Overcast: The Taken Series, #0.5

Prologue

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We were good at quiet, Father and I. We understood each other in silence. Sometimes I felt as though I was closer to him than anyone else, like he understood who I was. Especially when he beat me.

Chapter One: Dark Washcloth

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My breath fogged the glass as I sat as straight as I could to see out the car window. I wiped it with my scarf and kept looking.

Hanna pulled up to a stop sign. The only building not covered in Christmas lights was the church on the corner. The church did have lights, though. They sat under the craggy trees and splashed light up the uneven surface of the stone walls.

A mom and dad were holding a little girl’s hands while she stared up at the church, at the tower thing that held the bell. Her long, dark, wavy hair fell down her back from under her knit hat. Her hair was shiny, like the ripple of a stream in the moonlight. It was prettier than all the lights.

Hanna turned the corner, and I watched, twisted in my seat, until the little girl was gone.

So, Hanna said, I hear you got an award today. What was it for?

When I didn’t answer, still trying to see the little girl, Hanna looked at me in the rearview mirror. Alec, dear?

I slumped back into my seat. I turned in the most book reports.

They do book reports in the first grade?

They’re for Mrs. Jones’ class.

Her eyes smiled in the mirror. Wait ’til you tell Gertie and Ben. Now you’re the smartest in the advanced placement class.

I rolled my eyes.

Darkness invaded the car for the last several minutes before we paused at the gate. Security lights lit up the brick of the house. Father’s house had no Christmas lights. Hanna parked in the garage and pulled the door handle.

Wait a second, I said.

She closed the door and turned to watch me rummage through my backpack.

I handed her the ornament I’d made in school. My teacher had told us it was supposed to be a present for our mother. She said it’s a real silver dollar, I said. That was all it was really, just with sparkles added and a ribbon glued on to be able to hang it.

Her eyes crinkled with her smile.

That’s for you, I said then pulled out two more items. Could you give these to Ben and Gertie for me?

Her crinkles started curving the wrong way. It was the second year I’d been able to give them something for Christmas, but I was rarely alone with anyone but Hanna, unable to give secret gifts personally.

She pulled her smile back into place. Do you have your folder?

Yes, ma’am. I handed it to her and then followed her into the house.

Once upstairs, I took the certificate from Mrs. Jones out of my backpack and sat on the edge of my bed. I knew what I wanted to do, what I’d planned to do as soon as she gave it to me, but I also knew what would happen. Something inside me, some useless hope, made me walk downstairs with the certificate anyway. I used the front stairs so Hanna wouldn’t see me.

I carefully avoided the creaky step and slipped behind the staircase, hidden from view of the kitchen. My heart pounded as I approached Father’s office door. Why did this door seem so much taller and thicker than all the others? I lifted my fist. It was shaking. I scowled at it, clenched tighter, and knocked.

What? was the response.

I slipped in and closed the door.

He was standing by the window, scowling at the ocean. Sometimes I saw my expressions mirroring his. I wasn’t sure how to feel about this.

I moved closer to the desk. He still didn’t turn. I waited.

The room was dark. I’d always been curious about what kind of books he kept on the shelves that covered the entire right wall. I didn’t look. They were not for my eyes. One book, however, was open on the desk near the lamp, the only source of light.

He turned but didn’t speak. He looked at me but not really. His eyes were dead. Was he waiting for me to talk or for me to realize my stupidity and go?

What, he said. It was somehow not a question.

I got this at school. My voice was just as level as his. I already knew I didn’t sound like other kids. It was worse when I talked to him.

He showed no reaction.

I did the most book reports, I said, in my advanced class.

His head tilted the tiniest bit.

I waited. Any further boasting wouldn’t help. I knew this was probably too much as it was.

You think today is special, he said.

No, sir.

You think I should see you as something special.

No, sir.

Get out. He turned away.

As I turned for the door the book on the desk caught my eye, the photo album, my own face, but softened and female. Her straw-colored hair brushed her skin as she laughed. I had Father’s dark hair, but I did have her eyes, her pretty green eyes. But mine were dead.

I missed her. I’d never known her, but I missed her.

I saw the back of his hand, and then I hurtled toward the floor. My certificate in one hand, I caught myself with the other, and drops of blood fell directly on my name. I stood and continued toward the door.

I felt his hand on my back, and I smacked into the wall.

With focus on steadying my hands, I opened the door and closed it quietly behind me. Making no sound, I crept back upstairs.

In my bathroom, I found the dark washcloth I kept under the sink, the one that didn’t show stains, and ran it under scalding water. The scald made it feel better. I was just tall enough now not to need the little step. My reflection looked back at me, and I smeared then wiped the blood away—a cut on my lip where my teeth had punctured, a gash on my temple from hitting the paneled wall, and more blood coming from my nose. I rinsed the washcloth several times. The basin was pink. Then I washed it out. It was white again.

