Body Shot (The Dojo) Read online

  Text copyright © 2013 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  Website address: www.lernerbooks.com

  The images in this book are used with the permission of: © Josh Holmberg/Cal Sport Media/CORBIS (fighters); © iStockphoto.com/Tim Messick (background); © iStockphoto.com/Erkki Makkonen (metal wires); © iStockphoto.com/TommL (punching fist), © iStockphoto.com/dem10 (barbed wire).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.5.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Jones, Patrick, 1961–

  Body shot / by Patrick Jones.

  pages cm. — (The dojo ; #4)

  ISBN 978–1–4677–0633–9 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978–1–4677–1634–5 (eBook)

  [1. Mixed martial arts—Fiction. 2. Family problems—Fiction.

  3. Drug abuse—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.J7242Cl 2013

  [Fic]—dc23

  2012042248

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 7/15/13

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-1634-5 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-3270-3 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-3271-0 (mobi)

  If you’re already a fan of mixed martial arts, in particular the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC), then you’re probably familiar with moves like triangle choke, spinning heel kick, and Kimura. If not, check out the MMA terms and weight classes in the back of the book. You can also go online for videos of famous fights and training videos. Amateur fights are similar to the pros but require more protection for the fighters. While there are unified rules, each state allows for variation.

  WELCOME TO THE DOJO.

  STEP INSIDE.

  “Protect yourself, Meghan!” Mr. Hodge yelled.

  Meghan blinked furiously as sweat trickled down. It rested in the tangle of scars on her face before running down to her chin, which was throbbing from Mika’s right jab.

  Meghan responded with a hard kick to Mika’s right side. Even with the thick sparring helmet on, Meghan thought she heard a slight cracking sound, though she was unsure if it was her ankle or Mika’s ribs. Meghan felt a little pain, but that wasn’t unusual.

  “Keep your chin tucked!” Nong Vang, one of her training partners, shouted from outside the ring.

  Another jab from Mika landed, but without as much power. Meghan’s body shots were wearing Mika down.

  “Meghan, work hard!” shouted Mr. Hodge.

  Meghan’s balance of attacks with kicks and punches kept Mika from a takedown.

  “Thirty seconds!” Mr. Hodge warned. It was the final spar of the night. Mr. Hodge’s teen MMA training consisted of drills, instruction, and workouts, and ended with two fighters sparring. Since there were so few female fighters, Meghan sparred often with Mika. Meghan admired her tenacity. Like all the other girls in the dojo, Mika had yet to win against Meghan.

  When Mika pushed in for a takedown, Meghan wrapped her arms around Mika’s head in a Thai clinch. She couldn’t take her down, but she held Mika in place long enough to blast two hard knees into her side. Meghan could hear her gasping for breath. If you can’t breathe, Meghan thought, you can’t fight back.

  Stronger than Meghan, Mika muscled Meghan’s head downward. Mika brought her knees up for a knee-chin collision that would’ve resulted in a knockout, except that Meghan unleashed two lightning-fast left hooks into Mika’s kidney area first. Mika dropped to one knee. Before Meghan could finish the fight, Mr. Hodge blew the whistle to protect Mika.

  Meghan bent down to help Mika up, but Mika waved her away. Mika spit out her mouth guard. Then she spit blood on the mat. Mr. Hodge rushed to her aid.

  Meghan climbed out of the ring to accept congratulations from Hector and Jackson. Along with Nong, they were the only four left from the first Missouri MMA teen dojo. In the spring, they’d graduate from high school and the dojo’s teen program.

  “I said tuck it, and you tucked it.” Nong said, fist out to meet Meghan’s.

  “Be careful, that might be you next,” Meghan countered.

  “Normally, I wouldn’t mind a girl on top of me, but …”

  Meghan wondered if Nong crushed on her. Before, she was pretty enough, but now she doubted anyone at school or the dojo wanted her. It didn’t matter—the dojo rule was that students didn’t date one another. Meghan had her own code: if nobody got close, then nobody could know you, love you, and leave you.

