Chapter Two: Of Crushes and Combat
Middle school was a strange and shapeless time, like a fog that no one could quite navigate without bruising their ego—or their heart. It was the age of awkward bodies, louder thoughts, and secrets passed in folded notes and quick glances. For me, it was also the time I met Zai. And it was the first time I fell in love.
The day I transferred into Crestwood Junior High felt like a movie cliché. New kid. Third row, next to the window. Hoodie up. Eyes down. I just wanted to blend in. I had dreams, sure—becoming a martial arts champion, maybe even joining the military like my uncle—but none of that mattered inside those four beige walls of Mrs. Pendleton's seventh-grade homeroom.
The first time I saw her, she wasn't looking at me. She was leaning over her desk, laughing at something one of her friends whispered. Ene. Bright eyes, honey-toned skin, and a laugh that made you forget what class you were in. She was the kind of girl you noticed even when you didn't want to.
"Hey," came a voice beside me. "You're staring."
I blinked and turned. A boy with thick curls and a too-wide smile was grinning at me. "I'm Zai. You must be the new guy."
"Yeah. Vee."
"You like Ene?"
My face went hot. "What? No. I mean—"
"Relax, bro." Zai chuckled. "Everybody likes Ene. You're not special."
I wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or challenged.
Later that week, I got caught. Mrs. Pendleton was giving a lecture on the American Revolution, and I was deep into a sketch of a sword design I'd seen in a dream the night before. When Ene passed by my desk to turn in her worksheet, I looked up just a little too long.
"Mr. Blaze," Mrs. Pendleton said without looking. "Would you like to explain why the British surrendered at Yorktown or why you've been hypnotized by Miss Adebayo's hair since class began?"
Laughter rippled through the room. I sank into my seat, burning with embarrassment. Zai leaned over and whispered, "Bruh. You're not even being subtle."
At lunch, we sat together, Zai and I. We shared fries, comic book hot takes, and theories about whether ninjas could beat samurais. That's when I found out Zai practiced karate, too.
"I go to Summit Dojo," he said. "Been training for two years. You any good?"
I nodded. "Third kyu. Brown belt."
Zai raised a brow. "Okay, Blaze. Okay. You might actually have hands."
From that day, we made it a ritual. Every lunch break, we found space behind the gym and sparred. Not full contact, but serious enough to draw stares from passing students. Word got around that we were the 'Karate Brothers,' though neither of us ever said it out loud.
Weeks passed. I got better. Zai got smarter. Ene started noticing me—not just as the guy who drew swords in class, but the one who could kick a soccer ball into a trash can from twenty feet out and still say "hi" without stuttering.
She smiled at me one afternoon after gym. "You're different, Vee."
"Different bad or different good?"
"Different… intriguing."
My heart did a full kata right there.
It wasn't long before things shifted. Subtly. A laugh here. A walk between classes there. Ene and I shared jokes about teachers. I even started helping her with math.
Zai never said anything. But I caught him staring sometimes, too long and too quietly. He'd brush it off with a grin or a punch to my shoulder, but I felt it. Something was changing.
We were just kids. And yet, the things we felt were bigger than the space we had to hold them.
One Thursday, we were practicing sparring drills behind the gym. I was in the zone—my blocks clean, my counters sharp. Zai stepped back, panting.
"You're getting good, bro."
"You too," I said, wiping sweat from my brow. "Wanna go again?"
He nodded. "Yeah, but first… what's going on with you and Ene?"
I froze. "What do you mean?"
He shrugged, trying to be casual. "You two talk a lot. She laughs more around you."
"She's just nice."
Zai smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. She is."
I didn't know what to say. So we sparred again, and this time, Zai was faster, sharper—like he had something to prove.
That night, I wrote in my journal:
"Zai's my best friend. Ene's the girl I like. But sometimes, it feels like I'm standing in the middle of something I can't see."
"Karate makes sense. Emotions don't."
One weekend, Ene joined us for practice. She sat cross-legged on the grass, cheering us on like it was a tournament.
When I landed a clean sweep, she clapped and shouted, "You're amazing, Vee!"
Zai smiled, but it was tight. He didn't spar again that day.
The following week, he was distant. Missed our lunch practices. Didn't text back. I figured he was sick. But then I saw him in the library—alone, earphones in, head down. He didn't see me.
Something cracked, just a little.
Then, things shifted again.
Zai returned to normal. Kind of. We got ice cream after school one Friday and talked about our dreams. He said he wanted to design games someday. I told him I wanted to master every martial art known to man and join the Army, maybe even become an officer.
"You could do it," he said. "You've got that fight in you."
I smiled. "So do you."
But when we talked about high school, about future plans, about college, he got quiet again. Said he didn't know if he'd get in anywhere. I tried to encourage him, but he shrugged it off.
"It's easy for you. You've got your stuff together."
I didn't. Not really. I just hid the mess better.
As middle school ended, the triangle grew silent. Ene and I were close, but she sensed the tension. Zai drifted, then returned, then drifted again.
And I started training harder. Hours in the dojo. Conditioning in the garage. Late nights reading books about strategy and philosophy. Martial arts was my clarity. My peace.
But even peace has limits.
Because the world was about to break open. And nothing we had—no feelings, no fights, no friendships—was ready for what came next.