Casey and Rosemary climbed the creaky wooden steps to the third floor, passing an old-fashioned weight room and a dance academy full of trophies, dance clothes, and waiting mothers.
Finally, on the third floor, Rosemary entered a large square room. The wooden floor was covered with a mat, along with a cluster of children in Dobaks and protective head gear. A man stood over them as they sparred in pairs.
“Our teacher,” Rosemary sighed.
The man, tall and thick, wore all black, including his thick black belt, and his feet were bare. His long black hair lay against his back in a ponytail, pulled away from his broad face. Curly hair sprouted from the V of his jacket, and Casey could feel his confidence from across the room.
Casey smiled to herself. So that’s why Rosemary comes here.
“The changing room is over here.” Rosemary skirted the mat, showing Casey to a wooden door. “Anybody in there?” Without waiting for an answer, she flung it open, revealing a teenaged boy, complete in a Dobak, a red belt wrapped around his waist.
“Sorry!” Rosemary said. “You’re done, right?”
He scuttled out.
Rosemary waved Casey in. “All yours.”
Casey shut the door behind her and locked it, breathing in the smell of the dojang. Sweat. Effort. Composure. She changed, hanging her clothes on a hook on the wall.
Walking barefoot back into the classroom, she eyed the other students who would be participating in the class. The children were done now, one black belt student helping to remove their helmets and foot protection. On the outside of the mat stood several adults in hapkido uniforms—two more men with black belts, a few teenage boys with various colored belts, and Rosemary, resplendent in her yellow belt, one level up from the white Casey was wearing.
“If you’re not experienced at this you can just watch,“ Rosemary said.
“Oh,” Casey said. “I’ll be all right.”
She looked away to find the instructor studying her from across the room. She kept eye contact, and he moved, catlike, across the mat to stand in front of her.
“My friend,” Rosemary breathed. “Casey.”
He tipped his head in a bow. “Cole Damon.”
Casey bowed back. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Is this your first time?” He indicated her white belt.
“I have some experience, sir.”
“I see.” He waited for her to explain.
She didn’t.
“Welcome to our class,” he said. “Participate as you are able.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He bowed again and walked to the front of the class.
“Aaaah,” Rosemary sighed.
“Two lines,” Mr. Damon said.
Casey bowed to the mat before following Rosemary to the back row, where she took the far right hand corner, the spot for the lowest belt.
“Chung Jah,” the instructor said.
The class turned to the American flag and dropped to their knees.
“Kukki-Eh Dehe Kyong Ye,” he said.
They bowed to the flag.
“Wonki-Eh Dehe Kyong Ye.”
They bowed to the Association flag.
“Kwan Jang Nim Ke Kyong Ye,” a black belt said.
They turned and bowed to the instructor.
“Yu Dahn Jah Kyong Ye,” a colored belt said.
They bowed to the black belts.
“Sooriun Guht,” Damon said.
They began.
Casey worked through the jumping jacks, push-ups, sit-ups, and squats on auto-pilot, her body taking over for her brain. She dropped, jumped, crunched, and stretched, and only when Damon instructed them to stop did she realize the other colored belts were watching her with something that resembled fear.
Damon, standing in front of the class, was not afraid. A smile tickled the side of his mouth. He sent them to do kicks by the wall, and Casey was glad to evade his eyes. Trying to put him out of her mind, she concentrated on the swing of her legs, and the force of her kicks.
After a few more strength-training exercises, Damon called for the extra mats. Casey, as the lowest belt there, helped Rosemary and the teenage boys pull the cushioning to the center of the room.
“Forward rolls,” Damon said.
They took turns at corners, rolling one after the other, until he changed instructions. They moved from front rolls to side rolls, from backward rolls to side falls. Damon stopped them. “Dives.”
He crouched down on the edge of the mat.
“Oh, lord,” Rosemary muttered. “I hate these. I always end up doing push-ups.”
This time was no exception, as her dive over Damon ended with her walloping him in the side. She moved over to the side for her consequence.
Damon peered up at Casey, from where he waited. She ran to him lightly, diving over him and rolling into a crouch without much effort.
“Another,” Damon said.
One of the black belts joined him on the floor, on the far side, and the line went through again, diving and rolling. Rosemary, after another failed attempt, joined the two on the floor.
“Now,” Damon said to Casey.
She dove and rolled.
“Another,” Damon said, adding another student to the line.
They dove.
“Another,” Damon said.
Five on the ground. Only Casey, a black belt, and one of the coloreds left to go.
The black belt dove, nicking his fellow black belt with a foot. He dropped for push-ups. The colored belt pretty much crushed the last in the line, and headed for the floor.
“Go,” Damon said.
Casey breathed in. Breathed out. Ran. Dove. Rolled into a squat.
Damon sat up, looking at Casey. “Man in the Middle.”
A black belt stepped into the center of the mat, while the rest took places around the edge. One of the other black belts went after the middle man with a kick. The middle man fended him off, taking him to his knees. Another attacked, ending up on his face. Rosemary stepped up, her fist out, and the black belt gently lowered her to the mat.