  “I’d like to see you two fight,” Jackson said.

  Nong laughed, then pointed at Meghan. “I doubt I can overcome your secret weapon.”

  Meghan removed her gloves. “I should know this. What’s my secret weapon?” When she took off her protective headgear, her long, light brown hair exploded from underneath the helmet. Mr. Hodge wanted her to cut her hair, but the more hair, the more coverage of the scars on her skull. The scars that weren’t hidden, combined with the scowl Jackson had taught her, made Meghan look as tough as any fighter in the dojo.

  “Your game face.” Nong laughed. Meghan joined in.

  After a quick shower, Meghan headed for the door. She grabbed her hoodie on the way out, unlocked her bike, and started the ride to her grandparents’ house under a gray sky.

  On the way home, Meghan stopped at Starbucks for her normal post-practice Green Tea Frappuccino. While she waited, she turned on her phone and scrolled through the messages.

  Once her drink was ready, Meghan went to her table in the back. She sipped the tea as she saw there were texts and Facebook posts from Latasha and Tommy. At one time, they’d all been teammates and best friends, but that was in ninth grade. Before the accident.

  The icy drink soothed her, but it didn’t stem the ache in her jaw from the most recent spar and the returning pain in other parts of her body. She ignored Latasha’s text like she had tried to avoid Tommy the past summer: mostly unsuccessfully.

  Meghan looked over photos of Latasha’s volleyball game. Latasha looked fierce on the court, although she’d posted that the Lady Raiders lost their first game. They’d fallen far since their conference championship when Meghan, Latasha, and Tommy were ninth graders. Meghan saw two boys walking toward her and put on her best fighter’s scowl. They moved past. Meghan smiled at how easily she drove them away.

  With her energy restored by calories and caffeine, Meghan biked home in a cold fall rain. Her grandparents’ house was dark when she arrived, just past ten. Once inside, Meghan turned on the lights and paused to admire the photos on the wall of her uncle Daniel with his judo, boxing, and MMA honors. There were photos of Meghan with her martial arts honors, as well as dusty trophies and awards in volleyball, basketball, and track. And then there were all the photos of her mother with awards from playing and coaching sports.

  Meghan went into the kitchen and saw a note from her grandmother about leftovers in the fridge. She crumpled the note and tossed it in the garbage. Instead, she grabbed an energy drink. Before she left, she examined her grandparents’ pillboxes with the meds inside neatly arranged. One box blue, the other pink. Once upstairs, Meghan turned on her light, and opened her bottom dresser drawer. Her pillbox was white and not as organized, but just as full.

  Meghan had meds from doctors for everything and anyth
ing, real and imagined ailments.

  Pills to lose weight and pills to gain muscle. Pills to sleep and pills to wake up. Pills to focus and pills to feel no pain. Meghan had learned how to mix her meds so that nobody noticed a thing.

  “We live in a great state,” Tommy once said. “Missouri’s one of the few where you can doctor shop.” Tommy worked the system to stay well stocked. There’s only one better state than Missouri, Meghan thought, medicated bliss. Where there was no noise, no memory, no hard kicks, and no collisions.

  “Meghan, we need you.”

  Meghan stared up at Latasha—most every girl did—but didn’t answer.

  “I talked to Coach, it’s not too late,” Latasha said. They stood by Meghan’s locker, which she shared with Tommy.

  “Great game,” a junior girl said to Latasha as she walked past.

  “Please, Meghan, we need you,” Latasha said softly, even though she stood over six feet.

  “I’m done with volleyball. I’m done with playing for a team, you know that,” Meghan said. “I fight, for myself.” Meghan glanced at the photo of them, along with Tommy, taped to the back of her locker door. Three smiling faces: two white, one black. In between the girls stood the state basketball championship trophy and their coach: Meghan’s mom.

