The legendary mo seto, p.1
The Legendary Mo Seto, page 1
FOR
MOM AND DAD
CHAPTER 1 I AM FIERCE
I may be small, but I am fierce. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. Over and over again. Fierce.
“Charyeot,” the taekwondo tournament referee says in Korean. Attention.
I snap my arms to my sides.
“Kyeong-nae,” the ref says. Bow.
I turn to face my opponent, Dax Washington. His dark skin glistens with sweat. We dip our heads.
I look up to see Dax towering over me, his eyes stormy.
It suddenly occurs to me how much “fierce” sounds like “fears.” Not that I’m scared or anything. I’m not.
“Sijak!” The ref throws up his hand. Begin! Immediately Dax’s large fists hammer down like a hailstorm.
Well, maybe I’m a little worried.
Dax lunges. I block his front kick with my forearm. I flinch and reel back. The ref blows his whistle, but Dax doesn’t stop. I barely have time to move before—oof—another kick nails me in the elbow.
Okay, fine. I’m totally panicking.
What would Cody Kwok do? My martial arts hero would never show any sign of weakness. And neither will I.
I quickly rearrange my face to neutral.
I kick and punch, and strike and shift. We volley back and forth, each landing some blows, blocking others. Dax’s heel smashes into my elbow, and I let out an involuntary shriek.
The whistle blows, twice this time. Finally Dax falls back. If I were refereeing, I’d give him a penalty. But all this ref says is, “Excessive force warning, Mr. Washington. Remember to use control.”
At least he gives Dax a You should know better look.
And Dax should know better. He’s been in my taekwondo class twice a week, every week, since we were five. And now that we’re twelve and junior black belts, he really has no excuse.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Dax smiles at the ref and bows his apology. He sounds sincere, but I know his phony voice.
And when the ref looks down to reset his scoring box, Dax pulls a Jekyll-and-Hyde, his smile turning into a sneer.
“You’re so gonna lose,” he says, low enough that only I can hear. “ ’Cause…”
He bends his knees so he’s several inches shorter—though even in this position, he towers over me.
I feel a tiny rip in my chest, like when a balloon is pinched but doesn’t pop, that slow leak of air—hisss.
Dax knows how to hit where it hurts. Junior-level sparring is based on age and belt level, not on size. Even after vitamins, and broccoli, and jumping jacks for a year, I’m still only four-foot-six-and-a-half. Mom says the women in her family are late bloomers, but she’s barely four-foot-nine, so I’m not holding my breath.
Why do I have to be so small? The familiar thought bursts through like a weed after a rainstorm. I used to destroy Dax all the time, but ever since his growth spurt at the end of last summer, he’s beat me in the fall, winter, and spring tournaments.
That’s three. Three tourneys.
Silver is great too. Variety is the spice of life, Dad would say, as if losing gold isn’t a big deal. But in the days and weeks after, he’d be more subdued and make me train twice as long every day. Kick harder, Mouse. You must beat him next time, Mouse. Because being the best really does matter to him. A lot.
It matters to me, too. Today’s tourney, the Dost Valley Cali-wide Mid-Year Taekwondo Championship, takes place right at the start of summer, and it is the biggest one of the year. I’ll show Dax.
And—I glance at the bleachers—I’ll show Dad.
“Get him, Mouse.” Dad’s ringing voice reaches my ears. There he is in the front row, as usual, standing out in his bright red polo shirt, dancing his embarrassing dad-dance shuffle thing, hollering his nickname for me. Mouse. Short for “Mousey,” which is what I called myself back when pronouncing my name, Modesty, was impossible for a toddler. He’s been traveling a lot for work the past few months, but he promised he’d be here for my big tournament, and he is.
“Bop,” Dad yells. “Pow.” He throws what looks like an awkward boxer’s jab and nearly topples over onto my mom, sitting, prim and proper, in her flowery dress, clutching my squirming two-year-old brother, Justis. I wince, but I also can’t help smiling.
