I nodded, so he went on. "You ever watch reality TV, Lou?" I shrugged. "You ever seen the cake shows?"

"Cake shows?" I repeated, puzzled.

In the world of laundry, one red sock can change everything.

I didn't know the sock was there; it was left by the person who used the machine before me, either by accident or as a joke. In any case, I didn't see it. I just shoved my white load into the machine, burying the red sock until later, when I dug it out of the wet, twisted mess of pink sheets, pink towels, and of course pink underwear.

I found the damn sock, and it wasn't one of mine. I carried it right past the Lost and Found bin and threw it in the trash, so no one else could be pranked.

It wasn't the first time I'd had an unpleasant surprise at the laundromat. Once I left with bleach burns on the seat of my jeans — the ones I was wearing! Another time, the drier melted flakes of a weird rubbery stuff all over my shirts and pants. It took hours to pick it all off.

But this time was different. This was the first time I got angry. As a matter of fact, I was furious.

I can live with pink sheets and towels. I can even deal with pink underwear. After all, nobody gets to see any of that stuff but me. So I didn't care about that. But there was one thing in my white load that absolutely has to be white. It's not an option, it's a requirement.

And that one thing is my gi, my karate uniform.

My gi! Yesterday it was brand new: stiff, crisp, and white. I'd only worn it once. Now, my pride and joy was a silly joke, and I had no other: As soon as I bought this new one, I tossed out my old raggedy suit, which meant that now the only thing I could possibly wear to karate class today was this pretty pink karate suit. In desperation, I turned to a woman in the next row of machines.

"Excuse me, do you think I can bleach this out?"

She drew a slow, hesitant breath. "You want to bleach it back to white?" I nodded. She shook her head. "You can try, but you'll probably end up ruining it. It might turn gray or yellow, and it'll probably get bleach burns. At least now, it's all one color."

"But I can't wear it like this!"

"Sorry, hon. The safest bet is to get a new one." Then, after a moment, she added, "And be more careful separating your colors."

I huffed at that, but didn't bother explaining that it wasn't my fault. I didn't have the time. I heaved everything, pink as it was, into one of the big, hot driers and sat down to wait. My feet danced in impatience, and I kept looking at my watch. A dozen times I calculated whether I could catch the bus to and from the martial-arts supply store, and still be on time for karate class.

A dozen times I admitted there was no way I could make it. And a dozen times I reminded myself that I won't get paid until Friday, and won't have money for a new gi until then.

I chewed my nails and fretted. I couldn't miss karate. Pink uniform or no, I *had* to be there. I love karate! It's my life! I've been taking classes since I was seven years old, and I practice every day. Every single day.

Unfortunately, I'm not very good at it. I can't understand it. If wanting was enough, if effort was enough, I'd be a tenth dan. That's the highest you can go. Instead, I only have a blue belt, in spite of twelve years of constant practice, and real passion and devotion. For some reason, I haven't been able to pass the test for brown belt. But I haven't given up! I'm sure that one day I'll have my breakthrough. Persistence is the key.

Of course, the other guys in class rib me. It's good-natured, and it doesn't hurt. It makes me stronger, standing up their stupid remarks and the humiliation of not being very good.

I tell myself, Sure, I'm not so great... yet. And that yet is what keeps me going.

So, a pink gi? Was that going to stop me? I should say not!

When I got to the locker room, just to show that I didn't care, I pulled my uniform slowly and dramatically from my bag. I didn't try to hide it. I didn't explain or act embarrassed — even though I felt like a complete jackass.

As soon as the other guys caught sight of it, they began hooting and making catcalls. I may as well have been wearing sexy lingerie, for all the noise they were making.

"Oooh, looking good, Lewis!" one laughed, and another said, "No, that's not Lewis, boys — that's Lois!"

I laughed with them at first, but when one of the guys cooed, "Oh my God, Lois, you look so pretty in pink!" I blushed to match my clothes, and they laughed all the more.

"Very funny," I said, hoping I sounded nonchalant, but my fingers fumbled badly as I tried to tie my belt.

