Chapter 17: Kerry And Kelly, And Hapkido

Come Monday the routine of school was again at the forefront. Over the next couple of weeks I would see Bryn in the hall at a distance, and she would smile if she saw me, sometimes give a little wave, but she had her friends and wouldn’t normally break away to talk to me.

Rooney Cullough still roamed the halls with his entourage, though interestingly he never seemed to run into me, either by chance or by plan. I was dying to know more about the effect of the linkcast on him. I was also thinking about Bryn’s comments on Rooney’s abusive side.

However, I continued to get harassed, as did all the nerds, by many other jocks. Also interestingly, the linkcast that I had sent Rooney did not seem to work on all jock bullies. Don’t know why, maybe they weren’t driven by the same urges that drove Rooney. But that left me with a problem: Until I found something that could reliably deter the other bullies, I needed to find a way to avoid their assaults and harassment. I hated walking the school halls constantly looking over my shoulder, and the school staff was spread thin enough that they couldn’t cover everywhere.

That Wednesday, after school, I went downtown to purchase some supplies for a science project. The supply house was in a part of town that I didn’t frequent often, not having the minimum number of pizza shops, movie theaters and arcades to placate the normal teenager. I found the address and bought what I needed, stuffed it in my backpack and prepared to bike home.

Across the street was a glass-front studio I had never seen before. The small sign said Kim’s Hapkido. It was essentially a bare square room with mats on the floor. Near the window were a few chairs for visitors.

Apparently a class was in session. There were a mixture of ages in class, and a wide range of sizes, from young kids to college age and up. The instructor seemed to be quite old, with gray hair, short but looking very fit. He was dwarfed by some of the students, who bowed to him and listened when he spoke.

The fascinating thing was watching the big ones attack the small ones, and having the small ones throw the big ones to the ground, apparently effortlessly, and then pin them with grips so painful that the attacker slapped the mat begging for release. I had a little time, so I went in and sat down to watch.

The class was over in another 15 minutes, and people got changed and milled around preparing to leave. I was watching a couple of stragglers practice a move when someone sat in the chair next to me. “What you think? Interesting?”

I turned to look and found the older man who was apparently the owner, Kim of Kim’s Hapkido. I said, “I have never seen it before. It’s not like karate, Bruce Lee or Chuck Norris style, it’s more like judo or ju-jitsu. But it looks so effortless. I was trying to understand the physics of it, how someone small like me could throw a much larger attacker and then make them helpless with just a couple of fingers.”

He said, “Is Korean martial art, comes from very old techniques. Uses attacker’s own motion to defeat him. Lots of fun,” he said with a final grin. “I’m Master Kim, my school. You like to try? Take off shoes and socks, I show you.”

Okay, I have a few minutes. So he took me on the floor and gave me some basic instructions for how to position myself when attacked and how to turn with the attack, moving the attacker’s momentum past you and onto the floor. Then he showed me a simple hand grip that was excruciating when he did it on me, and I saw how it was done.

“Maybe you should start class. You seem to pick up pretty damn quick.”

I said, “I might have to wait until I get a little bigger if this stuff is to work for me.”

He said, “Stand up next to me. Who taller?” We were the same height, mostly. He beckoned with a finger, and walked to a far wall where there were pictures, black and white. “See there?” It was a younger Master Kim in a martial art uniform, standing next to a husky American or European man at least a foot or 14 inches taller, also in the same uniform. “That me after competition in Korea. I fought him. I won. I won next year, too.”

He said, “Size not matter so much, speed and footwork do. Hapkido invented because Koreans small -- short -- and not allowed to have weapons by invaders, so need way to defend self and family. Size not matter.”

We talked for a few more minutes, till another group started drifting in, the next class apparently. He said, “I let people try one week classes free, then you decide. How about it?”

So I said I’d try. He gave me some handouts, class times, class prices, cost of uniform, and told me to choose a time and show up for class. “New people start all the time. Not to worry, we show you everything.” I thanked him, and left, thinking hard about this. It might be something I could do.

