Standing Strong Read online

  “Eh, one week, I s’pose.” Papa stood and stretched, one hand cradling his pipe. “Look, Jarret, I know you’re trying. But you know that tonight put a spoke in the wheel. Maybe you oughta find better friends to tie to.”

  “I...” Anger and indignation rising inside, Jarret bit his tongue. If he said something now, it wouldn’t be nice. Besides, he deserved it. He could handle this. “Whatever.” He turned and stomped away.

  CHAPTER 14

  A masked figure in a black robe and gloves knelt in the shadows before Keefe, collecting himself for the fight. A warrior. He rested one hand on his knee and held a bamboo sword in the other, the shinai.

  Not ready for this, Keefe’s skin crawled and his heart pounded. Terror rose inside him. A glance to either side revealed impenetrable cold, darkness all around him. Then he looked down and gasped. He too held a bamboo sword. Must’ve been a mistake. He’d told no one he was a warrior.

  The warrior stood and bowed, the gesture indicating his desire for victory but also to pay respect to his opponent before the fight. Then he moved forward, his long robe making him seem to glide rather than walk. As he neared, he swung the sword out in front and grabbed it with both hands.

  Though he knew he ought to do the same, move forward and ready his sword, Keefe wanted to shrink back. He wanted to bolt. He didn’t want his identity known. Didn’t want to fight.

  As if unaware of Keefe’s hesitancy, the warrior sidestepped around Keefe, gripping his bamboo sword and holding it high.

  Panic flooding him, Keefe lifted his own sword and turned to keep his face to the warrior. The blackness behind and around the warrior drew Keefe’s gaze. Faces appeared, moving in and out of focus. Familiar faces. Papa, Jarret, Roland, Peter, and every kid he knew from school. They saw. They would soon know his heart. And they would see him fail.

  Heart racing, eyes searching, Keefe racked his brain for a way out. Finding none, fear flowed through his veins.

  At once the warrior called his intended strike, Keefe’s head, and moved. Like lightning falling from the sky, his sword ripped through the air with a whoosh.

  Moving on impulse, Keefe swung upward and blocked the attack. The swords met with a hollow clack and bounced back. The warrior pressed on, locking his sword against Keefe’s, the two of them shuffling together, each seeking to score. Each seeking the victory.

  Victory or defeat. The desires clashed inside Keefe. To take the victory for himself was to give defeat to his opponent. To allow defeat was to fail. He could not choose.

  Moving with great agility and perfect form, the warrior pivoted and slid his sword across Keefe’s. He called it and struck Keefe on the forearm. A score for the warrior.

  Keefe took steps back. The warrior moved in. Their swords crossed, clacking together, and crossed again repeatedly with intricate movements, quick and intense, as they each attempted a score. Heart pounding and alive with the fight, Keefe lunged and struck, missed, and pushed himself against his opponent, a winning maneuver playing out in his mind. A simple shove, and a jump back, and he could strike the warrior’s trunk.

  His opponent lifted his sword. Keefe jumped back... he’d delayed and missed his opportunity. Had he done it on purpose? Had he sealed his own fate? Forfeited? Guaranteeing the warrior’s victory and his loss?

  As the warrior called his strike zone, Keefe lunged and blocked his black-clad arms with his own arms, their swords moving together overhead. One more point and the warrior would win.

  Hunger for victory. Fear of being exposed. Fear of failure. Fear of going all in. Keefe swung again and called his intended strike, dipping his sword down for his opponent’s abdomen, ready to make his attack.

  The warrior twisted out of the way, but Keefe had expected the move. He had simply now to follow through with a counterattack and claim the victory. But he hesitated. And the warrior’s voice rang out his final strike as his sword swung round to Keefe’s head.

  The strike stung and rattled through Keefe, filling him with grief. He fell back, down, down, down into ice cold failure, the faces fading in and out. Watching everything. Knowing.

  “Blessed is he who takes no offense at me.”

  Something poked his shoulder, making it smart. Not the warrior’s sword. The fight had ended with Keefe’s defeat.

  Keefe inhaled a whiff of something burning. His ears tuned in to a white noise that sounded like the rush of water or a strong wind through leaves. Then something nearby cracked and popped.

