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  “I know. Why? You gettin’ scared … buc, buc, buc, buc, buc, buquaaaak.”

  Naz laughed as he walked past Harvis to the middle of the floor, put in his mouth guard, and prepared to engage. “I ain’t scared of nothin’.” Naz sensed something, danger it felt like—but how can that be … here in the General’s house? “You of all people—” Before Naz could finish, he was driven to and across the floor by a forceful kick in the butt from Harvis. “—should know that,” Naz finished face down, flat on the soft floor. He rolled over casually on an elbow and faced Harvis with a smile.

  “Never turn your back on your opponent,” said Harvis as he stood in a fighting stance poised to strike again.

  “Oh … so now you’re gonna cheat, huh?”

  “Not cheating … I told you I was gonna kick your butt.”

  “You did.” Naz got up slowly, acknowledging his carelessness with a nod. He approached Harvis cautiously, his palms out in a position of surrender and goodwill.

  When Naz was about four feet away, he stood up straight then gave a trusting bow of respect. Harvis bowed in return, taking his eyes off Naz for only a second. The second was all Naz needed. Harvis tried to reset himself, but it was too late. He had left his guard down. Naz took playful revenge by quickly dropping down to a three-point stance, and in one motion, taking Harvis off his feet with an Iron Broom leg sweep before Harvis could counter or defend himself. Harvis crashed to the soft floor with a muffled thud, while Naz sprung back up like a cat and danced around Harvis, amused.

  “Now … we’re even.” Naz laughed.

  Harvis got up slowly, flexed his head side to side then smiled. “OK, let’s go … Tin Man,” he said as he put up his hands and bounced rhythmically on his toes.

  They watched and circled each other cautiously at first, neither wanting to initiate the next move.

  “So,” said Naz. “What’s the plan?”

  Harvis’ answer came in the form of seven rapid punches and hand techniques. Prepared with sheer speed and movement alone, Naz evaded all of them with ease, never having to block one punch. They continued to circle each other.

  “It’s simple,” Harvis finally answered. “We grab the first nerd that comes by our locker and tell him to give up his lunch money.”

  Just as Harvis finished, Naz feigned a snap kick to his kneecap followed by a side kick to the solar plexus, a back fist to the bridge of the nose, and he closed out with a straight punch to the ribs. Harvis ignored the snap kick and nonchalantly blocked everything else. Naz finished the combination by resorting to his tried and true, Iron Broom leg sweep, and Harvis jumped high in the air to avoid the technique as if he knew it was coming. Harvis threw a spinning hook kick on the way down, which Naz narrowly evaded. Naz jumped up, Harvis landed, and they continued their circle-dance in the opposite direction.

  “I don’t know; it sounds kinda forced … made up. You think it’ll work?” Naz asked.

  “Better than that tired Iron Broom leg sweep you’ve been using for years … look, International Academy, like everybody else, has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to bullying, only they enforce it, so all we have to do is our job, and the school will have to do theirs.”

  Naz felt like he was whining but had to ask. “What about the General … and Dr. Gwen?”

  “A Young man must be prepared to suffer the consequences of his actions. I am such a Young man. Are you?”

  Naz lunged forward with a lightning quick, vicious hook kick that landed flush on the side of Harvis’ head. It was times like these that Naz was grateful for the General’s unwavering rule that they wear full fighting gear at all times while sparring as a broken jaw would’ve most assuredly been the result. “What do you think?” Naz asked as he danced away with an air of supreme confidence.

  Harvis nodded as if to acknowledge both Naz’s scored hit on the side of his headgear and the acceptance of Naz’s answer to his rhetorical question.

  Naz had done and seen enough things, terrible things in the last year of his life, so much so that there were very few things in the world he feared. But he still had a problem when someone else was involved—involved in my mess. Maybe I have what D called a “hero complex.” He shrugged it off. Harvis had been a great friend to Naz, the very best. During his darkest times, Harvis was there, every time, as a lone beacon of light to stop Naz from going down—going under for good. I owe him much. Naz would hate for Harvis to get in trouble on his account. But something told Naz that Harvis felt as strongly as he did about their mission, and Harvis’ conviction had nothing to do with him which allowed Naz to forge ahead on his present path. Naz decided to change the subject.

