That’s one of the reasons I’d like you to learn wushu. It will help you develop a better balance of mind and body, which may prove to be helpful if your next adventure takes place off the ground.”
“Well, I certainly don’t mind learning how to fight and defend myself too. Wushu would have come in handy against the Kappa.” I joked and continued, “Are the translations difficult?”
“They’re very . . . challenging. The geographical markers that I have translated are not found on the Indian continent. At this point, I worry that the other three objects we’re looking for could be anywhere in the world. Either that, or my brain is too tired.”
“Did you stay up all night again? You need your sleep. Make yourself some chamomile tea and go rest for a while.”
“Perhaps you are right. Maybe I will have some tea and do some light reading on the Himalayas for your paper.”
“You do that. The resting part, I mean. I miss you.”
“I miss you too, Miss Kelsey. Good-bye.”
“Bye.”
For the first time since being home, I felt a surge of adrenaline rush through my body. But, as soon as I hung up the phone, depression kicked in again. I looked forward to our weekly phone calls and always felt sad when they were over. It was the same kind of feeling I would get after Christmas. Holiday anticipation would build up for the whole month. Then, when the presents were opened, the food was eaten, and the people left to go their separate ways, I always experienced a gloomy feeling of loss.
Deep down, I knew that the real reason I was sad was because there was only one present that I wished for. I wished he would call. He never did, though. And each week that passed without hearing his voice destroyed my hope. I knew I was the one who left India so he could start a life with someone else. I should have been happy for him. I was, in a way, but I was also devastated for myself.
I had the-vacation-is-over-now-it’s-time-to-go-back-to-school blues. He was my ultimate present, my own personal miracle, and I’d blown it. I’d given him away. It was like winning backstage passes to meet the rock star of your dreams and donating the tickets to charity. It sucked. Big time.
Saturday, my mysterious martial arts package arrived via courier. It was large and heavy. I pushed it into the living room and grabbed my office scissors to cut through the tape. Inside, I found black and red workout pants and T-shirts, each bearing the Shing Martial Arts Studio logo which showed one man throwing a punch to the face, and another kicking a foot toward his opponent’s abdomen.
I also pulled out two pairs of shoes and a silky red jacket and pants set. The jacket had black frog clasps in the front and a black sash. I had no idea when or how I would ever have need to wear this, but it was pretty.
What made the box heavy was the assortment of weapons I found inside. There were a couple of swords, some hooks, chains, a three-section staff, and several other things that I’d never seen before.
If Mr. Kadam is trying to turn me into a ninja, he’ll be very disappointed, I thought, remembering how I froze during the panther attack. I wonder if Mr. Kadam is right and I’ll need these skills. I guess they’d come in handy if I return to India and have to fight whatever stands in the way of obtaining Durga’s second gift. The idea made the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up.
Monday, I walked into my Latin class early, and my happy routine hit a snag when Artie, the lab assistant, approached my desk. He stood very close to me. Too close. I looked up at him hoping the conversation would be quick so he could move out of my personal space.
Artie was the only guy I’d seen in a long time brave enough to wear a sweater-vest with a bow tie. The sad thing was the sweater-vest was too small. He had to keep pulling it down over his rather large stomach. He looked like the kind of guy who belonged in a musty old college.
“Hi, Artie. How are you?” I asked impatiently.
Artie pushed his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose with his middle finger and popped open his day planner. He got right to the point. “Hey, are you free