Andrew Klavan - The last thing I remember

I looked around. I was in an empty hallway with solid walls of cinder block. But there, at the end of the hall, was a black square-a window with the panes painted over. That’s what I thought it was, at least.

The footsteps got louder and louder. I could hear someone shouting, “Stop him! Don’t let him get away!”

I started running for the black square.

My Karate Demonstration Another flash. Another chunk of the past, of that last day, went bolting through my terrified brain.

It was funny. Now, here, with my life in danger, with guards pounding down the hall to catch me, with terror coursing through me like the blood in my veins-now, the last day I could remember seemed to me a day of peace and calm. Everything blessedly ordinary. Everything blessedly serene.

At the time it happened, though, it was different. At the time it happened, I was scared out of my wits.

It was first period at school, the morning assembly. I was standing backstage in the school auditorium. I was waiting for my karate demonstration to begin. Principal Woodman was onstage at the podium, making the day’s announcements before introducing me. I had already changed into my gi. It felt kind of strange to be wearing the loose-fitting fighting uniform here in school. It felt as if I’d forgotten to change out of my pajamas. I kept checking and rechecking the knot in my belt to make sure it wouldn’t fall off. It was a black belt-the highest rank I was allowed to reach at my age. There was a red stripe in the center of it to show I was still a junior, under eighteen. I found the sight of the belt-the reminder of my high rank-reassuring. I kept telling myself: I know what I’m doing. There’s no reason to be so nervous.

But I was nervous. I was as nervous as I’d ever been in my life. I was using every breathing and focus technique Sensei Mike had ever taught me, trying to keep myself relaxed and calm and ready-and it still wasn’t enough. “It’s all right to have butterflies in your stomach,” Sensei Mike told me once, “but you’ve got to make them fly in formation.” In other words, marshal your nervous energy to give your techniques extra force. That was easy enough to say, but just then it felt as if my butterflies were crazy out of control, rollicking around in any looney-tune way that happened to strike their butterfly fancy. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to perform my kata. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to walk out onstage.

The trouble was this: I could see her. Beth Summers, I mean. I could look out through a gap in the curtains and see her sitting there in the front row. The other two class officers were sitting to the left of her: class president Jim Sizemore-hyper-smart but way too full of himself-just beside her, and the ever-nerdy-but-occasionally-hilarious Zach Miliken, the treasurer, in the next seat over.

Beth was turned away from them. She was turned to her right. That’s where her friends were sitting. Marissa Meyer and Tracy Wynne. Marissa had long straight dark hair and a perfect oval of a face, like a girl in a portrait. Tracy’s hair was also long and straight but golden blonde, and her face was shaped like a valentine. They were both beautiful, two of the prettiest girls in school. Pretty, smart, mega-popular. Heads of about a hundred school organizations and charity projects, not to mention captain of the volleyball team (Marissa) and chief cheerleader (Tracy).

They were nothing compared to Beth, though. Not to me anyway. There was something special about Beth, about the way she looked, about the way she talked, about the way she just was. Whenever she was around, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I couldn’t say why, exactly. She wasn’t glamorous or anything, not like her two friends. Her hair was a sort of ordinary honey brown. It was curly and fell to about her shoulders, framing her face in waves and ringlets. Her eyes were blue. Her features were smooth and straight. Her figure, in a knee-length skirt and a pink sweater, was graceful. But there was something else, something more, that made me stand backstage and peer out at her, getting more and more nervous as the moment for me to do my karate in front of her got closer and closer.

It was just how nice she was, I guess. You could see it whenever she smiled, hear it whenever she talked. Marissa and Tracy-they weren’t mean or anything. But they weren’t like Beth. Beth was always warm and interested in what you were saying. She made you feel like you were the only person in the world she cared about. And I’d never known her to say a cruel thing either-not once, not to anyone, not even to her little brother, Arthur, who was a complete pain and totally deserved it.

Anyway, I’m going on and on about her, I know. But she really was nice, and it made her beautiful, more beautiful even than the others. So I stood backstage, peeking out through the gap in the curtains and just kind of gazing at her like I was some kind of big stupid dog, or some big stupid something, anyway. And the more I gazed at her, the more nervous I felt. Because I had this sneaking suspicion that I was about to walk out on that stage and make a total idiot of myself right there in front of her. I could just feel it: I hadn’t had time to practice, and I was going to make some stupid mistake or split my pants or fall smack on my pratt or something. And I could already picture the way she’d look at me-nicely, you know, but with pity in her eyes. She would pity me while all her friends and all the other kids around her laughed and laughed.

All at once, I came out of my trance and realized that Principal Woodman had begun to introduce me. Of course, that didn’t mean I would have to go on right away or anything. Mr. Woodman never said something with a single word if he could say it with ten. Plus he stammered, making every word seem like ten anyway. And he never said anything right the first time and always had to go back over it a second time and correct it. So I figured I still had a few seconds at least-a few seconds left before I went out there and made a fool of myself in front of Beth and everyone else.

“We have a spectral tree for you today,” said Principal Woodman. “A special, I mean, a special tree-a treat-a special treat for you. A special treat.” He was a tall, thin, pale guy with thin reddish hair and a kind of dopey smile stuck permanently on his face. Whenever he spoke, his body waved back and forth behind the podium like a sapling in a breeze. “Our own Harley-Charlie-what am I talking about?-why did I say Harley?-Charlie- Charlie West is here today-as always-I mean, he’s always here, of course, he goes to school here-but today he has a spectral treat in store for us. He’s going to-not spectral-special-why do I keep saying spectral?-a special treat-and he’s here and he’s going to perform some judo.” He glanced over his shoulder, through the gap in the curtains, to where I stood backstage. “Or is it karate, Charlie? Karate. Not judo. He’s going to perform some karate in a spectral…”

Well, I won’t tell you the whole thing. It went on like that for another few minutes. And with every word, I felt my butterflies going crazier and crazier and my muscles getting tighter and tighter until I thought I was just going to go out onstage and stand there shivering like a plucked string. I tried to distract myself with getting ready. I pulled my three heavy cinder blocks closer to my feet. I pushed my elbows back, stretching out my shoulders. I forced myself to take deep breaths, in and out, in and out.

Finally, Woodman said, “So here he is-Harley- Charlie West.”

There was loud applause, even some cheering. I picked up two of the cinder blocks, one in each hand, and carried them out onstage.

It took me a few seconds to position the blocks on the stage floor. I set them up to the far right, directly in front of where Beth was sitting. The cinder blocks were part of my grand finale, and I wanted her to have a good view of it.