And to find cute boys to date. That part was true at least.
I wasn’t musical, and I couldn’t sing. I could recite entire scenes from The Lord of the Rings series from memory, and I knew the current batting average for every player on the Mets. I was fashionable enough to know how to dress myself well, with the odd shape that I was. But I wasn’t talented, not until I started taking defense lessons.
So, yeah, I wasn’t always fond of the next form of fighting my dad had found for me, but secretly, I was a little excited every time. It was a challenge. I liked challenges, and each form of fighting was met as a challenge I wanted to defeat.
I had spaced out a bit, my eyes glazing over as I watched the fight in front of me, which meant I had missed seeing my dad enter the studio. The room erupted into fierce whispers, and I felt my face flush.
Dad was something of a celebrity, in the only way that a police chief could actually be a celebrity. He had worked his way up the ranks fairly quickly and was a really young police chief. New York City was an impossible place sometimes as a cop: people died every day, there was crime everywhere, and you couldn’t solve every crime. But that didn’t stop my dad from trying, and it didn’t stop him from making a small dent in that crime rate. He was also known for not always following the rules, which got him into trouble but the city saw him as a hero. They loved hearing that he had beaten a serial rapist in the face until he bled.
“Valentine, you’re up,” my instructor shouted at me and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I didn’t fight most classes because I usually ended up winning, and the other girls didn’t learn anything from receiving a beating. I was only being thrown into a fight because my dad was here to watch.
He stood against the wall, his arms folded tight across his chest. He was in civilian clothes, but he was never truly a civilian, and you could see the outlines of his guns beneath the fabric of his jeans. Dad was in his late thirties, young to have an eighteen-year-old daughter. He and my mom had married young, after finding out they were expecting me. A lot of girls at school were always finding ways to come to my house and I suppose it was because he was good looking or something. He was my dad, though, and that was something I avoided thinking about it.
Right now, for instance, I could see more than a few of the girls stealing glances his way. He had his “serious cop” face on that made him look intimidating and a bit mysterious as well, as if there was a wall that couldn’t be broken down, a wall that any woman would just be dying to break down.
To me, he was just my dad. He was the guy who helped me pick out my prom dress, took me to baseball games, and challenged me to eat an entire medium size Hawaiian pie all by myself, which I accomplished thank you very much. He was the guy who sat on the couch drinking a beer, watched crappy action movies and had a weird addiction to professional wrestling.
I pushed myself off the ground, making sure the tape around my hands was still tight and ready. I jumped around loosening myself up a bit. My opponent was a girl named Stacy, who was good but doubted her own abilities. She could pack a punch, no problem, but she didn’t want to and that was her weakness. I felt bad every time I stepped up to fight her.
Her arms were up in a block, and I paced in a circle, my arms up and ready. I threw a punch, and she dodged it. Her leg came up in a kick, and I grabbed it, twisting it so she fell to the ground. She scrambled backward, trying to gain the momentum to stand back up, but I was quick, and I had her pinned down to the ground.
“Good work, Zoey,” my instructor said, sounding anxious, tossing a glance at my father.
“Thanks,” I said, standing up and offering a hand and an apologetic smile to Stacy. She smiled back, taking my hand, and I hoisted her up.
“You weren’t evenly matched,” Dad said, his deep voice carrying across the room. Everyone turned to look at him, and then back at me. “You win because you’re fighting those who aren’t matched to you or, frankly, just don’t want to fight.” He offered Stacy a smile and she smiled shyly in return. “You should be in a boy’s class. They would at least offer you a challenge.”
I felt a wave of irritation roll through me. He was the reason I was even in these classes and when I was good, I still wasn’t good enough. “Well,” I said, sarcasm seeping into my voice, “you could always arrange that, couldn’t you? I think my Wednesdays might be free.”
I was being sassy and pushing buttons, and I knew it. My dad had a small smirk at the corner of his mouth. I heard a girl sigh behind me, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.