  “But Meghan, it’s been two years and—”

  Like many times in the ring, Meghan was saved by the bell. The sounds of lockers shutting echoed through the West High hallways. Finally, Meghan looked at Latasha and whispered, “I’m sorry. I can’t. You understand, right?”

  Latasha shook her head like she’d been dazed with a quick right jab. “No.”

  Meghan and Latasha hugged, and Latasha raced off to class. Before Meghan shut the locker, she transferred a wad of bills from her pocket into Tommy’s worn denim jacket hanging inside.

  After spending most of chemistry class sleeping, Meghan made a quick stop at her locker before lunch. When she walked into the cafeteria, she saw Latasha and her sports friends at a table in the middle. In the back, Tommy sat with her raucous new friends—none of them athletes. Meghan filled up her plate with a salad, forgoing dressing.

  “Meghan, here!” Alex, Tommy’s boyfriend, shouted. When Meghan arrived at the table, Tommy gave her a hard look. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” Meghan sat next to Tommy. Tommy had been point guard, small and smart.

  “So, you’re actually going to be seen with me in public this year?” Tommy whispered. “I’m not too much of a bad influence?”

  “Don’t start—it’s complicated,” Meghan responded. “If I want to be able to fight amateur—” Before she could say another word, laughter exploded from Latasha’s table. The third new volleyball coach in three years, a tall black woman in a West High windbreaker, stood eye-to-eye with Latasha. They were all smiles.

  Tommy looked hurt watching Latasha. “That used to be us, with your mom.” Meghan just stared down at her plate, but Tommy continued. “I wasn’t just part of a team, I was part of a family. Your mom was more of a mom to me than my own. So when she—”

  Meghan made another fighter’s scowl. “Enough! I don’t want to talk about it.” Meghan covered her scarred face with her long, thin fingers, wishing she could cover it with layers of clothing like she did the rest of her scars. “Money’s in your jacket,” Meghan whispered.

  Under the table, Tommy slipped a small bag of pills into the pocket of Meghan’s hoodie.

  “Meghan, a moment, please,” Miss Allison, a school counselor, said. She stood outside Meghan’s last-period study hall.

  “I’ll be late for class,” Meghan mumbled through her fog; the Soma had kicked in.

  “From what I hear, you’ll sleep through it anyway,” Miss Allison said. “Follow me.”

  “Slow down,” Meghan requested as she tried to speed-walk behind Allison to her office.

  “Sit.” Miss Allison pointed at the empty chair. Meghan hated empty chairs.

  “Did I do something wrong?” Meghan asked. She usually stayed out of trouble, partly because when she’d quit all the sports teams, she lost most of her friends and avoided making enemies. Her meds soothed the anger that landed other students in hot water.

  “You’re sleeping in class again.” Miss Allison frowned. She had a good frown, although nothing could match Meghan’s mom’s pained expression of disappointment.

  “You know, it’s hard getting back into the swing of the school week with training in the evenings at the dojo.”

  Another frown. “If you plan to graduate, you’d better get it together.”

  “I’ve got it together. Do you?” Meghan’s fighter instinct took over: every move has a counter.

  Miss Allison’s frown fell from disappointment to sadness. “We all miss your mom.”

  Meghan swallowed hard. Miss Allison had been her mom’s best friend.

  “If you ever want to talk about it, you—”

  “Can I go now?” Meghan snapped. She stood up and turned to leave.

  “Of course you can go, Meghan,” Miss Allison said. “But can you let go? Can you?”

  It wasn’t a question, but a challenge. Meghan rose to it. She turned back to Miss Allison. “I’ve got nothing to let go of!”

  Miss Allison sighed. “Nothing except all that anger.”

  Meghan turned, composed herself, and left, waiting for the silence to return.

  “So how is school?” Meghan’s uncle, Daniel, asked over Sunday brunch at her grandparents’ house.

  “Okay,” Meghan non-answered. Her uncle frowned, followed by a sigh.

  Her grandmother pressed the issue. “Meghan, come on, tell your uncle about school.”

