Chapter 3
All I saw of Wisconsin was the airport, a few streets, the convention center and the hotel. That was more than enough for me. Milwaukee is a dump. All the cities they put the NACs in are dumps. I think they have a special dumpy-city index that was made for the precise purpose of selecting fencing tournament locations. So far we hadn’t hit Detroit yet, but I’m sure that they had it on standby. Cincinnati in December, Anaheim in July, Virginia Beach in February--they had pulled that one multiple times. With abandoned buildings, not enough restaurants, more than enough homeless people and suckish weather Milwaukee had everything the United States Fencing Association looked for when picking a spot.
It was cold, very cold, as Maya Eisenstein had predicted. Annette, being the ditz she was forgot a jacket. My mother made me loan her mine. She did say thank you, so I couldn’t complain, even if she did fill the pockets with tissues and straw wrappers in the two days she wore it. When I washed it after, having received no warning from her and making the mistake of thinking that she was civilized, I ended up with an entire load full of paper fuzz and had to run it again.
I spotted Sandra Morrison in the elevator. I had hopped in after lingering around the lobby to find that she had finished checking in and was going up to her room. To avoid a conversation I took out my phone and looked down at it pretending not to know her, which turned out to be a good tactic, as her mother was practicing firing the machine-gun jaw, waving her painted talons in the air.
“You need to go to bed at eight Sandra. No I don’t care if you’re not tired, you need to rest. Nastasya says you fence badly if you don’t sleep well enough, eh? What a horrible woman. You know what she said to me the other day? Something about your shoes not being right for your feet. As if she would know. And I don’t know if I like this new training schedule of yours.” I slipped out of the elevator, aware of Sandra’s eyes on my back. Somehow, I doubted that she would get a good night’s sleep.
The next morning I saw them at the hotel breakfast. Sandra’s mother must have been on speed or had a mutated hormone with the same chemical composition. She was buzzing over her daughter still, dividing her plate into sections to ensure that she had a balanced breakfast. At least, that’s what it looked like.
“No no, you’re allergic to that Sandra. Do you want to die?” She shook her cropped bleached hair around. Maybe there was something to the stories of her fights with Nasty. Her high heels clicked around behind me as I watched Maya shove a muffin into her face while Annette poked at some yogurt. She hadn’t spoken to me all morning. She was angry you see, because I had used a clean towel the night before. I woke up to her screaming.
“You’re so goddamn selfish Spencer.”
“What?” She threw a glass of water on me. I sprung up in my bed, spluttering.
“I need two towels before I fence in the morning.” Holding up two fingers in my face she stomped her foot.
“Look out, we’re on the third floor.” I wiped the water from my face.
“Oh, pretending to be all considerate of strangers now. When you can’t even be nice to me. I’m your sister.”
“I don’t understand why you need two towels. You’re not that fat.” She cussed me out a bit more, and then stopped speaking to me, which was a relief. My mother managed to sleep through it all, or at least, did a decent job of pretending. She informed me last night that I’d take Annette down with her friends, and that she would join us later. I was thrilled, as you can imagine.
None of the boys would be awake before ten o’clock. In the breakfast room, dim morning light struggling through the windows a curious silence lingered, despite the efforts of Mrs. Morrison. At almost every table there was a different color jacket, with a different fencing studio logo, and the teenage girls all sat with the same scared expression on their face, staring at either their food or their parent, shoveling it in as if programmed. The parents would occasionally venture to make a comment about the cinnamon buns or, if they were feeling brave, the tournament to be blinked into silence by their offspring.
As I always have a difficult time eating in front of Maya, I decided to pick something up at the convention center. She made me nauseous when she ate. It was too noisy and she enjoyed it too much.
“Hey girl.” One of their nameless friends showed up, fluttering her fingers around.
“Heeey.” Annette and Maya bounced up and gave her a hug as if she’d just come back from war. Maya winked at her “You ready?”
“I hope so.” The friend, taking after Maya and Annette, ignored my existence. That was preferred for both parties. “They say Jeanine Fischer isn’t doing Y-14.”
“Where did you hear that from?” I did my best to tune them out and instead concentrated on Sandra’s mother who was walking in circles around her jabbering away on the phone. That is, I watched her until I noticed that Sandra was staring at me with her alarmingly light eyes. I stood up to grab a stale bagel and a bearclaw before wandering into the lobby to wait for my sister.