  Awareness broke through. Reality sucked Keefe from his dream, cords of regret and heartfelt pain clinging to him, not shaking loose.

  Keefe blinked his eyes open and pushed himself up, a stick from the woodpile scraping his shoulder as he moved. The blanket fell off his chest, and cool air hit his sweaty neck.

  Night surrounded him. The campfire had burned down to glowing orange embers and a few stubborn branches.

  How long had he slept? Sometime after Jarret had taken off for home, sleep had overwhelmed him. He’d slept heavily too, even out under the stars and on the cold, hard ground. If that weird dream hadn’t woken him, he’d still be asleep.

  A shiver ran through Keefe, urging him to action. He grabbed a branch, then several more, and arranged them on the embers. A few gentle puffs of his breath ignited them.

  Eyes heavy with sleep, Keefe built the campfire to a good size that should last him an hour or so. Then he stretched out on the ground and covered himself with the blanket. He was glad he hadn’t realized, at first, that Jarret had left it. Wanting the complete experience, he would’ve made Jarret take it home. But he appreciated it now that the night air had grown cool. How would he have slept without it?

  Keefe’s eyes closed and his mind settled.

  ...the masked warrior swung again, his move fierce, his weapon a blur.

  Sword slipping from his sweaty hands, fingers tingling, Keefe dodged and rolled onto the cold, hard ground.

  “Oof.” He grunted and sat bolt upright. A shock of cool air to his sweat-drenched neck snapped him to full consciousness.

  Embers glowed white and orange nearby. A dark blue sky overhead. Waterfall roaring in the distance.

  Heart pounding, Keefe gulped breaths of campfire-scented air. The last breath burnt the back of his throat, and he doubled over coughing.

  The dream had woken him yet again. Same one haunting him over and over. He lost again to the Japanese warrior. And each time he knew that if he had fought harder, he could’ve won.

  Keefe’s stomach lurched. It sickened him to know he’d forfeited the victory intentionally.

  DREAM WAKING HIM AGAIN, Keefe rolled over, draped his arm over his eyes, and groaned. A melody rose above the white noise of the waterfall, robins singing in the treetops.

  Birds up already? Keefe lowered his arm and eased open his eyes. A blue early-morning sky stretched out above him.

  With a long sigh, he abandoned hope for more sleep. “Morning, Lord,” he prayed aloud as he pushed himself up. “Guess I might as well start the day, huh? We have a lot to talk about.”

  After a few moments of disjointed prayer, and after neatly folding his blanket, he shuffled to the stream and splashed cold water on his face. As he straightened, he stumbled on an old dry branch by the river’s edge.

  “Perfect for firewood!” He snatched it up and scanned for more, deciding to gather sticks for the night. He’d be more prepared this time.

  A load of branches in his arms, Keefe strolled through the woods, toward his campsite. His stomach grumbled loud enough to hear, but he wanted to put off eating for as long as possible. Saint Francis had done it. He could too.

  Two hours later, Keefe staggered along the riverbank, branches falling from his armful of firewood. His head had grown light. And his stomach was turning, between grumbling and growling. “You need to eat. You have no energy,” a voice in his head said. “Especially after falling in the river last night. If you don’t eat soon, you’ll get sick, maybe die of starvation.”
r />   Get a grip, he tried telling himself.

  Keefe stacked the firewood on the pile, his head even more woozy.

  “Okay, I give in.” Recognizing that he was no Saint Francis, he dropped to his knees by the canvas tote bag and dug out a loaf of bread. His mouth watered as he opened the plastic wrapper, bowed his head, and blessed his food. At the word “Amen,” he ripped off a chunk and shoved it into his mouth.

  After devouring two slices, he slowed his pace. For the rest of his meal, he ate thoughtfully and disciplined. Still, he polished off a third of the loaf and drank two bottles of water. Satisfied, he turned his heart to prayer and appreciated the beauty of creation.

  The day continued in much the same way, slow and peaceful, with his stomach reminding him of his weakness and his mind cycling through thoughts: lamenting his faults, begging for a sign, and praising God for His goodness.

  The next morning, at the end of his forty hours, he strolled to Peter Brandt’s house filled with peace. But he still had no answer to his prayer. Was God calling him or not?

