What would happen when I returned from class? If the front door was locked, I had no way to get in. And what about when my mom got home? Would she demand that I apologize? What would I do if that happened? Or would she take my side and then they’d get in a big fight? Would Tim kick her out, too? Sleeping in my mom’s car might actually be better than spending one more night in his house. It wasn’t home. It was just a place I kept my things.

I could talk to a school guidance counselor. But what could they really do? Tim had never laid a hand on me. They would just say he was strict. It seemed unlikely that they would force him to give my phone back or to un-ground me.

No, the best I could hope for was my mom deciding to move on. No more kung fu. No more Daniel. I sucked in another breath and ordered myself not to start crying again.

Crossing the quiet street, I cut through a small strip mall’s empty parking lot, past a dentist, a nail salon, a tax preparer, and a shoe repairer. This neighborhood was so hilly that my kung fu school was tucked underneath these businesses, on the bottom half of the building, yet all of them, including my kung fu school, had outside entrances.

As I went down the concrete steps that connected the two levels, I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I barely registered the old man walking up the other side of the street. Or the young man pulling his bike up at the bottom of the stairs. Or the middle-aged guy slowly driving a white van past us.

“Savannah! Hey, Savannah.”

My focus finally shifted to the outside world.

Daniel. He was the guy on the bike. My face got warm again.

“Oh, hey. Sorry!”

“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” He threw one long leg over his bike seat.

“I guess I was in my own world.”

He looked at me more closely. “Are you okay?”

Were my eyes still shiny with tears? “It’s just cold out, that’s all.” If I said anything about Tim, I would start crying again.

He nodded, without looking completely convinced. After locking his bike, he held the door open for me. Inside it was warm and filled with the familiar smells of sweat and disinfectant. There was the usual crowd of adults, some chatting, others stretching or practicing forms.

Together, Daniel and I took off our coats, toed off our shoes, shoved our stuff in cubbies, and then tied on our belts.

Sifu Terry called out, “Okay, let’s line up.” His long black hair was gathered back into a ponytail low on his head. The way he moved made me think of a jaguar.

Before I stepped on the red mat, I made my right hand into a fist and then covered it with the palm of my left hand. The right hand symbolized a weapon, and the left showed that it was controlled, demonstrating respect for the dojo and my partners.

I took my spot, second from the left. Around me, the other eight people lined up in order of rank. As the senior student, Daniel was on the far right. Until two weeks ago, I had been on the other end of the line. Now to my left was a guy with a shaved head who was always talking about how he had taken tae kwan do back when he was in high school, which had to be at least twenty years ago. It was clear he didn’t think he really belonged in last place.

With a padded striker, Sifu rang the heavy metal bell. The deep soft clang hung in the air as he saluted us with the same hand-over-fist gesture, which we returned.

Right after we moved to Portland, I’d been walking by the school and stopped to watch a class through the floor-to-ceiling window. The students had looked so fierce and strong, displaying coordination I couldn’t even imagine possessing. It was summer, and I was at loose ends, not knowing anyone. I started observing class on a regular basis, as if the window was really a giant TV. Then one day, when the students were practicing a new move, Sifu Terry came out. Before I could hurry away, embarrassed at being caught, he introduced himself and invited me to try class free for a week. That had been enough to hook me. I paid for it with weekend babysitting jobs.

Now Sifu said, “Today we’re going to be working on grab counters.” The word counter always sounded weird, like kitchen counters or people who kept track of numbers, but it meant a countermove, a way to negate whatever your attacker was doing. “Daniel?” As the senior student, Daniel got the privilege—and sometimes the pain—of being the demonstration model.

Sifu reviewed the basic counters for wrist grabs. “Rather than meeting force with force, find the weak spot or use his momentum to your advantage.” He showed us how to turn our wrist so that the narrowest point pushed against the attacker’s thumb, the weakest part of the grip.

“The next counter is for when someone grabs your shoulder from the front.” He nodded at Daniel, who grabbed Sifu’s shoulder with his left hand and threateningly raised his right fist. “You swim your arm up and in, breaking his grip,” Sifu said as he demonstrated with a movement like a swimmer’s front crawl, “and step back to take yourself out of range.” He turned toward us. “Okay, everyone get a partner and practice those grabs with about three to five follow-up moves.”

I looked to my left, to Mr. Tae Kwan Do, but suddenly Daniel was in front of me. Usually students at his level stuck together, at least for the first few rounds.

“Talk to your partner about how real you want to make it,” Sifu said. “If you make any contact, especially to the face, it should be kiss-touch.”

Kiss-touch meant contact as light as a feather. It both demonstrated control and that you were capable of delivering a much more powerful strike.

The words kiss-touch applied to me and Daniel made me blush. It was all I’d been thinking about since we had talked at lunch. But that was stupid. Wanting to be kissed and touched was what had made my mom drag me over nine states in eight years.

“You grab me first,” Daniel said. “And make it as real as you can.”

“Same goes for me.” I clamped my fingers hard around his wrist. He twisted and eventually broke my grip. A flicker in his expression made me think that it was more difficult than he expected. I smiled to myself as he threw a few follow-up kicks and strikes that just brushed me.

Then it was Daniel’s turn to grab me. I was hyperaware of his cool fingers circling my skin.

Playing bad guy, he grunted, “You’re coming with me.” He yanked me forward.

His words reminded me of Tim. I jerked my wrist away, not even minding how it hurt, then grazed his ribs with a roundhouse kick, followed by a backfist to the nose that I turned into a gentle tap.

Class would be over in fifty minutes. And then what would happen?

Daniel and I traded grabs back and forth, until Sifu told us to switch partners.

My next few partners handled me much more gingerly. Their reluctance to hold on tightly made me angry. How was I ever supposed to learn what worked or what didn’t? At the same time, I had trouble focusing, sometimes forgetting that it was my turn, while my partner waited more or less patiently.

As class went on, Sifu showed us street fighting techniques: how to twist an ear, shove a palm under the chin, dig two fingers into the notch of the collarbone. Even though Sifu demonstrated the moves lightly, it was clear from Daniel’s expression that they hurt.

When we split into pairs to practice, Daniel chose me again. He did each move only until it started to cause pain and then rubbed his fingers over the spot he had just hurt, as if rubbing the pain away.