Brendan Buckley's Sixth-Grade Experiment (13 page)

Over the last month, my practice had been slipping. Between having a heavier load of homework, taking care
of Einstein, and doing extra chores around the house to earn more allowance for my new bike, I didn't have nearly as much free time as I'd had in elementary school. On top of that, for the last week and a half, Morgan's and my experiment had been in my usual practice space. I couldn't practice in that heat. And the odor, although not totally gagging, didn't exactly make me want to hang out there any longer than I had to. I went in there twice a day for the measurements and got out as fast as I could (without jeopardizing the accuracy of the data, of course).

Then there was the fact that Dad had been so busy with his own homework and his job that he hadn't seemed to notice I wasn't practicing. Without Dad reminding me to practice, well, it was just easy not to. And without practice, I wouldn't be advancing to the next level any time soon.

Each level, or belt color, in Tae Kwon Do has its own
hyung
, or form—a series of blocks, punches, and kicks that students have to memorize and perform convincingly to qualify for the next belt or stripe (the levels between belts). I had six
hyungs
down, although with my lack of practice, some of them had been getting kind of fuzzy, and the most recent one—
Toi-Gye
, which I had to learn before earning my brown stripe—wasn't coming along so well. Only three more
hyungs
and I'd have my first-degree black belt, but lately I just hadn't been motivated.

Master Rickman had even said something to me about putting in more time at home if I wanted to be ready for the brown stripe promotion test. I guessed he could see I wasn't as sharp as usual. As soon as we got to the
dojang
that evening, Dad would see it, too.

Inside the
dojang
, I threw my shoes into a cubby and walked over to where Khal stood, his arms folded across his chest. “Hey,” I said.

“Hey.”

“Why'd you ignore me at school?” I said.

“I didn't ignore you.”

“Why didn't you call me back Saturday?”

“I didn't have anything to say.”

“What's the big deal?” I asked. “So, some girls wanted to dance with me?”

“
All
the girls. Even some eighth graders!”

I smiled a little. “That was crazy, huh?”

Khal rolled his eyes.

“Anyway, who cares?”

Khal's lips scrunched up on one side of his face. I guessed he did.

Master Rickman came to the front of the room. Khal and I would have to finish this later. We bowed to our teacher.
“Shi jak!”
Master Rickman called out.

The first few
hyungs
were no problem. I'd been doing them for the last couple of years and basically did them
on autopilot. The next couple were a little sloppy. When I got to
Toi-Gye
, though, I choked. Like on-a-chicken-bone choked.

Khalfani kicked and punched with precision and confidence. I could tell I was slipping behind and even needed to watch Khal out of the corner of my eye to remember what to do next. I glanced at Dad standing in the back of the room. He was scowling. I punched when I should have blocked. I turned hot all over, like one big exothermic reaction.

We ended with our
ki hap
—“Ha!”—and bowed to Master Rickman, who bowed in return. I went back to my place and sat, feeling Dad's disapproving stare boring into my back. I glanced at his reflection in the big mirror. Yep, still frowning.

At the end of practice, all the students recited together the five tenets of Tae Kwon Do. “Courtesy! Integrity! Perseverance! Self-control! Indomitable spirit!” I shouted the words as loud as I could, hoping Dad could hear my voice above the others.

“Good work, everyone,” Master Rickman said, walking over to two younger boys who were horsing around. They reminded me of Khal and me when we had started out two and a half years ago. He put a hand on each of their shoulders, telling them without words to quiet down. He made a few announcements, including reminding us about our annual Friendship Tournament coming up in a month.

Afterwards, Khal and I walked over to Dad. I kneaded my shoulder as if it were sore, even though it felt perfectly fine.

“Looking good, Khalfani,” Dad said.

“Thanks, Detective Buckley.” Khal looked around. “Did you see my dad?”

“He forgot something at his office. We're taking you home tonight.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Master Rickman walked over. “Good to see you, Detective Buckley. It's been a while.” He and Dad shook hands.

“I've been a little busier than usual.”

Master Rickman nodded, then turned to Khal. “Excellent work tonight, Khalfani. You look ready for the next promotion test.”

Khal bowed slightly.
“Kam sa ham nida, nim,”
he said.
Thank you, sir
.

“Keep it up and you'll have your black belt by summer.”

Khal beamed. “Really?” Then, just as quickly, his face got serious. “What about Brendan?”

“What do you think, Brendan?” Master Rickman asked. “Are you ready for your next promotion exam?”

Dad stood with his arms crossed, staring down at me like the big statue of Paul Bunyan I'd seen online when I was researching my fifth-grade report on Minnesota.

The way I'd fumbled my
hyung
, the answer was obvious. I was
far
from ready. “No, sir,” I mumbled.

“Speak up, Brendan,” Dad said.

“No, sir.”

Dad spoke to Master Rickman. “Unfortunately, between work and going back to school this fall, I haven't been staying on Brendan about practicing.” Dad's eyes locked onto mine. “Starting today, however, that will be changing.”

“Maybe you'd like to come in Thursday. Put in some extra time,” Master Rickman suggested.

“That's a good idea,” Dad said. “I'll see if your mom can bring you.” Dad had class on Thursday nights, too.