It seemed to take ages before I was able to get out of the locker room and into the dojo. It was still a little early. Students were scattered around the room, warming up with kicks and stretches. None of them bothered to look at me. I began to feel better: being here was well worth the ribbing I'd taken.

Sensei stood in front, straight and tall, watching everyone. He frowned when he saw the color of my uniform, and he gestured for me to come. I trotted over and bowed to him. There was a stranger standing next to Sensei; a stranger dressed in street clothes. I realized that I'd never seen a man dressed in a jacket and tie in the dojo before. Sensei gestured at me and told the stranger, "This is one I told you about." To me, he said, "What's with the pink gi, Louie-chan? Are you trying to tell us something?" He gave a barking laugh, then told me, "Show this man your flying kicks." With that, he walked away, leaving me with the stranger.

"Hey there," the man in the tie said. "You're Lou, Louie? Lewis, right? I'm Jack. Jack Bernus. I hear you're the man for flying kicks. Is that right?"

"Yeah, I'm Lewis. And yes, I am pretty good at flying kicks."

Jack gestured at Sensei, who was now on the other side of the room. "Boss man says you're the best."

"Really?" I replied, genuinely surprised. "He never told me that."

"Well, he told me," Jack said, rubbing his hands together. "Can I see 'em?"

The fact is, no one in my dojo takes flying kicks seriously. And I mean no one, Sensei included. They all say the kicks are too complicated and take too much of a wind-up. It's easy to see them coming. They say that flying kicks are silly and impractical; that you could never use one in a competion, let alone in a fight.

What they don't say is that flying kicks are difficult to do. For all their scoffing, most people can't do them. They can't stay in the air long enough, or spin fast enough and hard enough. For some reason, as much as I suck at the rest of karate, I can do pretty much all the flying kicks, but I don't get any respect for it.

I showed the guy my tornado kick, which is one of the 540-degree kicks. I showed him the lazyboy, where you put your hands behind your head while you spin and kick in the air. I showed him the jacknife: a crescent kick with one leg and a heel kick with the other. Then I did a butterfly twist, where I pretty much lie down in the air and spin. I followed that with a flying back kick. Then I thought I'd throw in a Hong Kong Spin, but he stopped me.

"That's enough," he said. "You sold me. You're the flying-kick man. I've been driving all over the damn state trying to find somebody who could do one of those kicks, and you've got the whole frickin' MENU!"

I was more than pleased. In fact, I was over the moon! It was rare that I had a chance to show off. Having any kind of audience was a treat, and I'd never had such an enthusiastic one. So it didn't occur to me to ask *why* Mr. Bernus ("Call me Jack, please!") was looking for flying kicks until he asked if we could go have some coffee and talk.

Class was just beginning, and though I'd never missed a class — not even when I was sick — my curiosity (and my vanity) were just too much for me. I dashed back to the locker room, changed into my street clothes, and nearly fell over myself rushing to join Mr. Bernus — Jack — at the coffeeshop down the street.

I found Jack sitting at a table in the corner. Once again he complimented me on my kicks, and then he got down to business.

He leaned forward and in a low voice said, "What I'm going to tell you is in the strictest confidence, alright? You can't tell ANYONE: not your mother, not your girlfriend — or your boyfriend, as the case may be. No one. Nobody. Is that absolutely clear?"

I nodded, so he went on. "You ever watch reality TV, Lou?" I shrugged in reply. "You ever see the cake shows?"

"Cake shows?" I repeated, puzzled.

"Yeah, there are six of 'em right now, not counting the competition shows. The biggest ones right now are King of Cakes and Cake Mafia. Then you've got World War of Wedding Cakes, Wild Wedding Cakes, and Get Your Cake Off."

"For real?" I said. "I never heard of any of them."

"Yeah, they're real," Jack assured me, a little offended at my ignorance. "And they're big!"

"Okay," I said. "So why are you telling me? I'm not a baker. I don't know anything about cakes, except how to eat them."

