Page 18 of Claimed by the Fallen
The medicine takes effect quickly. The pressure around my chest dulls, and the drowsy side-effect hits. I long to fall into another nap, but my mom sits with me and watches as I eat a grilled-cheese sandwich. She will not let me relax until I finish the meal. She claims I need the calories and energy to fight off myillness.
I finally complete her demands, and she leaves me be. I pass out for another three hours. When I wake, I manage to get out of bed and find my parents sitting in the living room. I’m huffing by the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, and they both jump out of their seats when they seeme.
“What are you doing, younglady?”
“You need to be inbed!”
Both of my parents speak at the sametime.
My legs wobble, but I wave away their concern. “I’m okay. I need to move around. I was thinking about maybe going to my kickboxing class? I won’t do most of the exercises, but I think sweating a little might help me get over this.” In reality, I just can’t stand the thought of lying in bed anylonger.
“Absolutely not.” My mom is at my side in an instant. She begins to nudge me back up the stairs. “Go back to yourroom.”
I resist her prodding. “But I feel better.” It’s not a total lie. After all, I’m actually able to walk without faintingnow.
Dad appears next to me, too. “Which is why you shouldn’t overdo it. Give your body time to fully recover before you go back totraining.”
I’m bummed out by their immediate dismissal. I knew the chances they’d agree were slim, but I’d hoped I’d at least have the chance to try and convincethem.
“Working out might help me feel better,” I say in one more attempt. “Please?”
“No,” Mom won’t hear of it. “You already go to that studio more than you should. You come back with all sorts of bruises and sore muscles. I’m not convinced that place is good for you on a normal day, let alone when you aresick.”
I look at Dad with pleading eyes. He’s the one who first got me into the sport. Surely, he will side withme.
I’m disappointed when he shakes his head. “Maybe tomorrow, sweetheart, but no kickboxingtoday.”
I know I’ve lost the battle. “Fine… whatever.” I stomp weakly up to my room. Again, my breathing is ragged by the time I getthere.
I understand I’m acting a little childish. But despite what my mom said, it’s been a week since I’ve been to a kickboxing class. Studying for finals during the weekdays, graduation on Friday, and my birthday on Saturday had kept me too busy. I yearn for the chance to work out my muscles. It’s an addicting habit, and definitely more harmless than other habits I might partakein.
I first started kickboxing when I was fourteen. My dad and I had enrolled in a promotional self-defense class structured for fathers and daughters. At first, I loathed the idea. The class did not seem like something I’d enjoy doing. But my dad had watched one too many news stories about teenage girls being abducted, and he jumped on the opportunity for me to learn to defendmyself.
So, we attended theclass.
Immediately, I fell in love with sparring. Dad had been kickboxing for years, but that was the first time he’d exposed me to the combat sport. I found myself wishing he’d dragged me along sooner. We had a blast every Monday and Thursday night during the month-long self-defense class. But on the last day of class, one of the studio’s teenage employees suggested I join a beginner’sclass.
Zeke.
My heart flutters just thinking abouthim.
If ever there was a broody bad boy with a secret heart of gold, it would beZeke.
I noticed him almost from the moment I first stepped into the kickboxing studio. With hair the color of hay, eyes like warm chocolate with hazelnut accents and a body like a Grecian god, Zeke was hard to miss. I’d spent the entire month in the self-defense class, but Zeke hadn’t spoken to me once. While my father and I worked with the middle-aged instructors, Zeke and the studio’s owner worked with the younger girls and their dads. That was probably the first, and only, time I’d ever wished I was still apreteen.
To say I’d been happy when Zeke spoke to me after that final class would be an understatement. I hadn’t realized he even knew I existed, much less thought I might want to join the beginner’s kickboxing class. My optimistic, teenage heart hoped he may have been watching me as much as I’d watchedhim.
Obviously, I convinced my parents to let me continue with the classes. I showed up the following Monday to the beginner’s class. Imagine my surprise when I discovered Zeke, himself, was the lead instructor for that particular class. I became a dedicated student. And, dare I say it, Zeke and I became pseudo-friends, aswell.
That is not to say Zeke and I grew as close as I am with Joey or Annie, but we definitely had some form of friendship developing betweenus.
Though he appeared to be standoffish, Zeke was nice to me. He would wait with me outside of the studio for my parents to pick me up. I remember feeling childish. Zeke was so cool, and there I was, a lowly fourteen-year-old, waiting for mommy and daddy to take mehome.
The first couple of nights, I barely said a word to Zeke. I’d been too nervous to do more than hold my gym bag tight and wait insilence.
Then, I don’t know what happened. I guess I had a momentary rise in bravery because I actually spoke to Zeke. I can’t recall, exactly, what I said, but I think it was something about kickboxing. Maybe how long he’d been participating in thesport?
Whatever the question had been, it served its purpose. Zeke actually talked. He answered my question, and then asked me one of his own. Each subsequent night, we grew more and more comfortable around one another. Zeke was quiet, but I realized that didn’t mean he was unfriendly. He’d been nice to me, and I started to live for those two nights a week when I would get the chance to speak with him. Until they suddenlyended.