I mentioned it at dinner that night, and that led into a discussion of bullying and whether they should be talking to the principal, and me explaining how that was unlikely to solve the problem. The upshot was that I should try the free week, and if I wanted to continue, they’d find a way to pay for it.

There’s no need to review the details. I took the free week, and I found I liked it. I signed up for classes, and picked it up pretty quick, probably because I was feeling the minds of sahbum -- that was the honorary Korean form of address by which we addressed Master Kim -- and the various advanced students who helped with classes.

They would show me something, I would see how it was done, and most importantly, my muscles would feel the flow of the instructor’s muscles so I would immediately know if I was doing it correctly or not by feeling whether it was right or wrong, just as an advanced practitioner would know if they had performed a technique correctly. It was like they were guiding me through the motions as I tried them.

So stuff that would take a regular student a month to learn I was picking up in a few days, because almost all of the instruction was one-on-one or in small groups. It felt natural. And it made me think about my flip comment of not being able to do well in Physical Education class because I couldn’t feel the teacher’s mind; I could if they were thinking about the action that was being performed.

After a couple of months in the school I was feeling pretty confident that I had mastered many of the common techniques.

Kim himself was pretty pleased with my progress. He beamed at me one day and said, “Master Kim pretty good teacher, you think?” I agreed that he was in fact excellent. It would be a while, another year or two, before I could test for black belt, not because I wouldn’t be ready early, but because the hapkido association had established rules for how long you had to study before you could test for your next rank. This was to prevent unethical schools from taking tuition money and handing out black belts willy-nilly to unqualified students.

I continued with classes several times a week and found that it didn’t much interfere with my school or social schedule, and if there were conflicts sahbum was pretty flexible. While it was not specifically taught in class, learning these techniques brought me some self-confidence and the ability to face an opponent without fear. That became useful sooner than I expected.

A Thursday morning in school heading to my next class I was walking down the hall when I ran into that jerk Norman Atwell and his sidekick Ryan Coolidge, both football players, both assholes, but Norman the asshole-in-chief. They were both bullies, I think because they got off on the power, not having much upstairs, and power was something they could understand, feel, use. They disliked nerds much like Rooney did, because we could do something they couldn’t, think and reason. So they tortured nerds.

And now I was the nerd at hand. I was not popular among the jock population anyway because somehow Rooney’s embarrassment had become my fault (well, sure it was, but they couldn’t know that; I was just the closest guy to blame) and Rooney’s embarrassment reflected badly on jock culture.

Norman, being a creature of simple urges and simpler intellectual attainment, saw me and knew he had to humiliate me in order to restore the reputation of jocks everywhere. He just yelled, “Carter, you dick!” and pulled his fist back to punch me in the gut (even bullies know no hits to the face where it would show) and swung, throwing his hip into it.

And I didn’t even think about it, because I had had the reaction drilled into me by dint of repetition hundreds of times in Kim’s classes. I dropped my books, stepped to the inside and pulled him, using his own momentum, over my shoulder and onto his back on the floor, hard, holding on to his punching arm. I pulled him over onto his stomach with that same arm, twisted it around and bent the wrist so he was immobilized and would break it if he struggled.

Coolidge, only slightly brighter, took a moment to process what he had just seen, then was filled with outrage that a football player had been thrown onto the ground. I looked at him and shook my head. “Coolidge, don’t.” Too late. He was already moving, determined to avenge this injustice.

He came at me, arms wide open, much like you would tackle a football player, to catch me in a bear hug and crush my ribs, and I kicked him in the nuts, which he had helpfully left exposed. He curled up in a ball and wouldn’t bother me for awhile.

I leaned down to Norman and, twisting the wrist almost to the point of fracture, said, “Norman, stay out of my way. The next time you try that I will hurt you badly, end-of-sports-career badly, understand? And if I see you bothering anyone else, same deal. Got it?” He didn’t say anything. I gathered my books and papers from the floor.

As I got up, Norman looked like he was about to try again, but I stared him down, shook my head and said, “Don’t,” then walked away. I was half expecting him to tackle me from behind, but he didn’t. Coolidge was still on the floor.