Jack laughed. "Yeah, me too. But I'm launching a brand new show — a totally new concept. It's going to piggyback on the success of all the cake shows. The show is called Cakeboxer. Get it? It's like Kickboxer, except with cakes."

I scratched my head. "No," I said. "I don't get it."

"Okay," Jack said, laughing. "Get this: our show, each week, opens with somebody—" he gestured at me "—ordering a cake. A big cake, with layers, you know, like a wedding cake — tiers, you know? So the cake, it's like, high, you get it? Three or four tiers high, so it's like—" he held his hands apart to measure the distance "—three feet high. At least."

He chuckled to himself before continuing. "And THEN, when they go to deliver the cake, it's always a tense moment, right?"

"Why?"

"Because they've got this tall, fragile cake, and it's sitting on a board, right? And it's heavy. On these shows, they make super-elaborate cakes. So you figure like a wedding cake, but with all sorts of decorations, figures, flowers, colors... it's like a panorama or something. And the more complicated the cake gets, the heavier and more fragile it is. It takes two people — two strong guys — to carry the finished cake out of the bakery, set it in the back of a van, and drive it to... to wherever."

I was still confused. "I don't see where this is going."

"Look, Lou. The cake... it's easy to break. If the van hits a bump, if they brake too hard, if they take a turn too fast... if one of the guys trips or stumbles, if they tip the board ever so slightly, they could lose the cake. If anything falls off, if it gets even the tiniest ding, the whole cake is ruined. So the moment of highest tension is when they carry the cake to the van. Got it?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Okay: so two of them are struggling with this big, heavy, fragile cake... they're being super-careful, right? And then—" Jack began to laugh. His laughter built until he couldn't talk. I waited for him to stop. What else could I do? After half a minute, his laughter subsided to a chuckle, and he went on. "And then, out of nowhere, you come running in... you leap into the air... and you kick the cake to bits!" Then he was overcome with laughter.

I sat there in silence, watching him cry and hoot and wipe his eyes. My silence made him laugh all the harder. "Don't you think it's funny?" he wheezed. "You come running in," he repeated, "You leap into the air, and you kick the cake to pieces!"

I frowned and shook my head. "No," I told him. "It isn't funny! I mean... the poor cake people! Aren't they going to be angry? They went to all the trouble of making the cake—"

"Yes, yes," he interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. "Of course they'll be angry! They'll go through the roof! And, oh! Won't they be surprised! and shocked! It will be hilarious!." He took out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. "This is what people want! This is reality TV at its best: people going nuts... passion, heat, strong emotions." He looked at me, expecting me to understand, but instead I shrugged.

"I don't get it," I said, in an apologetic tone.

"Yes, I can see that!" he countered. "You don't get it, Lou; you don't even know how wrong you are. So, so, wrong. Listen to me: Yes, the 'cake people' will be angry. Yes, they will be upset. They will hate you for kicking their cake apart. But at the same time, for the same reasons, they will *love* you! The 'cake people' will love it! Because... think about it: What is it they want most of all?"

He waited for me to answer, but I drew a blank. So he answered his own question.

"They want to be on TV! That's what they want! And our stunt, our show, will put them there. Everybody will come to talk to them. Reporters will stick a camera in their faces and ask them how it feels to have their cake kicked apart. And it won't just be TV. It'll go viral. The scene where you kick apart their cake, where they start screaming, that moment will explode all over the internet. It's the best kind of publicity: and it's a kind that money can't buy!"

"Publicity for you or for them?" I asked.

"For both! It's a win-win-win!"

I shook my head. It still didn't make any sense.

"Anyway," he said, moving on, "Here's the thing. Even if I haven't managed to convince you, I have convinced one of the networks that it's a good idea. I gave them the pitch, and they gave me enough money to do the pilot. With the pilot, I'll get money to do more shows... hopefully an entire season."

"And you want *me* to be the one who kicks apart the cakes?"
 

After that, we talked for about forty minutes. He talked about SAG. He told me about scale and residuals, and soon (to my surprise) I found myself agreeing to do the Cakeboxer pilot.