My face didn’t look like hers anymore.

I took off my shirt and submerged it in a sink full of cold water. I’d watched the way Hanna scrubbed my shirts before, and I was getting pretty good at it. I emptied the pink water then refilled with fresh and left the shirt to soak. My pants looked okay, so I left them and grabbed a different shirt. I took the back stairs and was seated when Father arrived for dinner.

The certificate, which I’d left on my dresser, was gone by the time I went back up to my room for bed. Hanna’s room wasn’t very big. I wondered where she kept all that crap.

Chapter Two: An Interest

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Hanna handed Father my report card. It was the first time I’d seen him look at one. I sat very still, as if I could be invisible, so I could watch him closely. I almost hoped for his annoyance, for him to talk to me. He hadn’t talked to me in months, not since Christmas.

He pointed to something.

Oh, uh, his teacher says he doesn’t seem interested in gym class, she said, or recess.

He paused for half a second then pushed the paper away and back into her hands. He didn’t stay for dessert.

She made me stay, though.

Well, she said—she sounded funny when she tried to be stern. You’ve rejected just about everything I know how to bake. Let’s see how you like this. She set a small plate in front of me with an odd-looking piece of cake.

I liked them, I said.

Not well enough to finish them. Her eyes flickered pointedly to the plate.

The icing was white and thicker than usual, and the cake wasn’t the right color, definitely not chocolate and not vanilla, either. It was kind of, uh, orangey-brown.

She watched closely as I took a small bite. And then I took another. And another. I finished it. She rested her hands on her apron and smiled.

What was that? I asked.

She took the plate. Carrot cake.

I followed her to the kitchen. You made a cake out of carrots?

Really, there’s only little pieces in there. She set the plate in the sink and turned on the faucet. Hm, maybe we’ll have to try banana bread next.

Just don’t do rhubarb pie again. I never had figured out what in the world rhubarb was, and I didn’t really want to know.

I agree, she said. No more recipes from Gertie.

She served carrot cake the next night again, since Father hadn’t had it yet. He didn’t always finish dessert, but he did this time. He and I left in opposite directions as usual, without having talked at all.

I went upstairs to my room and started on the book Ben had sneaked into my room today. Only a little while later, Hanna came to the door.

Your father wants to see you in the gym, she said.

I looked up from the book.

You’d better hurry, dear.

I slid down from the chair in the corner by my bed. Is he mad?

I don’t think so, but you’d better hurry.

Yes, ma’am. I headed for the stairs. What could he possibly want, and in the gym of all places? Our interactions weren’t like this. He’d never called for me before. The only time I felt like he knew I existed was when he was hitting me.

The long hall to the gym rang with quiet voices.

I want you to focus on target work and fighting, Father said.

No kata? The voice had an accent I’d never heard before, nothing like Gertie’s twang.

No, Father said. Be tough on him.

Sometimes the little ones—

He won’t cry.

I walked in and stood to the side. They both looked at me.

How old is he? the other man said. His accent was, apparently, something Asian.

Six.

So young?

He’s tall for his age.

They continued to discuss me as if I wasn’t there. Father knew more than I would’ve guessed. I was shocked he even knew my age. Then I reminded myself that Father knew everything, especially about anyone who entered his house. He probably already knew this man’s birthday and life history.

Work for as long as you think he needs, Father said.

The man nodded, and Father left.

The man addressed me for the first time. What is your name?

Alec Kaden.

Have you ever been in fight before?

I didn’t answer.

You no tell anyone, he surmised with a small, amused smirk. Did you win?

Yes, sir.

Did you tell no one, not the other boys?

No, sir.

He nodded and took a few steps, circling me.

Skinny, he said.

I met his eyes.

His chin lifted slightly. But strong. He kept circling. You say you won fights?

Isn’t that what I said?

What did they do to you? he asked. Why you fight?

I just looked at him.

He stopped and met my eyes squarely. He didn’t have dead eyes like Father, but there was something similar, something strong.

They said I show off, I said.

Do you?

No, sir.

He paused. Why you not walk away?

They touched me.

He nodded once and continued circling.

He stopped in front of me. Do you know why I here?

Because Father told you.

He turned to look around the room. You are smart boy. He looked to the right, to the weight equipment. Do you not say thank you to compliments?

It’s the truth.

He turned his head toward me and laughed.

Well, Mr. Alec Kaden, he said, let us get started. He moved closer and lifted my hand.

I pulled it away.

Of course. Then he added, Show me your fist.

I held it up.

He examined then showed me his. Move your thumb. He touched his own and shifted it. It should only touch your index finger.

He picked up one of the targets, one of the big ones. Punch.