And it was then that I realized that I wasn’t alone. I had tuned out everyone and everything while Norman and I were having our confrontation, but it was the period between classes and the hall was filled with people moving between classes, all of whom, it seemed, had stopped to watch the drama. I’m sure that it was first to see me get punched and thrown into a locker, but it was way better, plot-wise, to see Norman get his comeuppance. This was the stuff high school gossip was made for. I walked up the hall to my next class, and one skinny young kid looked at me and applauded silently.

So by the end of the school day it was all over the school. I got a few comments, a few guys doing mock karate hands to show they knew what it was about, and a few glares from the jock crowd. Fortunately no one reported the incident to the administration, because while Norman may not have been punished, I’m pretty sure I would have been. We’d see if the confrontation helped or worsened the situation, but I wasn’t going to be bullied anymore.

The next few days were, well, odd. Normal school stuff with classes and so on, but people were interacting with me differently. Okay, I get that putting Norman down publicly makes me kind of a one-day hero and maybe a few people want to get to know me now that I’m a “cool” guy.

But there was different stuff, too: Girls -- no, higher-grade girls -- were coming up to me, smiling, asking me how I was doing, any plans for the weekend, am I going to the big game, touching my arm. I’d been here as a sophomore since September, and all of us in that grade agreed that this never happened in the normal course of events. Older guys might ask out a girl in a lower grade, but even that was pretty rare. Older girls spending time with younger guys? Not happening. Except it was.

So is this because I’m now a celebrity, and the older girls now want to hang with me, or something else? Or someone else, maybe. I thought of Bryn Rowley. You don’t think ... nah. She wouldn’t have mentioned it to her girlfriends, would she? I would have thought she’d want to keep that kind of ... mingling with the lower classes a secret.

But what if she hadn’t, what if she told, say, only her closest and dearest friend and only if she had made a cross-her-heart-and-hope-to-die promise to keep mum first. And then that girl turned around and told her girlfriend. Maybe. Could’ve happened. Only way to find out would be to ask Bryn. If I could get her away from her closest and dearest friends with whom she roamed the halls between classes.

That didn’t happen for several days. Interestingly, there was an uneasy truce now between me and the jocks. They stayed out of my way, aside from some dirty looks, but that was normal. And I hadn’t heard of any other nerd harassment, either, though I don’t doubt that it had happened at least once somewhere around school. And I was still getting some not-so-subtle approaches from older girls.

My chance came on Friday at lunch, when by sheer luck I got to the lunch line early before the crowds, so I was able to grab my loaded tray and choose almost anywhere I wanted to sit, since the tables were not yet full. Then I saw Bryn, sitting by herself, obviously waiting for her entourage to join her. I went over and sat across from her. She had the decency to look a little embarrassed.

“Bryn, nice to see you. You don’t mind if I join you for a few minutes? I wanted to talk to you.” I looked her in the eye, and there was something there, beside the embarrassment of being seen at a table with a sophomore. Guilt, perhaps?

I continued, “I wanted to ask you if you had mentioned our little ... party to anyone else, anyone at all? I’ve been getting some very odd questions from people I don’t usually talk to, older people, like, say, junior girls.”

She couldn’t meet my eye, and was drinking her milk through a straw, examining the floorboards for imperfections. “Bryn, look at me.” I remembered that we were in the lunchroom and that there were people around, but I used a firmer tone. “Did you mention it to anyone at all, even by accident?”

She looked up and she didn’t really need to say anything, the expression on her face was all the confession I needed. She nodded, very slightly.

“And who did you tell, Bryn?”

She folded her hands in her lap and looked very contrite. “Amy. Amy Antonnetti. We’ve been best friends since we were five. Tom, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, but she took one look at me the next day and she knew. She knew something exciting had happened and she wanted details. I made her promise she wouldn’t say a word. She swore, honest.”

“Rowley, I’m very disappointed in you. I thought this was something between us alone.”

She looked like she was about to cry, but there was something else there, too,...

