Break, Part 2

BREAK
A Spitfire Story
Part 2

           Two worn sneakers pounded the sidewalk. The palm trees craned their necks into the pale sky, their shaggy-haired heads washed out in the powerful sunlight. The heat and the glare had no impact on Maggie’s stride as she blazed a path to the park where she planned her escape.

           On a corner, she jogged in place and watched the cars sliding through the intersection like dark snakes, their tinted windows sealed tight against the outside world. She prayed that her park would be empty despite the good weather, which often tempted those hermits who poked out their heads when the air turned any shade lower than 85. The stoplight changed with a faint click. Maggie’s soles bounced off the corner as she made the familiar turn.

           Finding her prayers answered, she smiled her relief. The circular park wasn’t remarkable and didn’t buzz with activity on even the best of days, and that was how Maggie liked it. Twelve palms stood sentinel around the circle of concrete, forming an enormous sun dial with an empty fountain rising from the center point. The pool was not adorned with baroque curls and frills, nor did it boast a statue of some long-forgotten soldier in the neverending war of good versus other. Instead, it featured a single column of white marble. It was simple. Clean. It was there for its own purpose and for no other reason.

           Maggie slowed to a walk. She put her things inside the fireproof pouch and dropped it on the bench beside the entrance before moving toward the three o’clock tree. She positioned her toes, relaxed her shoulders, and closed her eyes. One slow breath, then another.

           And then she moved.

           Her right foot slid out, her hands rose and fell. She pivoted on the balls of her feet, the bubbling wells, and turned, envisioning the ball of energy between her palms. She moved her weight between her feet, bent her knees, and extended her palms, pushing and pulling at empty air. Her steady, easy breathing matched each movement and she focused every thought on this ancient and carefully structured sequence.

           As she moved through each step, Master Xifeng’s words echoed through her mind. Move like water, fluid, ever-changing. Transfer your weight between your feet. Balance. The short, black-haired tai chi teacher from Maggie’s after school program was the most inspirational woman she knew, but - whether coincidentally or otherwise - she was also the most unyielding teacher she’d ever had.

           Maggie’s early years in the program had been marred by detentions, remedial programs, and stacks of homework problems. By the time she was in fifth grade, she and all her teachers knew she was doomed to mediocrity and failure. But the moment Xifeng laid eyes on the fiery little Latina, when she was squirming in the back row of the gym where they had their first introductory tai chi class, she saw something special that no other teacher had. “Please stand up straight,” Xifeng said, passing Maggie by on the way to the front of the room.

           At that time, Maggie was already an inch from passing the tai chi master in height. “No thank you,” Maggie had said sardonically, and then popped her gum.

           In a moment as lightning quick as a hummingbird’s wings, Xifeng had the ten-year-old leaning over a garbage can with her arm twisted behind her back. “No gum in my class.”

           Maggie struggled and grunted, trying to break her grip. It was useless, and, as she would later learn, nearly impossible. She reluctantly let the gum fall into the rancid depths of the canister.

           Xifeng released her.

           She and the head teacher resumed their stroll to the front rows of students as if nothing unusual had happened. As Maggie returned to her spot, rubbing her now aching shoulder, she overheard Xifeng telling Mr. Macintosh, “I like her. She’s got fire in her belly. She’ll be a great student if she can sit still long enough for me to teach her.”

           That was all it took to get Maggie hooked on martial arts. She took all of Master Xifeng’s classes in the after school program, and when she turned fourteen she started working a paper route to pay for advanced lessons. The intensely visceral art of practicing physical perfection allowed her to center herself emotionally and intellectually. As long as Maggie was able to work out her energy on the mat, she found she was able to focus on school and life issues with clarity and relative grace.

           Taken too far away from herself while reminiscing, Maggie froze mid-step, realizing she had forgotten a stage in the sequence. She groaned and rolled her eyes. The perfectionism she had to work through with everything else in life extended into this arena as well, and, realizing she would have to start over, she decided to vent her frustration and make a clean break: She swung one foot around and threw a series of punches in the air, erasing the tai chi sequence with some basic kickboxing.

From each strike burst a plume of fire, burning up the dry air with flames from no source. Maggie practiced tai chi in another attempt to control her pyrokinesis, but sometimes a girl just has to let loose with a little firepower. That was why she had hoped to find the park empty - so that she could practice with fire if she needed to.

A gasp from behind her told her that she was not as alone as she’d thought.

Turning, Maggie saw a young boy standing near the entrance of the park, staring at her with an expression that clearly said, “I just saw you make fire with your fists.” They locked eyes for a moment, and as Maggie realized what would follow, she silently tensed her muscles in preparation.

            He took off with all the speed of a frightened fawn. She followed with the well-trained stride of a wolf.