“Again,” Hwa said. “Harder.”
Joel began another round of awkward kicks to the dummy. His range was improving; he couldn’t get into the splits yet, but a daily practise of single-leg circles (clockwise and then anti-clockwise, breathing in as the foot swung away and out as it returned) was getting him to where he could do a respectable standing split and his legs could make a good ninety-degree angle with his body for about seven breaths at twelve beats each. His kicks would improve once he developed more muscle in the core and the legs, but his posture was still a problem. The kid’s navel just didn’t want to meet his spine.
“Your muscles are like a rubber band,” Hwa said, for what felt like the hundredth time. “Right now, they’re fine. You got by this long without working them because they’re young. But you have to work them, tighten them up—”
“Wouldn’t working a rubber band diminish its elasticity?” Joel asked, as his kicks grew weaker. His leg was flopping around everywhere. Dumb kid was about to throw out his hip flexor and IT band. Again.
“Other leg. And yes. But I’m the one who knows this stuff, not you.”
He snorted, and sweat flew up into his hairline. “That’s not much of an explanation.”
Hwa mimed playing a violin.
“I’m doing the Armstrong regimen when I’m done growing,” Joel huffed. His leg hammered the dummy. He held his breath tight inside his chest. She watched his shoulders begin their slow climb up to his ears. It was like his body could only do one thing at a time: breathe or kick. The air whooshed out of him in a single frustrated stream. “You know that, right? Once my muscles are done—”
“You have to have muscles, first, for the Armstrong regimen to work,” Hwa said. “Get into Pigeon.”
His leg fell. “What? Again?”
“Your hip flexor is still too tight.”
Joel looked around the rest of the gym. “It’ll look really weird, in front of all these people.”
“Oh, yeah, because you were really a paragon of catlike grace right there.” Hwa nodded at the mat. “Do it.”
Joel muttered something and knelt down. He tucked one knee under himself, and stretched the other leg behind him. He was still too tight to stretch his ribs over his knees, or even rest his forearms on the floor.
“Shouldn’t I be lifting weights, to gain muscle?”
“You can lift weights after you build your core. You need something to hold your spine in place before you start doing power-cleans. You’re only fifteen. This is a building year, for you. Next year, you can start to sculpt.”
Next year. If he had a next year.
“Hey, Hwa!” From the other side of the gym, Coach Brandvold waved her over. Hwa jogged over, and stiffened when Brandvold greeted her with a hug. Brandvold was always giving hugs. It was weird. “How are you doing?”
Hwa was never sure what people really meant when they asked this question. It could mean any number of things: How’s the gunshot wound? Had any seizures lately? How are you getting along now that your brother’s dead? What’s your whore mother up to, these days?
“I’m good,” Hwa said. “I got a new apartment.”
“Oh, neat! Where?”
“1-07.”
“1-07?” Coach Alexander snorted. “Do they not pay you enough? Shit, I live on 1-13.”
Hwa shrugged. “I’m just trying to save money.”
Coach Alexander hmm’d in her throat, which was the noise she made when someone turned in an assignment late in Social Studies.
“You going to the game? Homecoming’s … coming, I guess.”
“Nope. Sorry.”
Coach Brandvold elbowed her. “What about the dance?”
“I don’t go to those things.”
“Won’t you have to, if Joel goes?”
Hwa shuddered. Trapped with her detail on the community floor of Tower Two, constantly swatting away fairy-lights and standing in line for the washroom behind giggling girls whispering blowjob tips to each other was one of her visions of Hell.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“How is Joel?” Coach Brandvold looked over her shoulder at him. Joel winced and gave Hwa a dirty look. “He’s looking more flexible, lately.”
“He’s making progress.” Hwa shrugged. “Anyway. I should get back to him.”
She made to leave, but Coach Alexander leaned over and whispered something at her. “Hey, Hwa. Is it true one of the other teachers here has a type?”
Hwa frowned. “A type?”
“You know,” Coach Brandvold said. “That someone else on staff would rather keep relationships … professional.”
Moliter. Someone had seen Moliter with Eileen. On a date. And now it was all over the school. Whoever was doing Hwa’s old job was doing a shitty job of it.