I said, “When I was a kid and did something bad like that, like lying or cheating, my dad would spank me. If it was very bad, he’d make me go out and cut a willow or forsythia switch and bring it back to him, and he’d swat my rear end with it. It stung, and left a mark. Then he’d give me a punishment like going to bed without my supper or something while I nursed my sore butt and thought about what I had done.”

This was perverse. She was still contrite, but her eyes were shiny and she was breathing a little faster.

“I can’t do that to you, of course, Bryn, but I’d like you to think about integrity and responsibility.” I stood up and picked up my tray. “We’ll talk again.” Her eyes followed me as I left the table.

So that was it. Amy Antonnetti. I hadn’t met her, but it’s always good to know the source. I found Jeffy and Frankie Binkowski and some other friends at a table and I sat down with them, still thinking about Amy and especially Bryn. I had decided that she wasn’t really a masochist -- well, maybe a little bit -- but rather a submissive, someone who gets aroused by being ordered around and by following those orders. Some interesting possibilities there. But another time.

I brought my attention back to the table. They were arguing amongst themselves about whether to go see the game or go to a party. There were always lots of parties to choose from, though of course you couldn’t normally just walk in to an upperclassman’s party. There were unwritten rules, of course. But I said, “I haven’t really thought about. I’ll probably do hapkido class after school, then see how I feel about it.”

They liked having their choices laid out for them so they wouldn’t have to think about what they were going to do each day, but I preferred to keep options open. Anyway, the bell rang then and we all hustled off to classes. That was one of the things that had been a little hard to get used to in high school. In middle school, we’d all have almost every class together, so we were together all day, and then got together after school, too. Here, there were days when we had none of the same classes or sections of classes together.

Now I was off to creative writing, which was a step up from the “What I Did Last Summer” essays we’d had till now. Today’s was ‘write 500 words on someone whose death affected you deeply’. Surprise, most of the essays were awful, trite and awkward, a few were pretty good, and one or two excellent and moving. I think I was in the ‘pretty good’ bunch, but others may disagree. But it was interesting hearing about the important folks in people’s lives.

After class, in the hall, someone grabbed my arm. “Hey, Carter.” Who was this again? Oh, right. “Hi, Larry, what’s up?” Larry Nebbins, a junior, who I had run into in Math Club. We didn’t know each other well, but said “Hey” in the halls.

“Carter, I’m having some folks over on Saturday night, music, dancing, perhaps some funny cigarettes. Might be fun. You’re invited if you’re free.”

“I’m not free, Larry, but I’m very reasonably priced.” That got a smile, a small one. “Thanks for the invite. Not sure I can come yet, but let me take the info. What time, and where do you live?”

I wrote down the address, thanked him again, and headed off to my next class. Hmm, another interaction with the higher strata of high school society. Was this another effect of my ‘champion of the nerds’ encounter with Norman Atwell, or something to do with Amy Antonnetti? Maybe I’d find out.

The day dragged on, as Fridays do, until, at last, the final bell sounded. I did go to hapkido, which wore me out but did work out some tension, and I learned a couple of useful things. Home, a shower, some dinner, then I decided not to go out at all, but rather stay home and read.

Saturday, I went to hapkido again (I usually didn’t do two days in a row, but today I felt like it), then got my hair cut and played some video games with Jeffy at his house. “Shoulda gone to the party with us, Carter, Frankie almost got to second base with Melinda Hutchins.” Damn, and I missed it. Well, good for Frankie. It’d be Jeffy’s turn soon enough, I guess.

My mother made meatloaf and mashed potatoes, which I always liked, so I was in a pretty good mood, and decided I should go see what was happening at Larry’s place.

It was close enough for me to walk, even if it was a little cold outside. I knocked at the door, and it was answered by, I assume, Mrs. Nebbins. She said, “My goodness, another one! I’m Larry’s mother.” I introduced myself and stated my connection to Larry so she’d be able to place me in the ‘responsible nerd’ group, then she ushered me to the basement, excuse me, ‘rec room’, which was packed and loud.

And I was surprised not at all to see that it was almost entirely juniors and seniors present. Most of them I did not know, except by sight. Larry caught sight of me, and weaved through the crowd. “Carter, glad you made it. There’s drinks there in the cooler, and Jensen brought a 12-pack which is there in the fridge if that’s more your style.”

