Karen’s head aches and her eyes refuse to focus; the last thing she needs is a confrontation. In all honesty, she has forgotten Candice’s brief message on the answering machine; all events immediately following her painful fall to the floor have mangled together in a haze. But now that dinner is over, now that Morris and Andy have retreated to the living room with their slices of carob cream cake, Karen wearily remembers the phone message and realizes that a confrontation is inevitable: Candice disobeyed orders by visiting Gloria, and Karen will now have to inform Morris and discipline of some sort will be required.
To her surprise, Candice brings up the subject first.
“Look, I know I’m not supposed to see Gloria except on weekends, okay? But I have this biology project due, and I haven’t made any friends yet at Sutherland.” Candice scrubs viciously at a pan, soap suds flying like spittle from her scouring pad. “I mean, how can I make friends at that stupid school? They’re all retroactive abortion candidates. And so Gloria helped me out, just this once. I mean, Dad doesn’t have to know, okay?”
“I can’t conceal it from your —”
“Reality check, Mom. I’m not asking you to conceal it. All I’m saying is, because you banished me from the only real friend I have in the world, I wasn’t able to finish my homework. I needed Gloria’s help. Her school is way ahead of mine. I mean, we’re still learning about circulation and they’re already doing reproduction —”
“Why couldn’t you ask a teacher for help?”
“There was a staff meeting right after school, the report is due tomorrow, and it’s worth twenty percent of our marks in biology. If I didn’t have it ready in time, I’d have flunked. You don’t want me to flunk again, do you?”
Candice avoids Karen’s eyes and concentrates on removing crusts of baked cheese from the pan. Karen studies her daughter, dishtowel hanging limp and forgotten in her own hands. Something looks wrong in this scenario, sounds wrong: Candice’s flushed cheeks, her atypical dishwashing energy, her lack of defiant glaring .
“You aren’t making this up, are you?” Karen asks.
Candice’s head snaps up. Her flush deepens. She clenches the scouring pad with white fingers. “That’s great, Mom, just great! I didn’t have to phone you, you know. Mr. and Mrs. Vermicelli weren’t even home. But, no, I decided I’d do the right thing and tell you about it, and what do I get in return? You call me a liar. That’s just great!”
“But you seem so agitated.”
“Of course I’m agitated! Why shouldn’t I be agitated? You blame my marks at school on my friendship with Gloria, you separate us, and then when I try to improve my marks at my new school, you call me a liar ’cause I’m honest enough to tell you I met with my only real friend to get help with some stupid homework!”
Karen knows there are a half-dozen flaws in her daughter’s logic, but she also knows that the tears of frustration welling in Candice’s eyes, the taut quaver in her voice, and the frustration emanating from every pore in her body are more important than the flaws. Not for the first time, Karen feels a pang of guilt at complying with the decision Morris and Angelo Vermicelli made to separate Candice and Gloria.
“Tell me what we should have done then,” she says, pressing her fingers against her throbbing temples and trying to concentrate. “We tried everything for you, Candice — tutors, curfews, rewards, mentor programs ... nothing worked. Both you and Gloria failed Grade 11 and it looked like you were going to do the same again this —”
“What has that got to do with anything?” Candice cries. “That’s just so typical of you to change the —”
“I’m not changing —”
“Yes, you are!” Her voice cracks, and a tear drags mascara down one cheek. “Look, I’m not a liar, okay? I went to Gloria’s and was honest enough to phone you about it! I don’t know why I even bothered!” She throws the scouring pad into the sink. “You can wash the dishes yourself for all I care!”
Karen watches her barge through the swinging doors, hears her thump down the hall...One second, two seconds, three seconds, wham! The whole house reverberates as Candice slams her bedroom door closed. Karen winces; the sound feels like a cannon placed against her temple. She gropes for the counter, eyes watering, and inadvertently knocks her crutches to the floor. They land with a repercussive clamour.
“Mom?” a small voice says behind her. “Dad wants to know what’s going on.”
“Nothing,” Karen whispers hoarsely. “Nothing. Your sister is having some female problems, that’s all. She’s feeling a little under the weather.”
A pause. “Do you want me to help you finish the dishes?”
“Oh, Andy ...” Karen whispers, and this time it is her turn to release a tear. “What on earth did I do to deserve you?”
Chapter Six
Moey favours modern belly-dance music from Algeria and Morocco as opposed to traditional Pharaonic compositions. As he searches through his CDs for a suitable piece for his premiere performance at the Footstop tomorrow, he puts aside “Ya Raya” (an uplifting little tune) and, as a possible alternative, “Nahawad” (a dramatic, mysterious song). At the same time, in his mannishly cramped script, he writes his monthly Vitality Sermon.
On the last training day of every month, Master Zahbar asks his instructors to deliver unto his students a rousing speech filled with martial-arts wisdom. He has provided his instructors with a self-published manual of Key Elements to be included in these speeches. This evening Moey has chosen Key Element No. 7 (Train Without Music) and No. 17 (Never Feel Relief). He picked both at random.
To say Moey is writing without thought is completely wrong; he is doing a great deal of thinking as his left hand flips through his CD rack and his right hand places inky chicken scratches upon paper. Only he isn’t thinking about martial arts; no, he’s thinking about double-veil routines versus sword acts. Improvisation versus choreography. Taped music versus a live band.
Moey doesn’t feel guilty about this discrepancy in mental acuity, because many years ago he learned that Master Zahbar grows agitated when his instructors embellish on the wisdom inscribed in his manual; therefore, other than the occasional use of a synonym, Moey copies the Master’s Vitality Sermons verbatim from the guidebook. More than once he chafed at this restriction, questioned the correctness of it, because some of the Master’s philosophies seem rooted not so much in fact but opinion. Yet who is Moey, a prairie-town trophy holder, to question the beliefs of a world kickboxing champion?
So as Moey sweats and frets over the petrifying, exhilarating prospect of doing his first public belly-dancing performance on the morrow, this is what he writes:
A dedicated martial artist does not train to music. Music is an addictive drug, supplying the martial artist with a false and temporary energy. It creates an unharmonious barrier between the mind and the body, so that the body becomes unable to function adequately without the stimulation of music. What does a martial artist do when in a Real Street Situation? Does he turn up the volume on his walkman? Look for the closest radio? Start singing the lyrics of the latest top-ten song?
No! He must draw on all his resources, focus all his energy, to deal with the threat at hand. He is a warrior! No warrior relies on outside stimuli to perform. If you are training to music, stop now, or I guarantee that when a Real Street Situation crops up, you will be unable to adequately defend yourself!
And he also copies this down verbatim from Element No. 17:
The path to