“Yes,” I say. I am breathless and tired of the noise and movement, but I am not as ready to go home as I was earlier. I wonder if Don was watching; I do not see him anywhere.
“Want some lunch?” Tom asks.
I shake my head. I want to find a quiet place to sit down.
Tom leads me through the crowd. Several people I do not know grab my hand or slap my shoulder and say, “Good fighting.” I wish they would not touch me, but I know they are being friendly.
Lucia and a woman I do not know are sitting under a tree. Lucia pats the ground. I know that means “sit here,” and I sit down.
“Gunther won, but Lou got a touch on him,” Tom says.
The odaer woman claps her hands. “That’s very good,” she says. “Almost nobody gets a touch on Gunther their first bout.”
“It was not actually my first bout, but my first bout with Gunther,” I say.
“That’s what I meant,” she says. She is taller than Lucia and heavier; she is wearing a fancy costume with a long skirt. She has a little frame in her hands, and her fingers work back and forth. She is weaving a narrow strip of material, a geometric pattern of brown and white. The pattern is simple, but I have never seen anyone weave before and I watch carefully until I am sure how she does it, how she makes the brown pattern change direction.
“Tom told me about Don,” Lucia says, glancing at me. I feel cold suddenly. I do not want to remember how angry he was. “Are you all right?” she asks.
“I am all right,” I say.
“Don, the boy wonder?” the other woman asks Lucia.
Lucia makes a face. “Yes. He can be a real jerk sometimes.”
“What was it this time?” the other woman asks.
Lucia glances at me. “Oh — just the usual kind of thing. Big mouthitis.”
I am glad she does not explain. I do not think he is as bad as Tom must have said. It makes me unhappy to think of Tom not being fair to someone.
Tom comes back and tells me that I have another match at 1:45. “It’s another first-timer,” he says. “He lost his first bout early this morning. You should eat something.” He hands me a bun with meat in it. It smells all right. I am hungry. When I take a bite, it tastes good, and I eat it all.
An old man stops to talk to Tom. Tom stands up; I do not know if I should stand up, too. Something about the man catches my eye. He twitches. He talks very fast, too. I do not know what he is talking about — people I do not know, places I have not been.
In my third match, my opponent is wearing all black with red trimming. He also has one of the transparent plastic masks. He has dark hair and eyes and very pale skin; he has long sideburns trimmed to points. He does not move well, though. He is slow and not very strong. He does not carry through his attacks; he jerks his blade back and forth without coming close. I make a touch that he does not call and then a harder touch that he does. His face shows his feelings; he is both alarmed and angry. Even though I am tired, I know I can win if I want to.
It is not right to make people angry, but I would like to win. I move around him; he turns slowly, stiffly. I make another touch. His lower lip sticks out; his forehead stands up in ridges. It is not right to make people feel stupid. I slow down, but he does not make use of this. His pattern is very simple, as if he knew only two parries and attacks. When I move closer, he moves back. But standing still and exchanging blows is boring. I want him to do something. When he does not, I disengage from one of his weak parries and strike past it. His face contracts in anger, and he says a string of bad words. I know I am supposed to shake his hand and say thank you, but he has already walked off. The referee shrugs.
“Good for you,” Tom says. “I saw you slow down and give him a chance for an honorable hit… too bad the idiot didn’t know what to do with it. Now you know why I don’t like my students getting into tournaments too early. He wasn’t nearly ready.”
He was not nearly ready. Nearly ready would be almost ready. He was not ready at all.
When I go to report my win, I find that I am now in a pool of those who have a 2:1 record. Only eight are undefeated. I am feeling very tired now, but I do not want to disappoint Tom, so I do not withdraw. My next match comes almost at once, with a tall dark woman. She wears a plain costume in dark blue and a conventional wire-front mask. She is not at all like the last man; she attacks instantly and after a few exchanges she gets the first touch. I get the second, she the third, and I the fourth. Her pattern is not easy to see. I hear voices from the margins; people are saying it is a good fight. I am feeling light again, and I am happy. Then I feel her blade on my chest and the bout is over. I do not mind. I am tired and sweaty; I can smell myself.
“Good fight!” she says, and clasps my arm.
“Thank you,” I say.
Tom is pleased with me; I can tell by his grin. Lucia is there, too; I did not see her come and watch. They are arm in arm; I feel even happier. “Let’s see where this puts you in the rankings,” he says.
“Rankings?”
“All the fencers will be ranked by their results,” he says. “Novices get a separate rank. I expect you did fairly well. There are still some to go, but I think all the first-timers have finished by now.”
I did not know this. When we look at the big chart, my name is number nineteen, but down in the lower right-hand corner, where seven first-time fencers are listed, my name is at the top. “Thought so,” Tom says. “Claudia—” One of the women writing names on the board turns around. “Are all the first-timers finished?”
“Yes — is this Lou Arrendale?” She glances at me.
“Yes,” I say. “I am Lou Arrendale.”
“You did really well for a first-timer,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Here’s your medal,” she says, reaching under the table and pulling out a little leather sack with something in it. “Or you can wait and get it at the award ceremony.” I did not know I would get a medal; I thought only the person who won all the fights got a medal.
“We have to get back,” Tom says.
“Well, then — here it is.” She hands it to me. It feels like real leather. “Good luck next time.”
“Thank you,” I say.
I do not know if I am supposed to open the sack, but Tom says, “Let’s see…” and I take out the medal. It is a round piece of metal with a sword design molded into it and a little hole near the edge. I put it back in the bag.
On the way home, I replay each match in my mind. I can remember all of it and can even slow down the way Gunther moved, so that next time — I am surprised to know that there will be a next time, that I want to do this again — I can do better against him.
I begin to understand why Tom thought this would be good for me if I have to fight Mr. Crenshaw. I went where no one knew me and competed as a normal person would. I did not need to win the tournament to know that I had accomplished something.
When I get home, I take off the sweaty clothes Lucia loaned me. She said not to wash them, because they are special; she said to hang them up and bring them over to their house on Wednesday, when I come to fencing class. I do not like the way they smell; I would like to take them back tonight or tomorrow, but she said Wednesday. I hang them over the back of the couch in the living room while I shower.
The hot water feels very good; I can see little blue marks showing from some of the touches against me. I take a long shower, until I feel completely clean, and then put on the softest sweatshirt and sweatpants I have. I feel very sleepy, but I need to see what the others e-mailed me about their talk.
I have e-mails from Cameron and Bailey both. Cameron says they talked but didn’t decide anything. Bailey says who came — everyone but me and Linda — and that they asked a counselor at the Center what the rules were on human experimentation. He says Cameron made it sound like we had heard about this treatment and we wanted to try it. The counselor is supposed to find out more about the laws involved. I go to bed early.