They passed the fields where he’d suffered two seasons as an outfielder in the parks-and-recreation baseball league. Last winter, his brother had run special baseball training sessions for him on Sunday mornings. Arjun hit him dozens of grounders and pop flies, and Siddharth had to run and dive for them. When he missed one, he had to drop down on the frosty grass and do five pushups on his knuckles. If he missed two, he had to sprint around the house four times. If he missed three in a row, he had to stand against a wall and let Arjun pelt him with a tennis ball. The first time Arjun struck him, Siddharth fell to the ground and had to bite down on a clump of clovers to keep from crying. Arjun said, “You’re lucky, you know. Nobody was here to do this for me when I was your age.”
When they reached Boston Post Road, he got into the backseat to change from his corduroys into navy-blue sweatpants. He had tried to convince Mohan Lal to buy him a karate uniform, which the dojo sold for forty-eight dollars. But his father said he first had to complete an entire month of classes.
As they headed east toward West Haven, the strip malls got grubbier and contained fewer chain stores. Back in the day, his parents used to shop around here. He spotted a pet store where his mother had taken him to buy a ten-gallon fish tank. Beside it, there used to be a smelly Indian shop that sold spices, rice, and daal. The Aroras would laugh at the place’s slogan—So clean you can bring your American friends too. They were getting closer to their destination. Siddharth needed water, but there was none in the car. He started gnawing on the inside of his mouth, which helped a little, but didn’t stop his stomach from twitching and turning.
Mohan Lal took a right turn into the parking lot. “Son?”
“Yeah?” Siddharth wasn’t in the mood for nagging of any kind.
“Make me proud, son. I want you to kick some butt.”
“So now you’re not proud of me? Thanks, Dad. Thanks for always saying the right thing.” Then he sighed and grabbed his father’s shoulder. “Thanks for bringing me, Dad. Of course I’ll make you proud.”
He stared at the stores in the shabby, squat plaza. The West Haven Martial Arts Academy sat between a beauty salon and something called a VFW. Mohan Lal parked next to a sleek black Camaro. Arjun had always said that Camaros were cheesy, but Siddharth liked this one. Two thick racing stripes ran along the length of its body, and it had a personalized license plate, K-Chop. As they got out of the car, he worried that his father might do something embarrassing. He wished Mohan Lal would just drive off and let him deal on his own.
They walked by some white-haired men who were smoking and drinking coffee out of paper cups. One of them was wearing a cap that looked old-fashioned. European. He tipped it at Mohan Lal, who was holding the door open for Siddharth. Stepping inside the academy, Siddharth was immediately mesmerized by the place’s enormous trophy cases, which lined two walls of the slim, rectangular reception area. These cases must have contained at least a hundred trophies, and just as many medals and plaques. He vowed to win a prize for himself one day. He pictured himself bringing it into school and showing it off to Luca Peroti and Eddie Benson. They’d be begging him to join their kickball game. They’d forgive the fact that he’d once been friends with Sharon Nagorski.
Mohan Lal headed toward a window at the far end of the room, and Siddharth followed behind. A young woman was sitting on the other side of the glass. She had silver hoop earrings and was chewing gum. Mohan Lal handed her a check and she told him that he could stay and watch the class.
“No, thank you, miss,” said Mohan Lal. “I have to take care of a couple things at the office. You know, I work at Elm City College.”
He wondered if his father’s accent was especially thick today. Maybe the dean had a point. Mohan Lal signed a few papers, then patted him on the head and walked out the door. Siddharth took a seat on the long wooden bench that lined the room’s exterior wall, which was mostly made of windows. When he saw his father’s silver minivan pull out of the lot, he started breathing a little easier. A doorway separated the reception area from the actual studio, where a class was taking place. He peered in and saw that most of the students were women. Their instructor was a woman too. He hoped his new teacher wasn’t a woman.
With each passing minute, a new boy showed up wearing a karate uniform. Most had white belts, but a few had belts that were green or orange. Some of the boys had gold chains, and a few even had earrings. They greeted each other with high fives or silent nods. Siddharth hunched forward and massaged his crown of black wavy hair. Being here suddenly felt like a bad idea.
A tall boy with an orange belt walked in. He had on a long Sharks parka over his uniform and had a cool haircut, long and floppy on top and shaved on the sides. All the other kids seemed excited to see him. Almost every boy walked up to him and said, “Hey, Marc,” or, “What’s up, Marc?” either shaking his hand or slapping it five. This Marc kid sauntered over to the secretary’s window and said, “Yo, Katie, I was up all night waiting for your call. You doggin’ me or something?” Siddharth couldn’t make out her words, but he definitely heard laughter.
When the women’s class let out, he followed the other boys into the studio. They seated themselves in three neat rows, and he chose a place in the back left corner, close to the doorway. He scoped out the other kids through the mirrors that lined the front wall. They all looked at ease sitting Indian style, so he forced himself to keep his legs crossed even though it hurt. Above the mirrors were two flags, an American one and another that was either Japanese or Korean. Between them was a photograph of a chubby, bearded white man with a black belt. He was bowing down before a somber, gray-haired Oriental.
The other kids sprang to their feet and bowed as soon as the sensei stepped in from the locker room, but it took Siddharth a moment to follow suit. He was shocked: his new karate teacher was black. He had met other black people before, like the woman who had babysat for Arjun and then cleaned the Arora household until he was eight, and he had seen plenty of black people on television. But he had never had a black teacher. The sensei had a rounded three-inch Afro and black freckles, like Morgan Freeman in Robin Hood. His black belt had a red stripe running through its middle, which must have meant he was especially hard core.
The instructor said, “Listen up, my young friends. Today we have a new colleague, and I want you to welcome him with open arms.” He eyed Siddharth. “Son, I’m Mr. Stone. Why don’t you tell us your name?”
Siddharth responded, pronouncing the d’s incorrectly, to make it sound more American.
“Ah, a most holy of names,” said Mr. Stone. “Perhaps your presence will bring us a step closer to enlightenment.”
The first part of the class was disappointing. They had to do a bunch of stretches and punch the air while standing in place. Mr. Stone then led them through some boring “forms,” for which the boys completed a series of synchronized movements in different directions. Siddharth tried his best to mimic the others, but he was always a step behind.
Mr. Stone seemed to have a particular fondness for a kid named Gene-Paul, who had spiked hair and a tail that sprouted from his neck, and also for that Marc kid. He referred to Marc by his last name, Kaufman. He said, “Kaufman, my grandmother can punch harder than you,” and, “Kaufman, you’re supposed to be setting an example for everyone — not showing us what not to do.” Siddharth wondered if this was the Marc Kaufman. Last summer, a Marc Kaufman from Woodford had stolen the family Jeep and taken it for a joyride. He’d crashed it into a mailbox, one of those official blue ones, which made his crime a federal offense. It was Sharon who’d shared these details. Her father’s cousin, Randy Miller, had been one of the arresting officers.