I caught Annette trying to sneak past me. Luckily I recognized the sound of her footsteps and happened to be watching her fencing bag. She had a way of dragging her feet so that her one hundred and ten pounds sounded more like three times the amount. I had the feeling she’d try to escape me. I would be in awful trouble with our mother if I lost my sister, though I think I’d deserve a medal. She glared at me as I stood close by her and said
“Hello little sister.” She ignored me and pulled ahead. I let her go. As long as I could see her I was in good shape. Wondering vaguely when my mother planned on arriving, I entered the convention center.
The convention center had the same abstract artsy carpet, high ceiling, meaningless quotes, excessive staircases and oversized windows that seem to be required. I suppose it’s not the center’s fault that USFA always books the bottom basement in the most inconvenient far corner, but it was still irritating to half to walk a mile in order to find the tournament up and down four different escalators. I had to make an effort not to overtake the Annette contingent. She walked as if wearing leaden shoes to start and to make things worse, she was talking to her friends and dragging around her fencing bag full of unnecessary items and half-empty water bottles. It made me feel like a stalker, but I decided it would be more uncomfortable for me to stand next to them. I thought about my mother sleeping at the hotel as I should have been and tried to avoid becoming violent.
Taking the final escalator down, I saw that they had managed to cut the check-in line to join some friends from Texas. I didn’t mind. It was more convenient for me. I noticed Sandra near the end of the line, with her mother standing next to her whispering in her ear and eyeing the other fencers from behind a pair of reading glasses. I didn’t recognize anyone else.
My sister walked up and handed them her card. She tossed her head and tried to look disinterested. She left Maya for the Texas friends. Maya waddled after them, attempting a run. I followed into the main tournament room.
They always dress these NACs up the same. The strips are metal and wired to score machines that stand on little tables with little skirts. There are two score machines on each table facing away from each other, and two strips on either side. On the outside of the metal strip will be an area covered either by red or by blue carpet, where no one is allowed while during a bout except the director. The side of the carpet is marked with metal handrails, which every fencer has learned how to maneuver their way under. Unless of course you happen to be one of the eight feet tall junior men who show off and jump over. But there are very few of those.
Strips are organized into pods of four. Each pod receives a letter, and the strips a number, one through four accompanied by that letter. Where are you fencing? Oh, I’m on J4 or K2 etc. The pod system is a recent invention. They used to all have numbers corroborating my theory that the system is run by idiots. Imagine, a fencer being told to go to strip fifty-four, in a room full of identical strips and small labels.
Annette dumped her bag at my studio’s station. The bigger studios have tarps with their names written on it stationed along the walls where there are no strips. The solitary fencers usually pick a strip to dump their stuff at and pray no one steals it. No one usually steals anything at American tournaments, but in Sweden it’s supposed to be be quite common.
At the center of all this noise is the bout committee. They are on a raised table with a black skirt. They sit up their and hand out DE slips and pool assignments and initial seedings and whatever other important papers anyone may need. It would be intimidating, like an altar of fate or something but it's run by a bunch of grandmas. They are also responsible for the loud static buzzing that they try to pass off as an intercom system, and horrendous mispronunciations that sometimes result in fencers never hearing their warning call and literally missing the tournament. Behind the bout committee is a little lounge for the directors. Somewhere near there will be the medic station.
Around the perimeter are the vendors. Blue Gauntlet, Leon Paul, selling every fencing brand and piece of equipment that you may or may not need. Shoes, blades, grips, masks, in a variety of colors and qualities. Hidden near the vendors somewhere will be the equipment check. Every fencer must go there in order to have their body cords tested and their masks approved. Foil and sabre fencers also have to get their outer metallic vest/ jacket checked but who cares about them? French grips also have to have their handles measured in length because a US fencer was found hand-making extra long grips at an international tournament. That was more than a little embarrassing.
My lovely sister (who was a french-grip fencer) had elected to leave off checking her equipment until the morning she competed. We were at the venue the entire day before picking her out a new glove or shoe or something. I don’t remember what she was doing--I was getting my equipment checked.
Now I would likely have been forced to give her my equipment, but mine was back at the hotel, and I couldn’t keep an eye on her and her belongings and go back to the hotel at the same time. Besides I wasn’t French grip, and even if I were, fencers like my sister, with little skill and lots of ego complain about having to use other people’s equipment, especially blades. If she fenced an Olympian, and it was using my sword, she would blame her loss on me not properly glueing down the wire. Or shaving away too much insulation around the plug, or not properly tightening the barrel, or not having the right angle. She always tells me that my swords don’t have the right angle.
I was wandering around, minding my own business (now that we were at the convention center, I could always say that I had to use the bathroom. Annette didn’t want me around anyway.)
“Spencer.” I heard a whine. Annette was surrounded by girls in various stages of fencing clothing.
