Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
I nodded silently. I had lost my head earlier. I had to learn to keep my wits about me, to handle myself in a confrontation without sounding squeaky and bolting for my car. He talked about our centers of gravity and a balanced stance, how to put our weight on the balls of our feet. He mentioned wearing shoes that stayed on—no flip-flops or backless sandals.
“It’s important to remember you don’t get points for sticking around for a fight. The goal of self-defense is safe escape, not to kick someone’s ass. You want to stun or disarm the assailant long enough to get away. So you need to make choices in your everyday life that increase the odds of success. No shoes that fall off when you try to run. No hoop earrings or ponytails. Those are convenient ways for someone to grab hold of you and control your movements.”
I reached back and fingered my ponytail self-consciously. I’d never thought of it as anything but convenient and sporty—certainly not as a handle for a predator. He kept talking us through a series of poses, some I recognized from yoga, that were all about establishing balance and a strong stance. Then he asked for volunteers. I looked around for something to hide behind. I did not want to go up in front of the class—fifteen or twenty people, most of which were athletic looking -- in my ratty sweats and t-shirt and my danger ponytail. When a girl in the front row bounced up and down and waved her hand, he chose her.
I was relieved not to be picked, but as soon as he gave her a backpack and told her to walk by, I knew he was going to touch her. I realized I’d been biting my lip. Even while I’d soaked up every word he said, somewhere inside, I’d been noticing how handsome he was, how confident and strong. I was annoyed with myself for subtly lusting after the defense instructor. The guy was there to teach me how to keep from getting killed, and I was thinking like a thirsty teen. Way to prioritize survival, I told myself grimly.
He yanked her backward by the strap of the backpack, but she whipped around and struck him in the face with the heel of her hand. He dropped the bag and nodded, “Well done, Georgia. If she’d hit me full force, you would’ve seen my head snap back. I’d be bleeding, eyes watering, and she could get away. Here’s the other thing, and you’ll have to excuse my language here, but I can’t stress this enough. Leave the fucking bag behind. Do not fight for stuff when you can get away with your life.”
I felt like he was speaking just to me, like it was okay that I’d cut and run from Mr. Watts earlier. Like I’d done the smart thing instead of just a cowardly one. What it reminded me of was weird—as a kid I’d loved tomato soup. Even in the summer, I’d wanted it for lunch for how delightfully smooth and comforting it was. Rafe Sullivan’s voice was better than tomato soup. I felt like someone had wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and told me it would all be okay. Which of course no one had.
2
Rafe
She came in a little late. She was new. Most of the class had been around for a few weeks, and some had come back from last year. I would’ve remembered her if I’d ever seen her before. Her eyes were wide and dark, like she was nervous or scared. She kept to the back of the room. She never volunteered for the demonstrations. Maybe she was trying to scope out the class and decide whether to come back or maybe she was just anxious. Either way, I knew it was my responsibility to make her feel welcome. If she didn’t feel comfortable in my class, there were other instructors I could refer her to in the city.
People didn’t come in for defense classes if they weren’t afraid. A very small percentage of students just wanted to be prepared. The rest had something in their past or present that spooked them into wanting to be able to fight back. I knew the look on her face, though. She didn’t hide it well. It was naked fear. I didn’t know what had happened to her, but I did know she needed help. Whether it was from me, a different instructor or a trauma counselor, I was going to put her in contact with the right people.
When class ended and some of my students came up to chat, I took a long drink from my water bottle and excused myself. She was going to slip out the door before I even got her name. I felt instinctively protective of her—professionally, of course. I quickly caught up to her in the gym, all the TV’s blaring and the thump of feet on the treadmills drowning out any possible conversation.