“And I don’t know what I’m doing!” he says. “That’s why I’m trying to be so careful with you—”
“You don’t have to be careful at all!” I snarl, practically snapping my nure-onna fangs at him.
“Enough.” Sensei Mary holds up a hand and steps closer to us. “Henry: that was not a bad start. You have the general idea of the motion, but you’re too trapped in your head, worried about getting it wrong. And perhaps”—her gaze slides to me—“allowing other things to distract you.”
My blush is just a constant state of being now. But I can also feel the more familiar thrum of my kaiju-temper beating against my breastbone, raging through my veins, demanding to be set free. There’s something comforting about it—like I know this state of being way better and am therefore more comfortable with it and trying desperately to hold on to it with both hands.
But . . . why am I suddenly so mad? There’s no reason for it. He was trying to be careful. As careful as he was when he kissed me last night.
I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my kaiju-temper and focus on what Sensei Mary’s saying.
“Judo is all about contrasts, bringing seemingly conflicting ideas together,” she says. “You want your form to be precise, your movements to be calculated—but there’s also an element of going with the flow, allowing your body to instinctually fuse with what you are doing. If you’re too rigid, your opponent will be able to take advantage of that.”
Henry nods, his brow tightly furrowed—like he really wants to get this.
“Rika-chan,” Sensei Mary says, amusement flickering in her eyes, “remember to be patient with beginners. Henry will learn, we just have to drill it over and over again and encourage him, mmm? We must be as patient as I was with you when you were small.”
“Yes, Sensei,” I murmur, looking down at the mat.
“Go again,” Sensei Mary says, clapping her hands together.
We resume our positions, facing each other. This time, Henry makes his movements firmer, faster. When he hauls me over his shoulder and tries to flip me, it’s still awkward and his movements are still too slow—but he doesn’t try to second-guess or soften my fall. I brace myself and land with a satisfying whump.
“Better!” Sensei Mary calls out. “Again.”
“How many times before I master this?” Henry says, giving me a rueful half smile as we face off.
“Master it? Probably like a million,” I say. “But I think we can get you to ‘looks like he mostly knows what he’s doing’ reasonably fast.”
“This is way harder than it looks,” he says, as I reach out to put my hand on his chest.
That makes me want to bristle again—like, what, he thought this thing I’ve dedicated a good chunk of my life to would be easy? But that flash of irritation has no real heat behind it. It’s an instinctual response, a thing my nure-onna self wants me to pounce on and lash out with and hold close to my chest until nothing but fire blazes through me.
That fire will keep me from feeling anything else.
“I think that’s what’s so cool about it,” Henry continues. “Like, people always tell me I make dancing look effortless—but that’s cause I’m putting in a whole lot of effort to make it seem that way.”
“Yeah,” I say slowly—and my anger just . . . dissipates. I tentatively smile back at him.
“All right,” Sensei Mary says, clearing her throat again. “Let’s go, kids.”
We drill the move again and again, Henry flowing through it a little more easily every time. His brow gets less furrowed, his grip becomes more assured. He’s less hesitant when he flips me, that combination of technique and instinct slowly beginning to fuse together.
We start drilling faster, falling into the calming repetition of the movements. After a bit, we stop talking entirely, developing an unspoken routine. He throws me, I get back up, and we face each other again. Over and over and over again, the whump of me landing on the mat giving us a rhythm. Sensei Mary falls silent, ceasing her corrections and stepping back so we have more space to work.
When I fall for what seems like the umpteenth time, Sensei Mary finally claps her hands together, and Henry and I both jump. We’d gotten so into our rhythm, I’d sort of forgotten she was there.
“Yes—good!” Sensei Mary says, beaming as she steps closer to us. “I think you’ve got it, Henry—you’re a fast learner. So there’s one stellar move you can show them, and if you need more help, please come back. I’m happy to teach you others.”
“Thank you,” he says, giving her a little bow. He’s breathing hard again—this time from actual exertion and not because he’s, you know, distracted. “Can we try it a few more times, though? I want my body to really learn it. I know I’ve got a dance move down when I feel like it’s now housed in my bones or something.”
“I actually have to head out,” Sensei Mary says. “But you two can stay here and drill as long as you like—just make sure to lock up when you leave, Rika-chan. You know where the key is.”
“Oh, of course,” I say. “But . . . are you sure, Sensei Mary? I don’t want to, um . . .”
I trail off, not sure what I’m trying to say. I do know where the key is—all the older kids do, in case there’s an emergency. Sensei Mary keeps it underneath the little potted bonsai by the entrance. But this isn’t an emergency, and I’ve never been entrusted with this task before. I’ve never been left alone in the dojo. Whenever the possibility of that has come up, I’ve imagined myself somehow destroying the whole building. I don’t even know how, I just feel like my kaiju-temper would find a way. Sweet, even-keeled Eliza would be a more natural fit for this kind of responsibility.
But Eliza’s not here.
“I trust you,” Sensei Mary says simply. She flashes Henry one last