“What do you want.”
“That’s not very nice of you. I wanted to say sorry for throwing water on you this morning.” She tilted her head, letting her hair tumble to the side.
“Would you spit it out?” Annette’s lips curled into displeasure. She rolled her eyes, but the girls giggled and her lips lifted again.
“You should check my equipment.” She said swinging back and forth attempting to look cute. Cute didn’t work on Annette.
“Why exactly should I check your equipment?” I asked. She laughed and gestured to her gang.
“Because I have to warm up. And it’s not fair, you’re not doing anything.” Warm up. Right. I was aware of hip - shifting and eyelash batting.
“I’m not going to check your goddamn equipment.”
“Did you just cuss at me?” I snorted. “I am so going to tell Mom, Spencer Chang.”
“Do what you want. I hear worse out of your mouth every day.” I said, and tried to leave. I was not going to check her equipment.
“What if I pay you?”
“Yeah, right, with Mom’s money? What, did you get it out of her purse today?” I said. She glared at me. “I’m not checking your crap.” She realized that I meant it and waved me away. Cries of "Spencer," floated after me, punctuated by snorts and titters. I wondered who she would bribe into doing it.
Later on, I passed the check line and recognized some over-taped french grips poking over the shoulders of none other than Eric Sanchez. Of course she could get him.
“Oh look at you.” I walked up to him, nodding at the obnoxious taping. Some of the top fencers tape their french-grips to adjust the grip, so of course, my sister would tape hers too.
“Hey man, she offered to pay me good money.” Eric nodded.
“What are you, a gigolo?”
“Why? Do you wanna hire me?” He winked and tried to kick me. I dodged. As we guffawed I heard a disapproving whisper of some offended parent. I snorted, and turned to see Sandra Morrison’s mother glaring at us, still wearing reading glasses. I turned away quickly.
“I didn’t take it. You don’t take money from a girl if you like her.”
“Why would anyone like her?”
“Spencer, your sis looks good in a fencing uniform. Only one out of a hundred can pull that off.” Another whistle of air from Mrs. Morrison caused Eric to scratch his head and say, “Anyway, I got a few sweet touches last week on Tomazeuski.” I could tell that Eric was trying to impress the glaring woman behind us, and justify his existence. But I couldn’t allow him to mislead her. .
“Everyone gets sweet touches on Tomazeuski.” I rolled my eyes.
“Do you get three consecutive back flicks, Chang? Three?”
“The kid’s five feet tall.” I smirked. He raised his eyebrows.
“Well whatever. I’m sorry not everyone can be a six-two freak of nature. And you’re Chinese.” He stopped and looked at me as if he’d only just noticed. “Aren’t Chinese people supposed to be short?”
“No, idiot. I think it’s the Peruvians that are supposed to be short.” Eric was Peruvian though his family was from New York.
“Hey man, I’m going to grow. Swear I am.” I laughed. “No really.” Eric bobbed his head.
“How would you know?” I asked. He frowned for a moment before grinning and spreading his arms before him.
“It’s my destiny.” Somehow, we were still getting glared at. Carefully facing front, away from Mrs. Morrison, Eric leaned towards me and whispered. “Is that lady watching us?”
“Yeah.” He laughed nervously. “Maybe she wants to hire you too.” I said, very careful not to be heard.
“You’re sick.” he yelled after me as I danced away. “Hey man, are you ditching me?”
“I’m not getting paid good money.” I said and left, despite his moan and “Come, on, man.” I admit, Mrs. Morrison’s glare was making me uncomfortable. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have ditched Eric. He was the more entertaining than anything else in the venue at that point in time.
My sister ended up on A3. Maya was on A1 with Sandra. The way they number the pools, the two were next to each other, so I was gifted by the fencing gods with a double feature. The fencing gods are cruel. I avoided the area until my mother arrived.
“Spencer. Get over here. Why aren’t you watching your sister?”
“Oh, I just had to go to the bathroom.” She glared at me.
“Do we need to have your father examine you?” My father was a doctor. “Or does Annette fencing always make you have to go?” It was time to frame that excuse, hang it on the wall, and find another.
My mother managed to pick the seat right beside Mrs. Morrison. I sat shifting in my chair, hoping not to be recognized. From the sigh and leg crossing that took place next to me, I was not successful. I noticed that Old Nasty stood as far as possible from Sandra’s mother when coaching. Hearing a Maya-esque muttering in my head I blinked my thoughts away.