  CHAPTER 15

  First day of school.

  Dressed in Levis and a slim-fit Hugo Boss button-down shirt, Jarret stood in the middle of intersecting hallways with his books hanging at his side. Kids rushed past him, nerds, jocks, preps, emo, and thugs. He recognized many, their faces if not their names. A few greeted him with things like, “Hey,” “What’s up?” and “Yo.” He nodded in reply and shifted his gaze, not wanting to talk to anyone. Even Dominic the Gossip had said, “Hola, Vato,” as he zipped by. The freshmen—none of whom he knew—stood out with that lost “this school is big, wish I had a GPS” look in their eyes. But it really wasn’t a big school, just big compared to middle school.

  Jarret had come to the intersecting hallways looking for Keefe. He’d seen Keefe down a hall, but Keefe waved him on. He must’ve had something to do. Jarret hadn’t moved from the intersection though because a wistful, reflective mood had struck him. Something about kids on every side, chattering to each other and rushing past him, had brought it on.

  A group of freshmen moved down the middle of the hallway, coming towards him. One by one they glimpsed him standing there and their eyes flickered, filling with something resembling awe. Then they went around him, giving him a wide berth.

  Jarret’s chest swelled with satisfaction.

  Before he could exhale, a body slammed into him from behind, and he stumbled forward and dropped his books.

  “Oh, sorry.” A girl in a long skirt stooped for his books, her messy red locks tumbling over her face.

  The girl with her said, “Come on. Let’s go,” in a strained voice. Then she looked at Jarret. “She’s sorry. She wasn’t looking. I tried to tell her.” She backed away with small steps, holding up her palm as if trying to push the incident away. A dozen bracelets dangled from her wrist.

  Jarret bit back a rude reply. He glared at the girl who awkwardly gathered his books, impatience flaring.

  She stood and lifted her head, shoving the books at him.

  Recognizing her, he sighed. Of course it was Roland’s friend Caitlyn. Clumsiest girl he’d ever known.

  She and her friend speed-walked off.

  Hoping no one had noticed him drop his books, Jarret returned to his zone and strutted down the hall.

  He’d had tutors all his life until last year, his first year in a brick-and-mortar school. He’d loved it. From the first day of school, he’d had an image. Kids here, especially Dominic the Gossip, spread a lot of rumors, and the West boys had been the hot topic at the beginning of last school year. With Keefe by his side, it hadn’t taken much effort for Jarret to mold his image the way he wanted it. Guys feared and admired him. Girls liked him. Living up to his image had gotten him in some trouble—he forced thoughts of Zoe from his mind—but he had strengthened it too. Even when he and Keefe had grown distant, hostile even, Jarret had maintained his image, maybe even amped it up with his bad attitude.

  The look in kids’ eyes as they passed him today showed that the long summer hadn’t weakened his reputation in the least. He had no need to start over. Was it wrong for him to like the way others saw him?

  “Hi, Jarret,” came a feminine voice.

  Not ready for this, for her—was it her?—Jarret’s heart skipped a beat. Then he found the girl who spoke: Kelli, a petite girl with short straight hair and a killer smile. The onslaught of tension slipped away on an exhale.

  “Hey, Kelli.” He gave her a flirtatious grin, though he shifted his gaze away from her.

  Sooner or later he’d bump into Chantelle. How did she even pronounce her name? “Ch” like in “chill” or “sh” like in “chef”? Maybe he’d hear someone say her name before he attempted it.

  What was he going to say to her? She’d wonder why he hadn’t messaged her back. Was he ready to get into a relationship with a girl? Did he have the ability to master himself? Would he lose control so that his next girlfriend ended up—

  A shudder ran through him, and he clenched his jaw. No, that wouldn’t happen. He’d changed. That wasn’t him anymore. He could do this. Besides, he was a senior now. He had plenty besides girls to keep him busy. He’d have tons of schoolwork. This year he wouldn’t beg, threaten, or bribe Keefe to do any of it for him. He’d do it all himself.

  Jarret’s gaze caught something that made him wince. A lone figure halfway down the hall to the right moved out of sync with everyone else, head bobbing up and down to a jerky rhythm. Roland on his crutches.