Dad’s a jokester. With his thick hair and round, clean-shaven face, he looks much younger than thirty-nine. He’s not a tall guy, but he’s broad shouldered with a bit of a belly, and he has a boomingly loud voice, so he tends to stand out.
He’s also my greatest fan.
The ref calls us to attention. “Score is tied. Next point wins. Clean strikes.” He looks pointedly at Dax. Dax scowls, but nods.
The spectators, the sounds, everything around me fades away. It’s just me and my opponent. I pound my gloves softly together like I’m giving them fist bumps. The leather is torn and indented from years of heavy use, but I would never dream of replacing them. Don’t let me down, old friends.
I need to attack first, attack fast, attack with everything I’ve got.
I’m fierce.
The ref drops his hand. Dax lunges at me straightaway, an eclipse blotting out the sun.
I leap to the side, avoiding a flurry of fists. My heart pounds into my rib cage. I launch a roundhouse combination kick, but Dax brushes it away. No points.
Dax advances slowly and steadily, a snake stalking its prey. I stare into his eyes. A flicker to the left could give away a left axe kick a moment before it’s launched. Or a bead of sweat falling into his eye might divert attention long enough for me to attack.
And there it is! Dax glances at something to his side.
I’m just about to spring, when I hear it.
Frenzied music punctuated by a series of doggy yelps. I recognize it instantly. The theme song to my favorite Cody Kwok movie, Shih Tzu Ninjutsu. (What happens when the most feared ninja assassins in the world are actually a group of shih tzu puppies, and the only warrior skilled enough to outsmart them is severely allergic to dogs?)
Dad’s ringtone.
My foot freezes, and it all rushes back to me. The hundreds of people packed into the bleachers. The kihaps from fighters in other matches. The sharp scent of sweat.
I turn slightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad, phone against his ear. He says something to Mom before striding quickly to the nearest exit.
“Yaaaaaahh!” Dax hollers, leaping into a push kick. The force sends me stumbling. I try to step around him, but he’s too big, too wide. He corners me, forcing me to the very edge of the ring. I have nowhere to go.
Fears.
My eyes flicker to Dad just as he walks through the gym door. He doesn’t look back.
What was that old Chinese proverb he used to say whenever I felt scared?
When backed against a wall, a tiger learns to fly.
Is Dad backed against a wall like I am now? Is that why he’s leaving? He promised he’d watch my fight…. Under my toes I feel the plastic tape outlining the ring.
Fly, Mo!
But my feet remain rooted to the ground.
The next thing I see is Dax’s fist tearing toward my face.
CHAPTER 2 WHAT WOULD CODY KWOK DO?
It’s over.
Three seconds later the match is done. I stick around barely long enough to deliver the customary bow to a smirking Dax. If I stayed longer, I’d probably end up wiping that smirk off his face with my fist. In front of a whole gym full of people. That would be embarrassing, and it would, for sure, earn me a “value of good sportsmanship” lecture from Dad.
Or not. Since Dad wouldn’t even see it.
What I’m supposed to do now is head back to the competitors’ bench to watch the ongoing matches. And accept the murmurs of condolences from the other fighters (ugh).
What I’m not supposed to do is sprint out the gym door, dash through the community center hallway, and peer into each corridor for any sign of Dad.
My feet pound against the shiny tiles.
I look left. Empty.
I look right. Empty.
Wait.
There. A flash of red slipping silently through a side door.
“Dad!” The door closes behind him. I run to it, yank it open, and propel myself into the summer sunshine.
“Dad,” I yell again, louder.
He turns, his cell phone still pressed against his ear. His eyes widen at the sight of me. “Mouse.” He doesn’t lower his phone. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you?” I retort.
“I—” He glances quickly around the lawn, at a lone white van I’ve never seen before parked at the end of the street. On the van are the words HIGH-FIVE PLUMBING! I can make out the silhouette of a person in the driver’s seat, and I have a feeling they’re watching us. “I have urgent business with someone. For a building project.”