“I can't!” I said quickly. “That's our monthly rock club meeting. I already told Grandpa Ed I'd be there.”

Dad's jaw clenched. “We'll talk about it at home. You might need to miss the rock club this month.”

I scowled, even though I knew it would only irritate Dad more if he saw my face.

“Thanks,” Dad said to Master Rickman, “and again, my apologies. Come on, boys, let's go.” Dad turned toward the door.

Khal and I pulled on our shoes and headed to the car. Khal called shotgun. I sat in back. Dad's disappointment pressed down on me—heavy as the bulletproof vest he'd once let me try on.

As we drove to Khal's house, Dad and Khal talked
nonstop—about the Eastmont football team and a case Dad was working on and Dwight David's flexible eyebrows. Dad laughed when he heard what Ms. Manley had done with her eyeballs. I sat there quietly, feeling a million miles away.

The next day, I sat at my desk in World Civilizations class, wiping the sweat from the sides of my face. My shower had gotten cut short after PE because of Dwight David. He'd launched a pee stream that went at least six feet and almost hit Herbie Stiles in the head. He had us scrambling to get out as fast as we could—before I had time to rinse my face. So, I was wiping my sweat with my hands.

Morgan waved as she took her seat a couple of aisles away. I waved hi back.

More kids rushed in, including Khal, trying to make it to their seats before the bell. A couple of the guys in the back were entertaining everyone around them with a description of Dwight David's “performance” in the shower. Dwight David sat a few seats to my right, a satisfied smile on his face.

Mrs. Simmons got up from her desk and started to write on the board. Dwight David grinned.

I looked where he was staring. Mrs. Simmons wore a clingy brown dress. She wasn't an overly large woman—just a little plump in her rear end, and just plump enough that the clingy brown material, once it had gotten lodged in her crack from sitting, wasn't coming out again without a little help.

Even as Mrs. Simmons was reaching for her behind, I saw Dwight David's mouth open and his tongue poke out. The moment she pulled on the fabric, he let loose a loud raspberry. A few kids laughed.

She turned with a scowl, but it was directed at all of us, not specifically at Dwight David. Lucky for him she didn't assume he'd made the sound, although she must have known he was the most likely culprit. “All right, settle down. Time to get started.” The bell rang and she walked to the door to close it. “Today we're starting a unit on the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. But first, some review.” Mrs. Simmons pointed her yardstick to the question on the board: “What are the five components of civilization?”

Lauren stuck her hand up first.

“Yes, Lauren,” Mrs. Simmons said.

“Specialized workers.”

Mrs. Simmons nodded. She turned to write the answer on the board. Apparently, walking from the door to the board had pulled in the dress again. The wedgie was
back. And this wasn't just the rolling hills variety. This was canyon country. A serious
taco
wedgie.

A few of the boys were snickering.

“Cities!” Khal called out. He was holding back a laugh.

“Was there a raised hand to go with that answer?” Mrs. Simmons looked over her shoulder.

Khal raised his hand.

“Yes, Khalfani?”

“Cities.”

Mrs. Simmons wrote “cities” on the board. “Excellent. What else?” she asked.

Dwight David raised his hand, looking very serious.

“Yes, Dwight David?”

“Advanced technology.”

Mrs. Simmons smiled. “Very
good
, Dwight David.” She turned again to write, quickly pulling her dress from her butt, as if she hoped no one would notice if she did it while she was moving.

Dwight David noticed. He blew another loud, wet raspberry.

I couldn't help it. I laughed. So did most everyone else.

Most everyone else with the exception of Mrs. Simmons.

She scanned the classroom with narrowed eyes. “Who did that?” Her gaze landed on Dwight David.

No one moved. I don't think anyone even breathed.
Her eyes continued to roam our faces as if she was waiting for someone to fess up.

I glanced at Dwight David. I could see Khal frowning in my peripheral vision. I looked over my shoulder at him. He pushed out his lips like he was shushing me and shook his head.

Mrs. Simmons suddenly sounded a little too much like the character in a horror movie who turns out to be the psychopath. “I said, who
did
that?”

A few of us squirmed in our seats. She glared at us from behind her desk. “All right, since no one wants to take responsibility for that rude display of behavior, I will hold you all responsible. You will all be receiving a negative interim report for gross lack of respect.”

My palms turned clammy. My heart rammed against my rib cage. A negative report for not showing respect? No explanation I could offer would get me out of trouble for that criminal offense. Dad would be totally
ticked
!

I glanced around again. Everyone's lips were stuck shut, except Morgan's, whose mouth hung open as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing.

This was so totally wrong! But if I spoke up, I would be permanently labeled a sellout or a narc or worse. I kept my lips together like everyone else, but I was feeling really hot. I was so hot that if I
did
open my mouth, I was sure flames would come shooting out. And I would shoot them right at that dork, Dwight David.

“Even in the middle of talking about civilization you
can't be civilized,” Mrs. Simmons said crossly. “Everyone open your books to page sixty-four and read the section on the Roman Empire.
Silently
. If I hear so much as a peep, you'll be reading your book in the principal's office.”