  Struck with a familiar surge of arrogance and fear of humiliation, Jarret tensed and glanced away. During his entire junior year he’d been annoyed by Roland’s shyness and awkwardness, and had felt the need to strengthen his own reputation. As a senior, he shouldn’t have to worry about that. His reputation was solid and couldn’t be touched by little things.

  Jarret’s gaze slid to the hallway on his left. A part of him wanted to dart down it before Roland reached him. As he glanced back, his gaze connected with Roland’s, and his heart melted. He couldn’t abandon him no matter what anyone thought.

  A few more awkward steps brought Roland face to face with Jarret, the two of them now in the middle of intersecting hallways, the center of attention for all who passed. Face paler than usual, distress flickering in Roland’s gray eyes, something bothered him. Maybe getting around with crutches and a load of books was tougher than he’d expected.

  “Hey, Jarret. How’s it going?”

  “What’s up, Roland?”

  With a dip of his head, Roland glanced over his shoulder. Then he looked back at Jarret and took a breath through his mouth. “I don’t know who, but someone’s following me.”

  Jarret peered behind Roland to humor him. “Uh, yeah, I think about thirty kids are following you.”

  Roland glanced over his shoulder and then back with a weary look that said he didn’t appreciate Jarret’s humor.

  “Rough getting around with crutches, huh? Sure you don’t want my help?”

  “I’m sure.” He bit his lip, seeming hesitant to go on. “Someone’s messing with me. He yanked my backpack, almost knocked me over.”

  Jarret inhaled a breath that made his chest heave. He threw furtive glances to each side and then indicated with a tilt of his chin for Roland to follow him. Before he took a step he noticed Roland’s backpack slung over one arm, the strap digging into his shoulder from the weight of his books.

  “Lemme take that.” Jarret grabbed the strap and helped Roland maneuver his crutch out of the way. Then he lugged the backpack over his own shoulder. The weight made him think that Roland carried every book to every class.

  Weaving past kids, Jarret led Roland a few yards down the least traveled hallway. He lowered the backpack to the floor and leaned against a yellow brick wall. “So who’s messing with you?”

  “Not sure.” Roland gathered both crutches in one hand and leaned against the wall too, favoring his injured leg. He wore the dark green button-front that Nanny had got
ten him, a satiny thing with a pattern of tiny tan w’s, not something that Roland would’ve chosen on his own. But it looked good on him. Despite the jeans split up the leg to accommodate the cast.

  “The halls are crowded. Someone probably bumped into you.” He debated telling him about Caitlyn bumping him and knocking his books to the floor.

  “No. I saw a kid following me. I think. Then someone yanked my backpack. On purpose. And then I heard my name and thought I saw someone following me again.”

  “Eh, you’re just being paranoid. Lighten up.” Jarret tapped Roland’s shoulder with his fist. He wished he could help Roland out of his shyness, but how could a person change that?

  “I’m not being paranoid. Someone yanked my backpack.” Roland’s expression fell and he turned away.

  “So what do you want me to do about it, beat him up?” Jarret grinned at the idea, knowing Roland would never want that no matter what.

  “No. I-I don’t know. I guess I don’t want you to do anything.” He still looked away, likely embarrassed and frustrated. He probably hadn’t counted on the attention he’d get with the crutches or the struggle he’d have trying to get around school.

  Moved with a hint of compassion, Jarret wished he had something to offer. Maybe some brotherly advice. “Listen, Roland, the world's not out to get you. And you don't need to hide in the shadows. This is high school.”

  Roland still stared off in the distance. “I hate high school.”

  “I know. Get through it.” Adjusting his own books at his side, Jarret pushed off the wall. “So you want me to help you with this?” He lifted Roland’s backpack off the floor. “Where you headed? Bell’s gonna ring in a minute or two.”

  “Nah, I’m just down the hall.” Roland leaned his crutches against the wall, keeping them in place with his foot, then he shrugged his backpack onto his back.

  “Sure? ‘Cuz I don’t mind being late.”

  Roland rolled his eyes, seeming pretty sick of Jarret’s help. “Thanks, though. Appreciate the offer.”