbed to his feet. “I was hoping this would be more—”
She spun, one leg flying up, her foot hitting him squarely in the chest. He landed on his ass. Looked at her. Narrowed his eyes. “I’m ready to punch you now,” he said.
“Great! Give it your best shot!”
Josh stood up again and put his fists up.
“Hit me as hard as you can,” Jane said. “Right in the face. Aim for my nose.”
“Are you going to hurt me?” he asked. “More than you have already, that is?”
She laughed merrily. “Only a little.”
Okay, then. He pulled his fist back and let it fly, fully expecting her to dodge or block or something, but her eyes darted to the left, and at the last second, and in slow motion, and also at the speed of light, his fist hit her squarely in the face. He felt a hideous crunch, and Sensei Jane’s head jerked back.
“Josh! Jesus! What did you do?” Sarah yelled, and suddenly, there were all these little kids dressed in white, and they were swarming him, and kicking him, and there was a lot of yelling of “Ha! Ha!” and their little fists were sharp, even if they couldn’t reach past his waist.
“You hit our sensei! We hate you! We hate you! Kee-ai!”
“Stop it,” he said, but the tiny warrior beasts had grabbed onto his belt and pulled him down to his knees and were now kicking the shit out of him with their tiny bare feet.
“Sarah!” he said, covering his face.
“Attention!” yelled Jane, and suddenly, the kids formed two rows and stood there like little soldiers. Her face was bloody, and Josh stood up, feeling like the world’s worst human.