Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

With ten minutes left in class, Mr. Stone announced that it was time to spar. The other boys broke into pairs, facing each other in two neat lines. They leaned back on their right feet and brought their fists into fighting position. Siddharth looked down and thought about going to the bathroom or asking to leave early.

Mr. Stone placed his warm, strong fingers on Siddharth’s shoulder. “Kaufman, why don’t you break in the new guy? But go easy on him.”

Marc Kaufman was in a corner putting on padded red gloves. He punched them together and took his place across from Siddharth. Mr. Stone grunted, and all the boys started bouncing on their back legs, making blocks and punches. Marc just stood still and stared him down.

Siddharth definitely regretted being here. Wasn’t karate just another sport?

Marc flicked his hair out of his eyes and then made a kick, but Siddharth managed to step back and avoid it.

“Nice work, bodhisattva,” said Mr. Stone.

Flicking his hair again, Marc came in closer. He pulled his fist back, then landed a hard punch on Siddharth’s chest. He fell backward and hit the rubbery green floor.

For a few moments, he couldn’t breathe. He saw Mr. Stone standing over him but couldn’t hear what he was saying. Marc held out his hand, and Siddharth used it to pull himself up. He suddenly noticed that the other kids had all stopped fighting and were watching him.

“You okay?” asked Mr. Stone.

“I think so,” he said.

Mr. Stone started clapping. All of his students followed suit.

Siddharth wanted to smile but didn’t want to seem uncool, so he just kept quiet.

* * *

After class, he sat alone on the curb, using a stick to create a smiley face in the gravel. Only a few cars remained in the parking lot, and he was sitting close to a burgundy Saab 900. A gaggle of five or six boys stood by a green dumpster a few feet away from the black Camaro. They were practicing moves on each other and seemed to be having fun. He wished he were hanging out with them but would only go if they called him over. He grew bored with his gravel drawing and started rating the cars. If he had to drive one, his first choice would definitely be the Camaro, and his number two would be the Saab. Arjun would have chosen the gray Acura in the corner, even though it had a dent in its rear door.

Mohan Lal had told him to bring his jacket, but he’d refused. He rubbed his arms to keep himself warm and stared at the one-story building across the street, a bar called the New Warsaw Café. Above him, the setting sun had streaked the sky with pink and orange, and some seagulls were circling. One of them swooped down, snatching a piece of trash from the dumpster. A kid from karate class picked up a stick and chucked it toward the bird, and the gull leaped back into the air.

Mr. Stone emerged from the academy wearing sunglasses and a leather jacket. He patted Siddharth on the shoulder, saying that he had done well. Then he headed toward the Camaro, pushing a button on his keys that caused the car to squawk, and said, “Boys, if I find even a single scratch on her, what ensues will be unpleasant and nasty.”

The boys laughed.

Mr. Stone got in his vehicle and peeled out of the lot.

Cars kept pulling in, and boys kept leaving. Siddharth wondered when his father would get there. He was tired, but not the way he usually was. He felt kind of good actually. Soon the only other kid left was Marc Kaufman, who walked over to him and sat down on the curb.

“What’s up?”

Siddharth shrugged. “Pretty good.” As soon as he said those words, he bit down on the inside of his cheek again. Only an asshole would say pretty good when someone asks what’s up .

Marc bet Siddharth a dollar that he could hit the insignia on the hood of the Saab with a single stone. He chucked a rock but missed by ten inches. “You try,” he said. “Double or nothing.”

Siddharth picked up a gray stone that sparkled with mica but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Don’t worry,” said Marc, “it’s my mom’s.”

Siddharth took a deep breath and threw the stone, which landed an inch away from the target.

Marc whistled. “Close. Now we’re even.” He chucked three more stones, and the second two both clanked against the target. “By the way, I’m Marc.”

“I know,” said Siddharth.

“You know? Why, what did you hear about me?”

Siddharth shrugged.

“Well, don’t believe everything they say.”

A gull let out a cry and again dove for the dumpster.

Siddharth wanted to say something cool but didn’t know what. He threw a stone at the bird, and it soared back to the sky. “My name’s Sid.”

“No shit.” Marc held out his hand. “I know your name. My mother told me all about you.”

“Your mother?” Siddharth’s brow furrowed as he shook Marc’s hand.

Marc smiled, revealing a gap between his two front teeth. “That redhead? The crazy woman from your school?”

“Who?”

“Not too long ago, the famous Ms. Farber used to be Mrs . Kaufman.”

Siddharth stared down at his Nikes and noticed the beginnings of a hole near the big toe of his left foot. He felt a surge of loathing for Ms. Farber. She shouldn’t have been talking about him to other people. She’d said that everything they discussed was completely confidential.

“She told me what happened to you.”

Siddharth knew what he meant. He tossed another pebble at the Saab, this time with much more force.

“That must have really sucked,” said Marc.

Siddharth prayed that his father would get there soon. In a little while, he would be back home. He would throw on a movie. He wouldn’t have to come back to karate if he didn’t want to.

“Let me tell you,” said Marc, flicking his bangs out of his eyes, “divorce is no Sunday drive either. It’s the second-worst thing that can happen to a kid, after a parent dying.”

Siddharth had no idea that Ms. Farber was divorced. The truth was, she knew a lot about him but he barely knew anything about her. This fact seemed totally unfair.

A bell jingled, and he turned to his left. The front door of the beauty salon had opened, and Ms. Farber stepped outside. Siddharth had a rock in his hand; he wished he could throw it at her. Instead, he dropped it and waved.

She looked different, having straightened her normally curly auburn hair. She walked toward them smiling her big toothy smile, and his eyes honed in on the triangle of flat, freckled skin below her neck. She was wearing her gold chain with a star on it, the kind that you drew with two overlapping triangles. “Hi, boys,” she said. “Siddharth, how’d it go?”

He shrugged. “Fine. I’m not really that good.”

“Oh, come on,” said Ms. Farber. “I bet you knocked their socks off, honey.” She headed to the Saab and unlocked its front door. “I see you’ve met my Marc.”

“Yup.”

She winked at him. “I don’t know why, but something tells me you guys might hit it off.”

“Oh, yes, mother,” said Marc. He got up and dusted off his uniform. “Sid here is a splendid young fellow. We’re gonna get along just fine.”

The phone kept on ringing one Friday night in early December. First it was Arjun. He was calling with flight details for his upcoming trip home, the first one he’d make since moving out to Michigan. Then came a call from Ms. Farber’s son Marc. He said, “Yo, Sid, you’re spending the night at my house tomorrow.” Marc was a seventh grader at the Woodford branch of Eli Whitney Junior High. He was grounded for what he had done to the blue mailbox with his father’s Jeep, so he wouldn’t be allowed to socialize until summer. But Ms. Farber bent the rules of his grounding for Siddharth, who had already been to their house after karate on several occasions.