HEAL YOU | JENLISA

SEVEN

LISA

* * *

“WHOA, WHOA, WHOA,” I SAY AS I JUMP IN BETWEEN THE TWO tinies whacking each other to death in the middle of the kendo studio and pull them apart, getting hit several times in the process myself. “Run after you strike. None of this standing and bashing. If these were real swords, you’d both be armless.”

On the other side of the studio, Michael is supposed to be overseeing the other students, but he’s watching me and laughing his ass off.

The bigger of the kids next to me, a seven-year-old, calls out, “Yes, ma'am,” and backs away.

The smaller one, only five, totters around and tries to lunge at the big one, his sword poised to continue whacking. I can’t help laughing as I yank him back and set him the required distance away from his opponent. He’s got a lot of attitude, this dude, and it’s stinking cute, especially because he’s wearing his older brother’s hand-me-down kendo gear and looks like Dark Helmet from Spaceballs.

I get their match started again, and they do make small improvements. It’s still messy as hell, though—and bloodthirsty. But what can you expect when they’re so small? Luckily, they wear enough armor that it’s next to impossible to get hurt.

When it’s time, I call an end to the sparring, and the kids back away from each other to form two neat rows, switch their wooden swords to their left hands in a resting position, bow, and shake hands like little warriors. We go through the closing rituals for class, and as the studio is emptying out, Michael punches me lightly on the arm.

“Good to see you here,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

I unlace my helmet and pull it off. Then I untie the sweaty bandana from my head and stuff it inside my helmet. “It’s good to be back. I didn’t realize how much I missed this.” And the kids specifically.

My family and friends all know about me being sick and everything, because I made the mistake of telling my sister, Vy, who told my mom, who then told literally everyone she knows. For the longest time, they treated me like I was two steps from dying. They still treat me different, like I’m made of glass or some shit—my mom is the worst. But these kids, they don’t care. When I showed up this morning, they hog-piled me. I loved that.

This morning was good, and I know I’ll be coming back to lead more Saturday classes. If I can wake up in time. I can’t help cracking a big yawn as I untie the laces to my chest protector and shrug the heavy weight off my shoulders.

“You look tired. Up late last night?” Michael asks with careful casualness.

“Yeah. Didn’t sleep until two something.” The studio door shuts behind the last kids, so I take my uniform off and pull on a faded T-shirt and an old pair of jeans.

As Michael does the same, he arches his eyebrows at me. “Did you go out? With someone?”

I shake my head, not sure how to explain last night. “Not really. I was texting.”

“Texting who?”

Busy packing my gear away, I say, “A girl. I met her on one of the apps.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, so I glance up at him and find him nodding with an impressed expression on his face. “Cool.”

“It’s not like that, so you can stop looking all pleased with yourself,” I grumble.

“What’s it like, then?” he asks.

“We tried to meet up for a one-night stand, but she panicked at the last second because she hasn’t done it before. So we just ended up texting and watching TV together.”