Damon nodded at Casey. She attacked from the side, a kick to the black belt’s ribs. He grabbed her leg, flipping and pinning her. She hopped up.
Each student took a turn defending against attackers. Finally, it was Casey’s turn. She stepped to the middle, arms loose at her sides, nerves tingling.
She heard the first one coming from the back, felt his arm coming around her throat. She positioned her hip under his waist, lifted, and flung him to the ground, circling around, ready for the next.
He came from the front, fist to her face. She fended off the punch, twisting his arm to take him down.
Another from the back, who ended up on his side.
From the front.
From the side.
Rosemary came at her, eyes sparkling, and Casey twisted her to the floor.
Finally, it was Damon’s turn.
He struck without warning, an open hand to her jaw. She parried his arm away, punched twice in his ribs, deflected his arm with her elbow and swung it backward, enclosing his wrist in her hand and twisting his arm. He dropped to his knees and she pulled him forward, spinning him to the ground, a knee on his shoulder, his hand twisted backward, his face in the mat.
He slapped the mat twice with his free hand.
She let go.
He stood, that same smile on his lips, and bowed slightly. Casey bowed back.
“Drink,” he said.
The others peeled off, toward the drinking fountain, but kept their attention on Casey and Damon, who stood eye to eye on the mat.
“You have studied before,” Damon said.
“Yes, sir.”
“You wear a white belt.”
“Out of respect for your dojang, sir.”
He nodded. “Where did you study?”
She hesitated. “At a reputable school, sir.”
“Yes. I see that.” He bowed again. “A drink.”
“Yes, sir.”
She hadn’t brought a water bottle, but found an old drinking fountain in the hallway.
“What was that?” Rosemary screeched in her ear.
Casey shrugged.
“You didn’t tell me you were a black belt.”
Casey stood up, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “It’s white today.”
Rosemary guffawed. “Don’t you give me that.” She put a hand to her forehead. “You’ve had some experience, you told him. Some experience meaning you’ve taken on the likes of Bruce Lee?”
“Bruce Lee doesn’t practice true hapkido,” Casey said.
Rosemary rolled her eyes.
Casey walked back into the room and bowed to the mat before stepping on.
“Techniques,” Damon said. “Pair up. Taylor.” He spoke to a black belt. “You’re with her.” He indicated Casey.
“Yes, sir.”
Casey and her partner didn’t so much practice techniques as spar, working each other through various forms and patterns. Sweat ran in rivulets down Casey’s face as she circled, struck, and parried, and her jacket clung to her back. She could feel the moves coming back, as if they’d never left, as if she’d been keeping them at bay for just this moment.
“Enough,” Damon finally said. “Hyung.”
Casey sighed, shaking out her limbs, and lined up in the back row, where she’d begun class. All eight students began the forms, patterns of movement memorized and practiced time and again. By the fifth form only she and the black belts remained, all of them moving, striking, blocking…dancing together.
When they’d finished the patterns the rest of the belts joined them, and they repeated the bowing ceremony, bowing to the flags, to Damon, to the black belts. Casey stood, walked off the mat, and turned, bowing to it.
“I know your teacher,” Damon said quietly.
She looked up.
“Doug Custer and I studied together under Master Timmerman.”
She cleared her throat, wanting to run. It had been a mistake to come here.
“Your secret is safe,” Damon said. “Whatever it is.”
She looked at the floor, then back at his piercing eyes. “How could you tell?”
“That you have a secret?”
“That I studied with Master Custer.”
He smiled. “You spread your fingers on your palm strikes. You circle after an attack. The signs are there.”
Casey laughed under her breath. “I guess I’m not as smart as I thought I was, coming here.”
He shook his head. “He will not know I have seen you.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “If that is what you wish.”
“It is.”
He glanced at the white belt. “It doesn’t work for you. If you come back, wear your real belt.”
“Yes, sir.” She bowed, and stepped away.
“Casey.”
She turned back.
“You have a talent not many possess. You must realize that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He looked at her a moment longer before dismissing her with a nod.
She escaped to the dressing room, but it was locked. She stood in the corner of the waiting area, arms crossed, looking at the floor, until the three black belts emerged. One paused, but she eased past him, into the changing room, where she closed and locked the door. She dropped to the bench and clutched her hands together between her knees, to keep them from shaking.
Damon knew who she was. If not entirely, or completely, he’d recognized her form. Her essence. When she stopped shaking enough to stand she changed quickly, left the room, and headed down the stairs and out to Rosemary’s car without a backward glance.
Rosemary soon followed, peering at Casey over the top of her car. “You…” She shook her head.
Casey looked away, the confidence of the classroom fading as she considered getting back into the car.
“So what do you think of Master Damon?” Rosemary asked.
Casey puffed out her cheeks. “He’s too smart.”
Rosemary laughed, the tinkling sound echoing from the buildings. “Smart?”
“He is.”
“Of course he is. But more than that…” She leaned over the car, lowering her voice. “He’s a dreamboat.”
Casey looked at Rosemary, at her eyes sparkling under her orange hair, and shook her head. What some women wouldn’t do for a man.