  “What are we gonna do about Soul?” he asked.

  “What are you gonna do about D?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you called her? Have you even texted her?”

  “No, but she hasn’t called or texted me either.”

  “Remind me again, how old are you … ten?

  “Whatever,” said Naz as he attacked with the same lunge kick as before, aiming at the same target and missing by a country mile.

  “You know what they say about pride?” Harvis hit Naz with a harmless jab to the forehead as Naz flew by during his second telegraphed lunge kick.

  “Enlighten me,” Naz challenged.

  “It’s one of the seven deadly sins. King Solomon wrote in Proverbs that the Lord hates a proud look.”

  “Thanks, mom. Is Sunday school over now?”

  “You, are hopeless … heathen.”

  “Clearly, now what are we gonna do about Soul?”

  “You should be more worried about me right now.” Harvis blitzed Naz with a barrage of techniques from every angle. Naz was able to fend off Harvis effectively until Harvis switched styles.

  Harvis had been studying martial arts for more than ten years now, since before he turned four years old. The General believed that learning one style or discipline was limiting, and it was not possible to master any concept in life, so when Harvis reached the level of second-degree black belt in one style, per the General’s orders, he moved on to a new style. He started out studying Okinawan Isshinryu Karate until he was eight at which time he switched to American Freestyle: a form of Taekwondo. For the last two years, it had been Wing Chun.

  Harvis had told Naz several times how he hated studying martial arts up until five years ago, and every time he told Naz, he gave him a funny look, as if he was waiting for some type of response. Naz always responded the same way, with “what?” Harvis confided in Naz that something happened five years ago that changed his life forever, but he wouldn’t ever tell Naz what it was. Harvis said when he started studying Wing Chun, he became dedicated because Bruce Lee studied Wing Chun and next to Superman, Bruce Lee was Harvis’ biggest hero. Superman not being real made Bruce Lee number one in both their books.

  Naz wasn’t sure what style of martial arts he had studied or for how long. He only knew that he had and for long enough to compete with Harvis. Harvis thought he might know the style but wasn’t telling. Harvis felt it gave him an advantage—He’s probably right. Naz took a back-fist to the nose, which caused his eyes to water slightly.

  This blitzing and style-switching type of attack was when Harvis usually got the best of Naz, and even though Naz knew it was coming, he was still unable to make the necessary adjustments to keep Harvis off of him. Today Harvis managed to back Naz into a corner with a barrage of what Naz liked to call ‘Chinese Connection’ kicks. It was from a Bruce Lee movie of the same title where Lee launched eight rapid-fire spinning hook kicks at rival students, dispatching every one of them in the process. The only difference here was it was just Naz.

  In desperation, Naz managed to block one of his spinning kicks with a kick of his own, which Naz beamed at in his mind with pride. The block ended Harvis’ prolonged attack and took him off balance, but Harvis managed to unleash one last vicious right cross. Naz’s instincts took over, and he moved his head
just enough to avoid the punch and simultaneously grab Harvis’ fist. Naz immediately hooked Harvis’ arm with his own then quickly maneuvered behind Harvis to lock his other arm behind his head in a half nelson.

  Although Naz had the upper hand for the moment, he had put himself in somewhat of a predicament. Harvis and Naz were the same height and build, but Harvis was stronger as a result of his morning and evening pushup regimen, not to mention Harvis outweighed Naz by ten pounds and also excelled in wrestling. At that moment Naz had a vision, a flash in his mind, more than a déjà vu this time. He had been here before in this position with Harvis, in the same place but another time. He shook the thought from his head when he felt Harvis beginning to break his grip. Naz attempted to distract Harvis with some macho repartee—I hate macho repartee.

  “Say ‘uncle.’” Naz struggled.

  “Really?!” Harvis scoffed.

