I even got my driver's license, which I needed because my new martial arts school is fifteen miles away.
I wanted to go someplace nobody knew me.
Dad helped me research all the local schools and all the different styles of self-defense.
Today is my first lesson.
I still want to teach someday. I want to teach girls to spar without gear. I want to teach them how to react quickly, think on their feet, and take a punch, so if someone ever hits them or gets in their face, they won't go into shock.
But all that is a long way away.
There are times I still go over it in my head. The diner. I picture different scenarios, imagine things I could've done, things the cops could've done; but most of the time I don't really see how it could've gone differently. Not anymore. It was up to Daryl.
I wish he had opened his hand—just opened his hand and let go of the gun.
I park the minivan, walk into the school, and take off my shoes. I bow to my new instructor, and she introduces me to the other students.
There are no colors on the wall.
I open my hands to receive my white belt.
I open my hands and let go.
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