"Great!" he said. "Great! There's just one little thing. It's a little thing. A little, little thing. I... I don't think it's going to be a problem... but there is just one little thing."

"So what is it?" I asked. "What is this little, little thing?"

"See... when I gave the pitch to the network... the people who put up the money for the pilot, you know — and hopefully the show... well, they expect the cakeboxer to be a chick." His voice dropped abruptly at the end of that sentence, so I didn't quite get what he said.

"What?" I asked, leaning forward.

He coughed, then quickly said, "The cakeboxer is supposed to be a girl."

I shrugged. "So? You tell them I'm a guy. What's the big deal?"

For once Jack was tongue-tied. He opened his mouth as if he was going to speak, but nothing came out. He made some gestures, but... he was obviously uncomfortable. There was something he couldn't bring himself to say. He gave me a pleading look.

Suddenly I understood. "No," I said. "I won't do it. No frikken way!"

"Listen, Lou..."

"No," I repeated, in a firm, decisive tone. "I am not going to dress like a girl!"

"Hang on," Jack said. "Just listen for a minute. Will you? Will you please listen for a minute? When I pitched this show, I had the girl: she was cute, petite... honestly she couldn't do the kicks half as well as you, but she was pretty damn... good. Hell, she was hot. Smoking hot. Dammit! She was my girlfriend, see? and that's where the problem came in. We had some... uh... some, uh... speedbumps in our... ah... relationship, and uh... and... well, the long and the short of it is, she walked. She walked out on me, and she walked out of Cakeboxer. The network knows that she's gone, and they've given me a little time to find a replacement. I already tried to pitch this other guy I found — and he was nowhere near as good as you, by the way — but they didn't even want to look at him. They told me flat out: it has to be a chick."

"Again," I repeated, "no frikken way!"

"Look," he said, "I understand your objections, but please hear me out. I know this is not your problem, but when I said that the network gave me a little time... well, today... tonight... now, basically, that time is up. If you won't do this, there won't be any Cakeboxer. Which, of course, is not your problem. So, anyway... what I want to say is this: When I saw you in that pink karate suit, and — wait! wait! — I'm sure it was just an accident. A laundry mishap. But you... you had the balls to put that thing on anyway. Am I right? You didn't care. You love karate. You weren't going to let a stupid red sock stand between you and your passion. Am I right? Something like that?"

"Yeah, something like that," I agreed.

"And look," he went on, gesturing at his paunch, "I'm obviously not a karate guy, but there's something I've picked up on while I was out looking for you. What I've seen is this: people don't respect the flying kicks. They can't do them, and yet they turn up their noses at them. Am I right?"

"Yes!" I agreed. "They're pretty hard to master, but—"

"—but you don't get any recognition for it."

"Exactly!"

"All right," Jack said, and he swirled the cold coffee in his cup as if it were a glass of fine wine. "But you know what? The irony of it is, that every karate place I visited — every... dojo, right? — when I asked about flying kicks, they'd scoff, but they wouldn't let me go until I saw *their* flying-kick guy. After this happened like five or six times, I got it. They were embarrassed about him, but as soon as somebody said, hey, flying kicks... guess what. All of a sudden, they were proud. This is our guy, they'd say."

I was quiet. Jack was exactly right. I didn't want to talk; I was afraid I might cry. All the work I'd done, all the practice, all the effort, for all those years, and the only thing I had to show for it was flying kicks.

Jack leaned in close, and in a low, serious, confidential tone, told me, "I have to tell you Lou — no matter how it goes with Cakeboxer, I don't care — but you have to know: none of the guys who do flying kicks, not one of them, could touch you. None of them were even close."

We talked for another half hour; a very emotional half hour. I didn't cry, but I sniffled and blew my nose a few times. Jack convinced me that I really was the best flying-kick guy he'd ever seen, and that if I wanted respect for what I could do, I needed to "stand up and represent."

And in the end, after wiping my eyes and blowing my nose one last time, I agreed that if I really wanted to be the flying-kick man, I had to be his cakeboxing girl.

© 2012 by Kaleigh Way