  “Fine.” Meghan yawned before giving him a rundown of her first month of senior year. Like dojo practices, her senior year would be structured: tests, college application deadlines, and more tests. Her uncle alternated between ­nodding in interest and eating his egg-white omelet.

  “Are you feeling okay, Megs?” her grandmother asked. “Lately you’re either so tired or so energetic. You’re like a yo-yo.” Meghan’s response was another yawn.

  “Well, it seems like you’ll be busy,” Uncle Daniel said. He sounded proud, not worried.

  “I wonder where she got that trait from, Daniel?” her grandmother asked. He laughed.

  “If you took a vacation, I’d be afraid you’d die,” Meghan’s grandfather said.

  Meghan waited for her uncle to disagree, but he was silent. Even silent, Meghan thought it was nice to have him at the table. Anything was better than that empty chair taunting her.

  After breakfast, Meghan and her uncle shot baskets in the driveway. While she hadn’t played a game in years, she still had her touch. Her uncle was taller and stronger, but Meghan worked hard before losing a game of one-on-one. Like her mom, her uncle never let her win at any sport; they made her compete against their best.

  “Go again?” Meghan asked even as pain shot from her still-weak ankles through her body. Before the accident, she’d play all thirty-two minutes of the game. Now, even ten minutes challenged her.

  “Sorry, Megs.” He glanced at his watch. As far as she knew, the watch was the only thing from her mother that he’d kept. Her mom had gotten it for him after he won his first professional MMA bout. “Busy day, sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He left, sans hug.

  After her uncle left, Meghan went to tell her grandparents she was going out, but both were napping. She kissed her grandmother’s forehead, left a note on the kitchen table, grabbed her bike, and headed toward school.

  “Let’s go, Latasha!” Meghan shouted and clapped.

  “Yeah, Latasha!” Tyrell, Latasha’s boyfriend, shouted. They’d been together all of high school. Meghan and Tyrell were among only a few dozen people scattered throughout the bleachers for the volleyball game, a far cry from the season when the stands were packed as Meghan’s mom led Meghan, Latasha, and Tommy to an undefeated run. From the action on the floor, it looked as if Latasha’s senior year mi
ght be a winless season. With no one to set for her like Meghan could, or pass like Tommy, Latasha’s game and West High’s chances of success were flat.

  With Meghan and Tyrell leading the cheers, the small crowd made noise, but it wasn’t enough as the final minutes wound down. West High lost again. Even from a distance, Meghan saw Latasha holding back tears.

  After the game, Meghan biked to Torrey Hill Pizza to join Latasha and Tyrell. When she walked inside, they weren’t alone. Her ex, Kevin, and some of his football buddies stood by Latasha’s table, and Meghan could tell Latasha wasn’t happy about it.

  Kevin turned to Meghan. “I was just asking your friend here if she thought the team would show up to actually play a game before the season’s over,” he said with a smirk.

  “Leave her alone,” Meghan said, getting in Kevin’s face.

  His smirk spread into a cocky smile. “It’s okay, I guess not everybody can be the star on a winning team,” he said.

  Latasha jumped in. “Well, we don’t all have the advantage you do, with a parent as a coach who plays favorites,” Latasha shot back.

  “Oh, I guess Meghan’s mom didn’t play favorites,” Kevin said. “You three were all just good enough to start on varsity as freshman,” Kevin said. “If you think anybody believes that, you’re crazy.”

  “Maybe I am,” Meghan sipped from her water bottle. Her hand shook.

  “No wonder I dumped you.”

  Meghan steadied her hand and then laughed and leaped onto a chair so that she towered over Kevin and his friends. She put her hands in front of her, fingers balled into a fist. “That’s right, Kevin, because you’re number one!” she said as she lifted the middle finger of each hand.

  After Kevin left, Meghan made a quick trip to the bathroom to medicate her anger. When she returned, Latasha was running down the faults of her teammates, but mostly of herself.

  “Stop it,” Meghan said. “You’re the best.”