“Thanks, Larry. I thought I’d drop by for awhile. I don’t know most of these folks, but they look like they know how to have a good time.”

“You have no idea, Carter. They’re party animals, most of ‘em.” He said that with admiration. Was I going to have to work on my party animal moves more seriously to prepare for life as a junior?

“Anyway,” he went on, “you strike us as someone who’d be more comfortable with an older crowd, so I think you’ll fit right in. I’m gonna do some more meet and greet, catch you later.”

Well, I wasn’t quite sure how to interpret that. I’ll just keep my eyes open. I wasn’t really a beer drinker, so I found a Coke in the cooler, and a handful of corn chips, then a spot against the wall, and I watched. There was music, so a few people were dancing, but a lot of folks sitting on couches, chairs, and the floor talking earnestly about anything and everything.

Two short blonde girls who looked like sisters were seated on the floor taking turns challenging some guy seated in a chair who seemed to be trying to make an argument that they were having none of. I couldn’t hear it, but it was fun to watch him being tag-teamed and knowing he had already lost. I had to smile.

One of them picked up her ginger ale for a gulp and realized it was empty, so she jumped up to grab another. I let my gaze wander around the room trying to put faces I recognized with names.

“You’re Carter, right?”

I did a double-take and finally looked down to see the thirsty blonde standing next to me, soda in hand. “That’s me. Sorry, I don’t think I know your name.”

“Don’t be sorry. We’ve never met. I’m Kerry Connor. That’s my friend Kelly Bright over there, telling Hugh Jackson what a shallow ass he is.”

“Kerry and Kelly. Got it. I looked at you two and I thought you were sisters, you look alike.”

“No, just friends, but we get that a lot, ever since we were about six. We hang out so much we have a lot of the same interests and like the same clothes and even get our hair cut at the same place by the same person.”

“And dressed and coiffed alike, you then set forth, lances of truth in hand, to rout out shallow thinking where it festers all over the land? Admirable. I bow to you.”

“Our mission is to make the world safe for the simple people, like you.” She toasted me with her soft drink.

“And how is it that an exalted personage such as yourself would know the name of a simple serf, such as myself?”

I got a bit of a raised eyebrow here, not sure how to interpret that, but she said, “Oh, here and there. And most of us heard about Norm Atwell slipping and falling in the hall. You were there, weren’t you?”

“I was. Thank goodness the poor fellow wasn’t hurt.” And she laughed.

“It would have served him right. He’s God’s gift to himself, and his buddy, too. I especially liked the work on the buddy, Coolidge. Can’t tell you how many times a lot of us have wanted to do that.”

“Honestly, I wish I could have avoided it. But bullies don’t know any other language.”

She turned quickly and shouted, “Hey, Kelly, c’mere.” Kelly’s victim in the chair had apparently fled to find another drink and easier prey. Kelly scrambled up and came over.

“This’s Carter. Carter, Kelly, my squire.”

She offered her hand and I took it. “Squire Kelly, a pleasure.” She looked at Kerry with a puzzled expression. “Not important,” said Kerry, “tell you later.”

We bantered back and forth like that, but the two of them together almost made me superfluous, the interchange between them almost non-stop. They must get tired out quickly. But they were cute in a kind of effervescent cheerleader way.

They weren’t dumb, but it seemed more of a surface intelligence, knowing bullshit like that from Hugh Jackson when they hear it but not thinking much deeper than that.

As Kerry said, they went to the same hairdresser so they did look alike, even the same color hair, and the clothes were of a similar style. Their body types were alike, too. Short, petite, from what I could see they had nice legs, good complexion, and nice tits, not too large.

A lot of high school guys would pick one of these as the perfect girlfriend. I hadn’t yet made up my mind, but they were fun, good looking, and easy enough to talk to.

They had clearly established a form of complex non-verbal communication that only they understood, because they spent a few seconds looking at each other with some subtle facial movements and Kelly said, “You want to join us in the garage for a quick smoke?”