  Now was probably a good time for Naz to let Harvis go and count his losses, but before he could, Harvis took one powerful step back and quickly dropped to the floor. The move sent Naz flying over Harvis’ head where he landed flat on his behind. Naz flipped over and tried to get up, but Harvis pounced on him before he could make it to his feet. He twisted Naz’s arm behind his back and fed him his own words.

  “What was that, ‘uncle?’” Harvis laughed.

  “Uncle!” Naz moaned.

  “Not good enough.”

  “What?”

  “Now what’s the problem … why are you here so early?”

  “I don’t get it!”

  “Why are you here so early, today?” Harvis repeated, louder this time.

  “Because I couldn’t sleep … I told you that,” Naz said, trying to act as if he were not in pain.

  “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

  “Because I had a dream … a lucid dream, and you, Soul and Coach were in it, and Meri, too.”

  “That’s every night! What else?” Harvis continued to put pressure on Naz’s arm, twisting it to its limit.

  “Meri told me she was disappointed in me because I’m weak, and I need to stop feeling sorry for myself.”

  “All true … what else?”

  “She told me that I needed to practice … every day.”

  “It’s just a dream, Naz … the same old dream.”

  “I don’t think it is,” Naz struggled to say. “Later when I was completely awake in the bathroom practicing, I heard Meri’s voice again say ‘good’ and then I heard her laugh.”

  Harvis scoffed and shook his head. “You need to get it through your head; Meri’s gone now, gone for good, gone forever.”

  Naz had said almost these exact words to himself that morning when he woke up and many times before, but hearing them uttered out loud with such an air of disregard set him off in the worst possible way.

  Naz wrapped his leg around Harvis’ leg and locked it, which caused Harvis to loosen his grip on Naz’s arm. Naz took advantage of this lapse, snatched his arm away and elbowed Harvis in the side. Naz rolled away and sprang to his feet. He waited until Harvis recovered because something had awakened inside. Harvis seemed to realize this as well, and it excited him.

  “Now that’s more like it,” said Harvis with a spark in his eye.

  Harvis came at Naz relentlessly with everything he had, switching back and forth between styles again. But it was useless. Naz could see every technique, every punch and kick before Harvis could execute it, and it was as if Harvis had slowed down—or maybe I’ve sped up. In any case, Naz blocked or evaded everything Harvis had to offer with ease. This exchange went on for more than a minute non-stop with Harvis growing ever more determined to score against Naz’s now impenetrable defense.

  Harvis’ offense acted as a serviceable defense, but Naz still scored almost at will, sometimes just missing on purpose and with a maniacal smile to inflame the usually unemotional Wordsmith all the more. As Harvis ratcheted up, Naz matched his intensity, and soon sweat fell to the floor in droplets, their breathing labored but neither willing to let up. These were the times Naz got the best of Harvis because he went to a level that wasn’t always attainable, and Harvis seemed to relish the challenge. Their furious exchange found them both on the floor again, legs tangled, blood trickling from Harvis’ nose and mouth.

  As they grappled, another presence observed. Harvis Young senior, the General, stood in full uniform dress blues, double rows of silver buttons going down the chest with decorations on the right side, a formal military hat in hand, shoes polished to the point of having the appearance of glass, and those three stars on his shoulders that called Naz to immediate action and attention.

  “Sir!” Naz said in a formal tone. He jumped up quickly, stood at attention, and saluted with his right index finger at his brow, his hand at a slight angle, just the way Harvis had shown him.

  “Morning, Dad,” said Harvis as he got up a second later with much less urgency than Naz. He saluted almost as an afterthought.

  With his free hand, Harvis casually wiped the blood away from his face.

  The General switched his hat to his left hand then saluted the two boys. Naz breathed a sigh of relief and only then lowered his salute.

  “Good morning, Son,” said the General in a much less formal tone than Naz had expected. He looked at his watch. “I calculate if you terminate these exercises now, you’ll have time to get cleaned up and arrive at school with fifteen minutes to spare.”

