Words With Fiends by Ali Brandon Read Free Book Online

of Woodstock. He’d been rugged-looking rather than movie star handsome in his prime, his six-foot-tall frame straight and well-muscled, but what Darla found most attractive about him was his grin, which was toothy, and filled with welcoming good humor.
    Some snapshots were of him alone, and others taken with martial arts pioneers whose names she’d looked up in a reference book she had at the shop. Probably her favorite memorabilia were a dozen framed martial arts magazine covers that featured Tomlinson as the cover model kicking and jumping and punching along with such corny headlines as,
Learn to Knock Out Bad Sparring Habits
.
    Of course, these days the sixty-something sensei didn’t look much like the virile man in the photos. He’d packed on a good fifty pounds over the years, primarily to his belly. His once dark hair was mostly gray now, and thinning, cut shorter though combed back rakishly and held in place with a strip of black cloth. The toothy grin was a bit yellowed with age, combining with the rest to give him an unremarkable appearance. But anyone doubting his rank had only to look at the faded black belt, embroidered with five red stripes and a tiny red dragon, that tied his black gi jacket.
    â€œDo you think Roma will be here tonight?” Robert asked as they slipped past the archway. “I wanted to, you know, see her for a few minutes before class started.”
    Darla gave him an indulgent smile. “She’s usually here on Fridays. If she is, she’s probably at the front of the class with Master Tomlinson. Come on, let’s get dressed while the kids’ class is finishing up, and then you can go look for her.”
    They swiftly changed into their uniforms and then joined the parents watching from behind the windowed panel, rather like a section of office cubicle wall, which ran along one side of the training area. On the other side, the entire floor was covered by a series of thick red mats, while both front and back walls were covered by mirrors. At first glance, the room reminded Darla of a gymnasium or dance studio, but a closer look revealed American and Japanese flags gracing one side wall, the dojo’s traditional altar with its reclining Buddha and a single flower in the front corner, and in the rear corner, a trio of man-shaped kicking dummies—upper torso only—awaiting their nightly punishment.
    At that moment, twenty miniature would-be warriors—both boys and girls—were punching and kicking their way through a kata, which Darla had learned at her first class was the Japanese term for the choreographed forms they performed. Most of the kids already had moved up the ranks to yellow, orange, or even green or blue belt.
    Darla self-consciously tightened the knot on her beginner’s white belt. Made of heavy cotton material that had been parallel stitched to hold its shape, the belt was long enough to wrap twice about her waist and still leave long floppy ends hanging even after it had been knotted. Here was one place where being an adult didn’t automatically confer status, she wryly reminded herself. And she hadn’t yet gotten used to the idea of bowing to someone twenty years her junior just because they were a black belt.
    Robert, however, had something other than rank on his mind. As the kids’class finished the drill and settled on the floor in a kneeling position for a moment of silence, he gave Darla a nudge with his elbow and stage whispered, “You were right. Look, she’s here.”
    Darla smiled as she followed his glance through the glass to see Roma sitting daintily at the front of the class next to Master Tomlinson. Seeing Robert, she cocked her head in their direction and flashed bright brown eyes at him. Apparently, the admiration was mutual.
    â€œShe’s like, so sick,” Robert whispered, a bit of teen-speak that Darla mentally translated as
really cool
. “I wish I could take her home with