He changed several more things about the way I punched. I’d never hit the targets. It felt good, much better than hitting people, and I hit much harder by the time we were done. He came back the next day. He came back every day, but Father never talked to him again, not that I saw.

It wasn’t until his fourth or fifth visit that I learned his name. He seemed to prefer being called simply Teacher, rather than Master Choi. I liked that. He still annoyed me sometimes. I didn’t always like him, but I could respect him. The classes made my insides calm, almost as much as storms. I started sleeping more, probably because Teacher pushed so hard. Nothing was ever good enough, but I knew I was improving. I could see it in his face when I got it right.

At first I got skinnier—Hanna seemed to worry a lot about it—but then I started getting thicker, though not nearly like Father. I doubted I would ever be like him. I had too much of Mommy in me—I hoped I did, anyway.

I enjoyed the classes, even if they hurt sometimes. Hanna didn’t seem to like my taking them. Teacher never hit me really hard, but I did have more bruises than usual.

It’s only because I’m so pale. I tugged my shirt on. It doesn’t hurt.

As if you would ever tell me if it hurt, Hanna said. You don’t even tell me if you’re sick.

I don’t get sick. I pulled the book out of the nightstand drawer and then climbed into bed.

Is that why you threw up last week?

I wasn’t sick. Father had never hit me in the stomach before. I was confident I would handle it better next time. At least he hadn’t seen me throw up.

With a little defeated sigh, she sat next to me. What’re we reading tonight?

I held it up for her to see. Ben brought this today.

How do you know Ben brought it? She still sounded feisty.

He looks funny when he’s hiding something. I opened the book and skipped the introduction. I hated stupid, boring introductions.

Maybe it was something for your birthday.

I didn’t look at her. She didn’t usually slip up about my birthday—it was an unspoken-of rule in Father’s house that the day was not celebrated.

Her hand moved as if to touch me, to comfort me, but it stopped. I’m sorry, dear.

I kept my gaze on the page. I’ve never read Charles Dickens before, I said. Do you like him?

Her voice was gentle. Very much.

She asked if she could read to me, and I let her. Her voice was nice. She talked to me like she really cared about me, about me in particular, like I was special to her. I knew I didn’t deserve her, knew she didn’t know who I really was, the monster I felt inside sometimes, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to hear her voice.

***

While I stood in the front hall at school, I watched the parents, mostly moms, arrive to pick up their children. Carcen La Roche, one of Father’s men, looked funny among them. I pretended not to see him, and made him walk all the way to the end of the line of second graders.

One of the teachers stepped forward to, uh, greet him. May I help you?

He smiled a shockingly pleasant smile. He usually looked extremely unpleasant, face hard like the rocks on the cliffs.

I’m here to pick up Alec. He nodded in my direction.

She paused and then turned to me. Alec, do you know him?

I stepped forward, and the boy next to me shifted farther away and bumped into the girl on his other side. Yes, ma’am, I said.

She hesitated to move out of the way.

I continued forward. He’s Carcen La Roche. He works for Father.

She watched as we walked out.

Apparently, Father trusted Mr. La Roche. He was driving one of the cars from the garage, not the one Hanna used for grocery shopping. He opened the door and slid the seat forward so I could climb in back. Do you need a booster seat, or something?

I glared.

He laughed. Sorry, kid. Just kidding.

I didn’t see the humor.

He drove for about fifteen minutes. I didn’t ask to where, and only watched the warm colors of the leaves. I wondered sometimes if Father would be annoyed at my thinking things were pretty, if the trees were not for me to know. The leaves fluttered and toppled from the limbs ahead of us then whooshed in different directions as the car moved through them. Mr. La Roche drove much faster than Hanna.

He parked at a plaza, away from the other cars. I followed him up to one of the stores, the one with the foggy windows.

Yes, sir! all the kids yelled simultaneously as we walked inside.

The instructor gave the next command. I figured this was what Father had called kata. The kids looked kind of cool all moving in sync, but I saw why Father had told Teacher to skip it. Hitting stuff seemed more worthwhile and more fun.

Teacher came out of an office behind the front counter. Mr. Alec Kaden.

Hello, sir.

How are you this evening?

Fine, sir.

That was the end of our chit-chat, always the same questions and answers.

He turned to the woman now standing next to him and spoke in an Asian language. I was pretty sure he was Korean. Ben had looked up where Taekwondo came from for me. The woman’s eyes flickered to me, and then she nodded, more like a mini bow. She took a uniform and belt from a cabinet, handed them to Mr. La Roche, and led us to a locker room.

I figured out the uniform, but the woman, probably Teacher’s wife, had to tie the belt for me. A black belt. Then she motioned for me to stand along the wall next to some other boys. They were older by at least a couple years and kept looking at me.

