Remade

Chapter 10

Adanna and I quickly became friends. Well, more like allies. She was quiet and didn't talk much, as if she was raised to conserve her words. When she did speak, it was words of kindness and instruction. She spoke with a strange, lilting voice in her accent from Africa.

"No, try this..."

"Good. Again."

"Alright, last time."

"Good. Again."

"One more time."

"One more time."

My shoulders soon got to be so sore from the elongated Sparring practices (an hour and a half of regulated time and an additional hour with Adanna) that for two weeks I had to have Alison drag a chair around our room so she could reach my things from the high shelves and my joints popped more than ever. But I was growing stronger and I liked it. I was starting to feel as fit as I was before but this time I was eating on a regular basis. I could run farther than I ever could before on the shore, pumping my arms and gaining momentum and then screeching to a stop like Wily the Coyote and looking back to my starting point, which had become a small dot.

Although I was stronger and healthier than ever, I couldn't manage the weapon well. I couldn't manage Adanna's special technique so she tried to teach me a simpler way but I was still struggling. I mean, I was decent, I managed to wrap it around the dummy from ten feet away somewhat tightly. It was better than the other girls, who would half-heartedly throw it, miss and then roll their eyes as the rope fell with a clank.

"This is so stupid."

"What's the point in even doing this?"

"It's not like we're like her... We don't hunt our own food."

Girlish giggles.

Adanna would just stand up straighter and turn a deaf ear to those comments and throw even harder and then distract herself even further by analyzing my technique. I could tell it bothered her though because when she straightened her back, she did so tensely with a small deep breath.

"No, no, no," she said one day during the first half of our one-on-one time. "Stop, just stop." I drop my arm and look at her. She takes a deep breath. Her shoulders move up and then down, the wave tattoos on her upper biceps rippling. "Alright." She picks up her heavy set of bolas and stands next to me and motions for me to do the same. "Picture the bolas as an extension of your arm." She sweeps her arm in front of her, the bottom of her arm parallel to the ground. "Then bring it up," and she starts to swing it over her head, faster and faster until she gains so much momentum she looks like a helicopter. "And when you notice the right speed and the two larger stones are parallel..." She says no more because she releases the weapon, following through with her throw with her body and the rope sails through the air with a distinguishable whish through the air before making contact with the dummy with the same impact as it did the first day.

I stand there in shock and ask her, "Okay where did you learn to do this?"

She looks at her watch and says, "In a land very different from this one. Come on. It is your turn to teach."

I shrug and we move on over to the hand-in-hand combat section of the arena. I've been working with her especially with her leg power, seeing as she has a slender body and long, gazelle like legs. She's thin and silent and strong and I always think how similar she is to the Joshua trees that grow in the desert; beaten down but refuse to fall, always standing tall. She has just peach fuzz on her head and one piercing in each of her ear lobes and one hoop in the upper cartilage of her right ear. She looks down right majestic. When it comes to direct combat however, she gets this look on her face of frustration and helplessness. I start my lesson with basic protocol on how to make a fist and basic dodging techniques. "Here, try these on." I hand her my Puertos glasses.