“I don’t smoke,” I said, “but I’ll tag along and keep you company, if that’s okay.”

“I meant the other kind of smoke, but let’s go anyway.”

They knew the way, and I followed. The garage, thank goodness, was heated and occupied by a lonely car. We all leaned up against it, me between them, and Kelly dug a tightly rolled joint out of her blouse pocket and a lighter out of her jeans, and lit up. She took a hit and passed it down. I don’t do this much, but it was here so I took a hit to be sociable, and handed it to Kerry.

Back and forth it went, with them doing at least twice as many hits as me. And in between hits, the dialog between them continued non-stop, interrupted only by fits of giggling which was catching, and soon I was laughing, more from the contagious response of being between two laughers than from any effect I was feeling from the grass. They were a lot more touchy-feely now, and I was getting a fair amount of hand-grabbing and arm-touching, not at all unpleasant.

“My God, you two tire me out listening to your banter. You’re exhausting, in a good way. It’s like watching a tennis match.”

It wasn’t that funny, but they thought that was the most hilarious thing they’d ever heard and soon they were bent over double laughing, and they had to grab on to me to keep from falling down. Kerry -- I think it was Kerry. Yes, Kerry! -- leaned up and gave me a big kiss on the cheek, still laughing, and Kelly, not to be outdone, kissed the other cheek. Then they looked at each other and, giggling, both kissed me at the same time. This was fun. And erotic.

“Ladies, I am honored to be your sandwich filling.” Not very funny, but it set them off again. And watching them bent over laughing, I couldn’t help but admire their butts, thinking how nice it would be to stroke them. So I channeled a feather on the ass to Kerry. And because it would be undemocratic not to, I followed that with the same feather to Kelly.

They were bantering again, focusing on each other, allowing me the opportunity to watch. They really were delightful in a kind of mindless sit-com way, the playful kind of TV suggestive situation that turns out to be really innocent in the end, except neither of them looked that innocent. And watching them made me wonder what they looked like underneath those shirts, so I channeled a touch to the boob and a pinch of the nipple, first to Player One, then to Player Two.

Kelly said, “We should get back in. Maybe there’s food.” This set Kerry off, causing her to worry, so she grabbed my hand and pulled me back to the party, Kelly in my wake.

Their worries were unfounded, and they laid into the food. I found a sandwich and some chips, and the two of them parked themselves on either side of me, and I was now part of their group. At some point, Larry caught my eye from across the room and waved, and I waved back, which set Kerry and Kelly to waving, too. Which set them laughing again.

Now they were leaning up against me so they could get closer to each other, and each had a hand on me for balance so they could lean in without falling. I was smiling, and I don’t think it was from the grass. I changed the channeling to a brush of feather on the clit. I had no idea if this was going to work, but a scientist is relentless in their pursuit of truth.

Kerry excused herself to use the bathroom, and Kelly started on an involved story about summer camp when she was twelve, wanting me to understand the humor of it so she was looking at me intently while she talked and squeezed my arm, practically leaning on my shoulder. Kerry came back and within seconds knew just what story Kelly was relating and became part of it. “Don’t leave out the part about Mrs. Conway!”, and they both burst out laughing.

By this time I was so lost that the story became unimportant, but it got them laughing again, and falling all over me as they talked to each other. Because I was enjoying watching them together, I linkcast some mild arousal to each of them.

There was a moment’s silence while they caught their breath, and Kerry said, “Maybe we should visit the garage again. Just to check that everything’s okay.” Lots of giggles at that, but up we got and they pulled me to my feet. They shouted, “We’ll be back” in a very bad Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation to no one in particular, and out we went and found our previous positions.

How many joints did this woman have? This one came from a different pocket. I had only one hit, but they were all over it until it was just a burning speck. Kerry had her arm wrapped in mine, I think to keep from falling down, and I channeled just a brush of finger on her clit. Kelly, leaning against me on the other side, got one, too.

She said, “Y’know this’d be a great way to start each day at school. Let’s propose that to the school board.” Kerry agreed that it was a fine idea. She got close to my face and said, “What do you think, Carter, is that a good idea?”