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Sixteen years old/10th Grade/April
“I’m leaving now,” I announced loudly from the kitchen. I retied my black belt and looked at the time on the microwave. “Don’t be late,” I hollered out.
“We won’t,” Dad promised as he stood in the great room and stared at his watch.
“Okay, it starts at nine. They won’t let people in after that so it doesn’t break anyone’s concentration.”
“Do you have to do anything specific at the promotion?” Morgan asked.
“No. The advanced students are there to support the novices as they go through their promotion,” I explained.
Moving from white belt to the yellow belt was virtually a gimme. It meant you had dedication to learning the martial art and were ready to learn more. There really wasn’t a test, but the instructors had the white belt students perform some basic maneuvers and stances. Moving from the yellow belt to the orange meant you had developed some skills. The test for the orange belt meant the students would perform a series of skills, stances, basic blocks, strikes, and kicks, and then a vocabulary test. Patrick would do fine on the exam. I’d been testing him on the vocabulary while we worked out before and after school.
“I hardly remember my promotion to the orange belt,” Chase said as he raced for the fridge. Chase topped out at an orange belt and then moved to soccer. My parents were thoroughly thrilled that Chase came home from soccer tired.
“Chase, sweetie, we don’t have time for a snack. We need to get going so we can get to the studio on time and see Patrick,” Mom reminded Chase.
Patrick had shit for a family, and I knew none of them were going to be there for him today. Morgan was planning on coming, and when Mom and Dad heard about it, they said they’d attend as well. Which also meant…
“I’ll get my farts out in the car,” Chase said.
Chase would come along too.
“Okay, I’ll see you guys there,” I said and headed toward the garage.
Even though I wasn’t up for promotion today, I still went through my warm-up routine. Each time the double doors opened, I glanced over to see if it was Patrick. My parents and brothers arrived before he did. All the students were here at five till nine except Patrick. The instructors were starting to get set, and the table at the front had yellow and orange belts waiting to hand out to those who’d earned them. Patrick better be the recipient of an orange belt. He’d worked for it and deserved it… if he ever showed up.
I was really starting to worry he wasn’t going to show. But a few minutes before nine, Patrick hurried through the double doors and briskly walked to the locker room to change. Why wasn’t he ready? Less than a minute later he reappeared and quietly took his spot beside me.
“Hey,” I whispered to him. He looked at me, and I felt like something was off with him. His eyes were distant, and he seemed frazzled. He needed to concentrate. “Patrick, you’ve got this. Concentrate. I have faith in you.”
He smiled faintly and nodded before he turned his attention to the front. All the advanced students were asked to move to the perimeter of the mats while current white belt students performed their tasks to earn their yellow belts. While the white belt students performed, my heart pounded nervously for Patrick’s turn. He knew the material, but he didn’t seem like himself right now.
The white belt students were done and seated along the perimeter. Patrick’s group stood and went to the center of the room to get ready. On the opposite side of the room, Chase waved a pennant he made at home out of felt from Mom’s art supplies. The gray felt was attached to a twelve-inch wood dowel and had Patrick’s name in black. I smiled when I saw the pennant being waved because other students all had at least one member of their family here to support them. Patrick had us, and he wasn’t alone.
The parents and friends quieted down, and the students began performing their tasks. Patrick was stiff as he went through the motions. He hadn’t warmed up properly. He should have warmed up. I prayed the instructors would take mercy on him, though I knew if I had been the instructor with the final say, there was no way I could have accepted all of Patrick’s moves.
His kicks were hardly kicks.
His strikes were barely strikes.
Nothing was sharp or remotely precise.
What the fuck was happening?
It was agonizing to watch him because he knew how to do these moves with precision. He’d practiced with Morgan and me. Even Chase helped.
The instructors gave each yellow belt student a sheet of paper for the vocabulary portion. This was simple; he only needed to match words to their definitions. We’d practiced these. He knew these. As students around him turned in their paper, they returned to sit quietly on the floor beside their friends or family. After Patrick turned in his paper, he sat by himself on the floor. I stood and walked over to where he was sitting.
“Hey, you okay?” I asked quietly.
Patrick nodded but didn’t look at me. I noticed a faint blue mark around his neck. His hands gripped the side of his gi by his knees.
Once everything was graded, the instructor addressed the group and explained that if your name was called to come to the front to collect your new belt. If your name wasn’t called, he would allow retesting in three weeks. Okay, so if Patrick didn’t earn the orange belt today, he wouldn’t have to wait another three months.
“Hey, did you hear that?” I asked. There was no reaction from him. “If you didn’t pass, no problem. He’ll retest in three weeks.”
I tried to sound encouraging because I felt like that was necessary, but Patrick wasn’t hearing me. I clenched my hands into fists as the instructor read off names. Please say Patrick’s name.
