what is really happening than it does autistic people or if our brains work at the same speed there. I wonder if she needed what Marjory said to make her capable of that self-analysis.
I wonder what Marjory really thinks of me. She is looking at Lucia now, with quick glances back at me.
Her hair is so beautiful… I find myself analyzing the color, the ratio of the different colors of hairs, and then the way the light shifts along them as she moves.
I sit on the floor and begin my stretches. After a moment, the women also start stretching out. I am a little stiff; it takes me several tries before I can touch my forehead to my knees. Marjory still can’t do it; her hair falls forward, brushing her knees, but her forehead doesn’t come within four inches.
When I have stretched, I get up and go to the equipment room for my gear. Tom is outside with Max and Simon, the referee from the tournament. The ring of lights makes a bright area in the middle of the dark yard, with strong shadows everywhere else.
“Hey, buddy,” Max says. He calls all the men buddy when they first arrive. It is a silly thing to do, but it is how he is. “How are you?”
“I am fine,” I say.
“I hear you used a fencing move on him,” Max says. “Wish I’d seen it.”
I think Max would not have wanted to be there in real life, whatever he thinks now.
“Lou, Simon was wondering if he could fence with you,” Tom says. I am glad that he does not ask how I am.
“Yes,” I say. “I will put my mask on.”
Simon is not quite as tall as Tom and thinner. He is wearing an old padded fencing jacket, just like the white jackets that are used in formal competition fencing, but it is a streaky green instead. “Thanks,” he says. And then, as if he knew that I was looking at the color of his jacket, he says, “My sister wanted a green one for a costume once—and she knew more about fencing than dyeing clothes. It looked worse when it had just been done; it’s faded out now.”
“I never saw a green one,” I say.
“Neither had anyone else,” he says. His mask is an ordinary white one that has yellowed with age and use. His gloves are brown. I put on my mask.
“What weapons?” I ask.
“What’s your favorite?” he asks.
I do not have a favorite; each weapon and combination has its own patterns of skill.
“Try épée and dagger,” Tom says. “That’ll be fun to watch.”
I pick up my épée and dagger and shift them in my hands until they are comfortable—I can hardly feel them, which is right. Simon’s épée has a big bell guard, but his dagger has a simple ring. If he is not very good with his parries, I may be able to get a hit on his hand. I wonder if he will call hits or not. He is a referee: surely he will be honest.
He stands relaxed, knees bent, someone who has fenced enough to be comfortable with it. We salute; his blade whines through the air on the downstroke of the salute. I feel my stomach tighten. I do not know what he will do next. Before I can imagine anything, he lunges toward me, something we almost never do in this yard, his arm fully extended and his back leg straight. I twist away, flicking my dagger down and out for the parry and aiming a thrust over his dagger—but he is fast, as fast as Tom, and he has that arm up, ready to parry. He recovers from the lunge so quickly I cannot take advantage of that momentary lack of mobility and gives me a nod as he returns to the neutral guard position. “Good parry,” he says.
My stomach tightens even more, and I realize it is not fear but excitement. He may be better than Tom.
He will win, but I will learn. He moves sideways, and I follow. He makes several more attacks, all fast, and I manage to parry them all, though I do not attack. I want to see his pattern, and it is very different.
Again, again. Low high high low low high low low low high high : anticipating the next, I launch my own attack as his comes low again, and this time he does not quite parry mine and I get a light glancing touch on