Turning my head away from Annette, I watched Sandra hook up on one line and Maya on the other. They had managed to avoid each other at all the local tournaments only to collide at Nationals, which was always fun. Since it was a pool bout it only went to five touches. Sandra glanced at Maya and I knew that she recognized her, but she didn’t say a word. She was still wearing her stupid oversized knickers, but her bag looked decent, and her shoes more than decent. They were the latest Adidas brand model. When they tested guards, everything went smoothly.
Sandra held up her blade to salute, her mask resting on her head. I saw her eyes flick over to me and back again. I tried my hardest to look like I didn’t want to be there, stretching back in my chair until my mother slapped the back of my head and told me to watch my sister.
And watch her I did. I watched her for the entire twenty seconds it took her to fix her hair before the bout. Then I lost focus and noticed that Maya also decided to fix her hair. The whole time Sandra stood, expressionless, holding up her blade, with a peculiar respectful disdain. It was a remarkable expression, and Maya hurried up her hair tying. The bout began. Maya caught me watching and wiggled her fingers in my direction. She wasn’t angry at me any more. Crap.
Watching Maya caused me physical pain. She didn’t pick up her feet only bounced on her knees. She also loved to shake her left hand while she fenced like an inbred chicken trying to take flight. In a few seconds, I couldn’t take it anymore, and watched Sandra instead.
Sandra was a pistol-grip fencer. Pistol grips are closer to the bell guard and shaped like a pistol. From a distance it looked as if she had a German pistol grip, which meant more power. She had grown since I saw her last, and was strong, despite her lanky build.
Her footwork was still awkward, but her bladework surprised me. A beat on the eight line nearly knocked Maya’s blade from her hand. Sandra took advantage and slipped the point in to hit Maya’s jiggling wrist. Sandra turned her back and returned to the line. It looked as if she’d done it on purpose, which was all the more impressive. Maya stretched her fingers against the bell guard and wiped the bottom of her shoes against her long socks. She shook her head and returned to bouncing.
Sandra’s blade circled now, counterclockwise, counterclockwise, and then at the right time, a sharp clockwise, taking Maya completely by surprise and landing a touch deep in her right shoulder. It was a textbook simple attack, but you have to fence at the level of your opponent.
The next point Sandra threw away. She tried a straight lunge for no apparent reason. Maya clipped her left hand somehow and turned and gave a sharp “Bo” scream, complete with the mini fistbump. That scream had been in fashion recently. Screams go in and out of fashion among the wannabe fencers. Sandra shook her head. I heard her mother mutter “What’s that girl doing?” Nasty spread her arms, with an unattractive frog-like look.
“Well why not? Why don’t you do it again, just give her the bout?” I saw Sandra’s mother scowl at Nasty, and I tried my best to dissolve into the chair to avoid being in the crossfire.
Sandra snapped her wrist, landing another hand touch on my sister. Three to one. Sticking with the formula, Sandra did this two more times. Five to one. Thirty three seconds. I approved. My sister was in the middle of a sudden death situation where the score was tied three-three and the time ran out, so I had to look stern and concerned so that my mother didn’t slap the back of my head anymore, but I approved of Sandra’s fencing. Maya came off the strip sighing and whining but I ignored her and she soon found more bouts to lose.
My approval only increased as Sandra cut through the rest of her pool. Five-zero, using flesches, five-two with foot touches and six-line lunges, and on and on. She lost one bout, to the top seed in the pool, where she managed to impale herself five times, but that was forgivable. Old Nasty kicked a chair and left in a huff, but Sandra would have a favorable seeding for DEs.
My sister on the other hand, was in hysterics. She had gone four and two which wasn’t bad, but disappointing for someone who was used to going at least five and one and usually six and o. She waved her pale hands around as her face turned red.
“It’s because you gave me such a hard time this morning. I was running around half the morning waiting for someone to stand in line with my equipment.”
“Spencer, you wouldn’t check her equipment?”
“He hates me.” She smoothed back sweaty hair.
“You got Eric to do it.” I said. My mother shook her head as she pulled out her iPhone to exread a newspaper.
“That’s embarrassing. You are her brother she shouldn’t have to ask other boys to check her own equipment.”
“No she shouldn’t. She should have checked her own.” My mother didn’t hear me, which I suppose was fortunate. I imagine such commentary would be in the category of “disrespectful.”
“Hey don’t worry about it, girl. I only won two of my bouts. I lost to Morrison five to one, can you believe it?” Maya sighed. My sister rolled her eyes not appreciating the suggestion that Annette's pool and Maya' s were measured by the same set of standards.
“Hey Spencer. What’s up, what’s up,” Eric sat down next to me, putting his feet on the rail and taking Mrs. Morrison’s seat. She had gotten up to throw away a water bottle.