Class started, and after Teacher warmed us up, he told us to put on sparring gear. His wife helped me take new head gear, hand pads, and foot pads out of plastic and put it on. I felt like I couldn’t move.

Teacher lined us up in two straight lines facing each other. My partner looked me up and down and turned with his chin tilted up to listen to Teacher’s instructions.

He walked down the center of the two lines, hands folded behind him. Contact, he said. You will stay on feet today. If partner fall, wait for him to stand. He paused at the one girl in class. Or her.

I won’t be falling, sir, she said.

That little smirk of his curved the corner of his mouth—I had the feeling he liked a bit of stubbornness—and he continued walking.

Father walked in.

I barely heard the rest of Teacher’s instructions.

Father stayed in back of the room, near Mr. La Roche, but to the side, with a clear view of the entire workout floor. I watched him in the mirror and realized I’d never seen him outside of home. He looked alien, like a lion outside the cage at a zoo. I half expected everyone to scatter, screaming.

Teacher’s eyes flickered to him for a fraction of a second.

"Kyongne," Teacher said.

I bowed like everyone else and shook my partner’s hand. He gripped tightly, like he was making a point. He gained some of my attention.

Guard stance.

I put my hands up.

"Sijuk."

My partner hurtled at me.

I stepped to the side.

He kicked. I blocked.

He punched. I dodged.

Father watched, attention perfectly undiverted. Luckily, my partner wasn’t nearly as fast as Teacher. I barely noticed him. He didn’t hit me. This kind of sparring was much easier. Except for Father standing there, unmoving, just standing there.

He crossed his arms.

"Khomman," Teacher called, and the chaos reassembled itself into perfect, straight lines.

Teacher was close and spoke only to me. Hit back.

I looked up, and he paused to read me. This was his most annoying habit.

They are protected, he said. You can hit them.

Yes, sir.

He continued walking. Rotate.

A different boy stood in front of me. He grinned at me, the arrogant kind. This helped me focus, or rather, the anger simmering up my spine helped me focus.

This boy, too, hurtled forward, but he stopped with my fist in the middle of his chest guard. He sucked in air. I round kicked the side of his head, and his head accompanied my foot to the floor.

I waited for him to get up, and when he did, his expression was very different. Then he was on the ground again. As the line rotated, I decided I liked the gear—well, I liked it on them, but definitely not on me.

Father continued to watch, and my partners continued to fall. They began to approach more cautiously.

Then the girl stood in front of me.

Father straightened, and I stepped back.

What? She sounded annoyed.

I looked at Teacher just as he met Father’s gaze.

Rotate, Teacher said.

The girl glared but obeyed.

Several more people fell, and Father was gone before the class was over. I wasn’t sure what to make of Father’s prolonged presence. It was the first time he’d shown he realized I existed other than when he was hitting me.

I poured all my efforts into training, and eventually, I gained teachers of other styles as well. Father almost never talked to me, but sometimes he came to watch.

Chapter Three: Holding Back

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Middle school had a huge library, though not as well-stocked as home—too many boring kiddy books. Today, the library was interesting.

Instead of giving us an assignment, making us draw our feelings or some other such stupidity, the art teacher had given us a free period to browse the art show. Art from schools all over the area hung on folding room-dividers.

I skipped the kindergarten and first grade crap—finger painting, my butt—and moved on through the rest, through second and third. In fourth, I stopped. I never made it farther. It wasn’t an oil painting, or a painting at all. Not pastels or charcoal, only pencil on paper put up with thumb tacks. The tag next to it stated the school it came from, the grade level—two below mine—and the medium, but no artist’s name, only the initials: ALG. Most of the others were titled glorious, artsy names. The line on this one simply said, Untitled.

The perspective looked out from a front porch. The post edged the one side of the paper. The style of it matched the house across the street, Victorian or maybe Queen Anne, but the architecture was just the edging. The picture was the sky, the swirling, looming sky. It looked to be on the verge of rain. There was something quiet about the shapelessness of the clouds, as if something lovely was underneath, trying to find its way out. I’d always thought rain lovely. The clouds darkened and lightened, smoothed and rippled. They hovered over the neighborhood and embraced it somehow. ALG made overcast beautiful.

Art class passed much more quickly than usual. I wasn’t ready to leave the picture.

The next day, though, I was not so lucky. Art class always seemed to drag. School was boring, but this class was torture.

How does it make you feel? the art teacher asked the class.

Lids mostly closed, my eyes rolled underneath.

She began meandering in my direction. "Be aware of the emotional content. It could be a simple object, but if it has meaning to you, it will come out, if you let it."

She passed behind the girl on the other side of the table from me. I didn’t look up. We were supposed to be sketching, but I was out of ideas. I knew she wouldn’t go for another drawing of my pencil or my books. Grade school had been easier. They were happy when I