Urgent business during my tournament? Dad owns a small construction company, and even though he’s been working a lot lately, he still calls the shots. Plus, it’s Sunday. No one works on Sundays.
“You left in the middle of my match.” My voice rises. “You thought I wouldn’t notice? This is something Mom would do, not you.” I take a step, and then another. Why does he keep inching away? And why is he still on the phone? Doesn’t he care about my fight?
Doesn’t he care about me?
I rush on. “You didn’t even stick around to see how it ended. So, let me tell you. I lost. I lost again.”
That’s four. Four tourneys.
“Mouse. Dad’s voice is soft, stern, and perhaps tinged with something else, but I can’t tell over the pounding in my ears. He pauses, like he’s listening to whoever’s on the other end of the line. He starts to move, and I think he’s going to come to me, to envelop me in his arms, just as he’s done time and time again. To tell me that even though I lost, I’m not a loser, that he loves me and is proud of me. That he’ll help me train harder for the next tournament, that I can do it.
That everything is okay.
Something flickers in his eye. Fear? No, it can’t be. He’s not afraid of anything. Then his brows press together. The look he gives me is filled with sorrow, as if his eyes are saying a silent Sorry.
Instead of coming to me, he turns and runs, widening the gap between us. I’m too shocked to do anything but stare as he reaches the white van and hops in. Immediately the van drives off, rounds a corner, disappears from sight.
The heat behind my eyes flows over, and tears course down my cheeks.
I lost the tournament. I lost Dad.
Everything is not okay.
* * *
“Second place in the junior black belt sparring division goes to Mo Seto.”
I step back inside the gym in time to hear Grand Master Kang announce my name. My feet feel like lead.
The grand master hands me a trophy. It’s not the gold double-decker first-place trophy still on the table. This one’s a dull silver. And much smaller. Of course, second place isn’t technically losing, but it might as well be. I bow quickly to the grand master and then to the audience as they applaud. I walk to the podium at the front of the gym and take my place next to the third-place winner, Oliver Hoffman. Behind us are three flags. The flag of South Korea, the stars and stripes of the United States of America, and, in the middle, a white banner bearing the crest of the Universal Taekwondo Federation.
The same crest that is sewn onto my dobok, positioned directly over my heart like a shield.
Taekwondo is who I am, what I’m great at.
Or so I thought.
I drop my left hand holding the silver trophy and let it dangle behind my legs, as if my knees can block out my disgrace.
I take a deep breath. “Good fight,” I whisper to Oliver.
Oliver peers at me through his wispy blonde hair. “Yours was a tough one.” He tilts his head at Dax, who is standing next to Grand Master Kang at the side of the podium. They are almost the same height. “He keeps getting bigger.”
He’ll always be bigger. I yank my ponytail out angrily. My waist-length hair tumbles around my face, blocking my view of Dax.
Oliver leans closer and lowers his voice. “I heard Dax say he’s taking a break from TKD classes for the summer. Something about visiting his aunt. Maybe that’ll give us a chance to catch up.”
No Dax for the whole summer sounds too good to be true. I manage a smile. Oliver and I shake hands.
“And now,” says Grand Master Kang, “I present the best-in-class showing at the Mid-Year Taekwondo Championship to Dax Washington.”
My eyes sting, and I force back a fresh round of tears.
If only I’d trained even harder. If only Dad hadn’t taken his phone call. If only he believed in me. If only I weren’t so small….
Dax walks over to take his place beside me. My arm feels like lead. Do the right thing, shake his hand, I tell myself. But when I bring my hand up, Dax turns his back to me and lifts his arms. It’s a cocky move, but the crowd cheers. Did he see my hand? My cheeks burn. Awkwardly I lift my hand to scratch my nose as if I meant to do that all along.
I hate Dax. I hate him so much.
Though, right now, I’m not exactly loving myself, either.
* * *
Outside the gym, I can barely move. It’s like all two hundred competitors are jammed into the hallway. I turn toward the main entrance, where I’m supposed to meet my family at our usual spot. Mom told me to be quick. She needs to get home to prep for a new student she’s tutoring.