  There it was. That official tone Naz had grown to know, respect, and fear. Harvis seemed less intimidated by the General’s presence, almost bored.

  “Just finishing up.” Harvis took off his headgear.

  The General turned his attention to Naz, which caused Naz to straighten up again and steel himself for what the General might say. “And you need a haircut, young man,” he said and walked away.

  When they were sure the General was no longer in earshot, Naz and Harvis gave each other a playful, terrified look then erupted in laughter. Then, as if something he missed came to mind, Harvis’ mood changed abruptly to solemn.

  “Sorry about before, what I said about Meri,” said Harvis.

  Naz was a bit embarrassed because he knew Harvis was only being honest, something he couldn’t help. Naz valued that quality in Harvis—besides, for the most part … he’s right. “Forget about it.” Naz shrugged, and he hoped that Harvis would. But there was one more thing Naz had been dying to tell Harvis—anybody, really. “But there’s more to it, Wordsmith … something else.”

  “What?”

  “I think my dad’s still alive.”

  The General is right as usual—the large clock kept watch just down from their locker.

  Harvis looked up at the same time and as if to almost read Naz’s mind commented sarcastically, “He was wrong, it’s sixteen minutes before the bell rings.”

  Naz reminded Harvis of something he was sure Harvis already knew. “Remember, on time is late for the General, one minute early is on time, that makes his—”

  “His calculations right … as usual. I know the math. Doesn’t it bother you though … that he’s always right?”

  “Not really … gets us to school on time.”

  “That’s ’cause you don’t have to deal with it all the time.”

  “Yeah, I do, ’cause you’re the same … always right.” Naz meant it as a compliment, but he could tell Harvis took slight offense.

  “Let’s hope my calculations are dead on today,” said Harvis.

  Naz nodded and closed their locker.

  They headed off in different directions down the hallways of International Academy. As Naz made his way to Freshman English Literature class, he took note of his surroundings—this may be the last day I walk these halls. There was no trash in the hallways to consider picking up or graffiti on the walls or lockers to decipher. The smell of narcotics or use of gratuitous profanity was absent, and there was no need for a hall monitor, much less a security guard to keep the peace. Was he making a mistake? Why am I tryin
g to get back there?

  The truth was, he could never be happy, never be satisfied not knowing the truth behind Meri’s murder, a murder that was meant for him. As hard as he tried last winter and spring he had come up with nothing—well there was something: pain. But he had made a promise to Meri and himself that he would find out the truth if it were the last thing he ever did. Dr. Gwen would have to understand.

  Naz walked into his first-hour class with time to spare. The students had a substitute teacher today, but the mood of the class hadn’t changed much, which surprised him. They hadn’t had a sub since he came to International Academy. Last year, at Lincoln, a sub meant free-time, chaos, and almost always a fight. There was none of that at International Academy, and the students went on as if the short, silver-haired, old lady in front of them were their regular teacher.

  Today they were watching a screen adaptation of Othello. Although Naz didn’t see himself as a fan of the classics, Othello seemed somehow familiar to him. As a matter of fact, he knew it well and could even recite some of the lines as the actors said them. For some reason, the tragedy spoke to him today, and the spectacle absorbed him. Some of the characters became the characters in his life with Othello as himself and Cassio, Othello’s faithful lieutenant, as Harvis. Fittingly like D, the beautiful Desdemona was both pure and meek and at the same time, direct, determined, and self-possessed.

  He thought back to the conversation he had with D after their first and only date in the Lincoln Middle School auditorium, a debate really, about the merits of being a hero.

  Then there was Iago, Othello’s standard-bearer. Like Ham, there was no rhyme or reason to his betrayal and treachery. Naz continued to be consumed by the emotion of Othello and the rest of the cast but hoped his story would have a better ending when all was said and done.

  Were I the Moor I would not be Iago—“In following him,” Naz murmured. “I follow but myself; heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, but seeming so for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate the native act and figure of my heart in compliment extern, ‘tis not long after but I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at. I am not what I am.”