“Let’s get out of here.” I said to him, turning my head so that my mother wouldn’t hear. I also wanted to evacuate him before Mrs. Morrison returned. She had stopped to read the label before throwing away the bottle. I don’t understand the point of reading it after consumption, but it was an appreciated delay. The two of us stood up.
“As you wish. Hi Annette, hi Maya.” He waved with a fake smile. I rolled my eyes.
“Hey Eric.”
“How did your pools go?”
“Horrid. I went four and two.” Annette put her face between her hands. Eric moseyed behind her and rubbed her shoulder.
“You’ll make it up in DEs. You’re a strong enough fencer so that it doesn’t make a difference how you do in pools as long as you make the cut.” He winked. Four and two was always enough to make the cut. They only cut the bottom twenty percent.
“Ugh they were awful. I was two and four.” Maya noticed that no one was interested in her and tried to change that by making a pouty face. She put her face in my shoulder and snuffled. I cringed. The snuff had texture that suggested snot.
“Oh I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Eric said. Everyone knew he was lying. Shrugging Maya off, I began to drag him away. “See you.” He waved again.
“How long has Maya been fencing?” He muttered to me as we passed the bout committee.
“Six years?” I raised my eyebrows. He raised his and twisted his mouth into a smirk.
“Oh. What a catch you have.” He said. “Have you seen David around?” David Bertoni was another fencer at our studio. He was ripped and used it. He had the beginnings of a dark moustache and looked at least five years older than his real age of nineteen. I was secretly jealous of his facial hair, but never let him know it. David was too dense to figure it out on his own, not like the knowledge would have made a difference.
“Only earlier this morning.”
“Oh. Well he--”
“What do you think you’re doing? What are you feeding her?” A female voice came screeching over the sound of clanging blades and buzzers. We both did an about face, and found Mrs. Morrison screaming at Old Nasty. The myths, for the first time in the history of mankind, were true.
“Shit.” Eric guffawed.
“I am trying to help you and your daughter.” Old Nasty was saying. “And I say that she should eat before her DE.”
“You don’t know anything. She doesn’t have to eat if she doesn’t want to.” Eric snorted. I frowned. Sandra was what looked like a size triple zero. I was pretty sure that if she didn’t eat, she would disappear. “You brought her a hot dog? Don’t you know that she has a gluten allergy?”
Old Nasty rolled her eyes. “She does not.”
“Have you given her wheat before?” Mrs. Morrison was not yelling anymore, but had lowered her forehead with her voice in a way that was much more menacing. Old Nasty rolled her eyes.
“Mom stop.” I saw Sandra crying.
“Don’t cry it makes you look weak.” Old Nasty said to Sandra, smacking the side of her head. I questioned her timing.
“Don’t you dare talk to my daughter like that. Or hit her. I’m the parent here. And Sandra, you’re not allowed to tell me to stop.” Mrs. Morrison shoved a finger in Sandra’s face. She didn’t stop crying. I felt embarrassed for her, and wanted to leave, but was unable to. It was too interesting.
“I’m the coach. You know when I am seeing fencer cry, all anyone is thinking is that they are mental case.” Old Nasty shook her head. How could Sandra not be a mental case at that point?
“Cry if you want Sandra.” Mrs. Morrison said. Sandra covered her face so that no one could tell if she was crying or not. “She doesn’t need you to go around buying hot dogs for her when she’s allergic and putting her down.” Mrs. Morrison stomped her high heel into the concrete flooring.
“If you were less soft on her, she’d be able to take more.” Old Nasty smirked. She leaned forward. “Look. I have helped your daughter. This is my territory. I am training my whole life. She used to be horrible fencer pom porom like elephant, but now she is like rabbit.” I noticed Eric twitch out of the corner of my eye. “If you cannot see this, you are blind, and you are hurting your daughter.”
“Don’t tell me how to parent. And my daughter was never an elephant.” Though the voices had quieted, the tension was mounting to the point where an explosion had to be in the forecast when Sandra turned and ran. Both women watched her, suddenly silent.
“What an idiot.” Who she was talking about was unclear. “Sandra, come here, it’s okay.” Her heels clicked after her daughter. Old Nasty stood for a moment. Seeing my coach nearby she began yelling at him in Russian gesturing after Mrs. Morrison. She took a seat beside him. He kept shrugging and shaking his head.
“Chick is scary as hell.” Eric said. I nodded. I couldn’t see where Sandra had gone, nor could I believe that the two women had gotten so out of hand in the middle of a National tournament. “What was that even about?”
“A hot dog?” I shrugged, pretending not to care. “Come on"
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