Through the crowd I spot my best friend, Ignacio Garcia, fidgeting with his old SLR camera. He’s pretty hard to miss, since he’s freakishly tall for someone who just turned thirteen last month. Last time I asked, he said he’s five-foot-six, and he has definitely grown since then. Whatever magic growth potion he and Dax have been drinking, I need some of that—stat. I wasn’t expecting to see him today, but I’m glad he’s here. Somehow he’s always able to make me feel better.
“Nacho!” I yell his nickname.
He looks up. “Hey, Modesty.” He squeezes past a bunch of people. Despite countless threats of violence and several incidents of actual violence, he’s the only person who insists on using my full first name. I hate being called Modesty, and he knows it. I think that’s why he does it.
My Chinese name means “modesty,” or “humility,” or some kind of cringy virtue like that, so Mom decided to give me the English name “Modesty” as well. Once, I looked up my name in a thesaurus, and I didn’t like what I saw: “timidity,” “meekness,” “shyness.” But the one that made me say “Why, Mom?” out loud was “smallness.” Thanks for rubbing it in, Thesaurus. I closed the book, more determined than ever to grow another foot—or two. Never happened. So, yeah, it’s the worst name ever. Even worse than my brother’s name, Justis, for the virtue, of course, of justice.
Nacho’s dark brown hair looks tousled, but I know how much time he puts into making it perfect. He raises his voice over the din. “Gramps’s b-day lunch ended early, so I came by. But dude over there wouldn’t let me in after it started.” He shoots a mock angry look through his black-rimmed glasses at one of the conference organizers by the door.
Nacho readjusts the camera strap across his chest. On his T-shirt is an image of an otter with Gramps’s face, and the words “Gramps, there’s no otter like you.”
I burst out laughing, surprising myself, given how crappy I’m feeling, and poke my finger at it. “This is awesome.”
“I made them for Gramps and Mom and Dad. We all wore them to lunch. It was the best.” Nacho turns his camera. “Anyway, check out this pic. Managed to sneak in some shots through the windows.”
He points to someone with black hair in a white taekwondo uniform on his tiny screen. I immediately feel a wave of disgust. “Tell me you didn’t take a picture of me.” I hate, hate, hate seeing photos of myself. I hate my stubby legs, my narrow shoulders, the fact that I’m always at least a head or two shorter than everyone else. I especially don’t want to see a photo capturing my most monumental loss. “That’s not me, right?”
“Nooooooo?” Nacho says.
“You’re going to delete it, right?”
“Suuuuuure,” Nacho says, the dimple on his cheek deepening.
“Nacho!” I raise my trophy as if I’m ready to smack him with it.
Nacho doesn’t reply. Instead he swings his camera behind his back and says, “That was a close fight.” He doesn’t tell me silver is good enough. He knows it’s not.
“He’s so big. It’s not fair.” Immediately my arms droop, my lips droop. Everything feels droopy. I don’t want to complain about Dax anymore. “Can we talk about something else? Please?” I dump my trophy into Nacho’s arms and wipe my hands on my pants as if second place is a disease.
“Sure, sure.” Nacho has heard me talk about Dax too many times to count. He pushes up his glasses with his index finger, a look I know very well—history lesson time. Nacho loves old things. His old camera, antique knickknacks, and vinyl records. He has a whole series of travel guidebooks where he sticky-notes all the pages with history tidbits he finds interesting. I figure it’s because he grew up hanging around his grandparents so much. History is just another old thing he’s obsessed with.
“Did you know that in the early nineteenth century, there were no weight or height classes in professional fighting? Size mismatches were dangerous, but sometimes fighters chose to challenge bigger competitors so they could say they were better pound for pound—”
“Nacho!”
“Okay.” Nacho puts his hands up in surrender as we attempt to move through the crowded hallway. “So, I’m starting photography camp next Monday.”
I barely hear Nacho. A bunch of kids are jumping up and down at the front of the crowd, shouting. Everyone seems to be shuffling in that direction.
