Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love by Maryrose Wood Page A

the Fiery Dragon School of Self-Defense.
    Yes, we’re in the right place, except there’s no Randall, and, as far as we can tell, there’s no sensei, either. The only person here is a middle-aged man in baggy jeans, a black leather jacket, and a bunch of gold necklaces, talking fast in Spanish on his cell phone and drinking a Coke. He’s leaning back in a black office chair, with his feet up on a rickety metal desk. The phone on the desk is ringing, but he ignores it and continues talking into his cell.
    Threadbare would be a kind way to describe this place, with its old brown carpet and walls in dire need of a paint job. Other than the chair and the metal desk, the room is empty except for a long wooden bench and a soda machine. The dojo itself is on the other side of a Plexiglas wall, with an entrance at either end. Like the curious Kitten I am, I take a step inside.
    “Hey,
niña
!” yells the man. “No shoe in the dojo!”
    “Sorry!” I cry, hopping back. Me and my shoes. It’s so hard to get it right.
    “Can we look around?” Matthew asks. “We’re waiting for Randall.”
    “Ah, Randall!” he exclaims. We’ve said the magic word. “Okay, look around. No shoe,” he says. He goes back to his phone call.
    Barefoot, we enter. The dojo is basically an empty room with mirrors at one end, like a dance studio except the floor is covered with thick mats. There’s a punching bag in the corner and a collection of padded clubs, very Fred Flintstone, hanging on nails along the far wall. Where is this sensei person? And where is Randall? I haven’t really talked to him since Trip’s horrifying pronouncement regarding the Randall-Loves-Me thing. Not avoiding him on purpose, mind you, just, you know, failing to acknowledge his presence.
    But now Randall is late! Is he home changing his outfit a million times, in anticipation of seeing ME? Do Dawgs even do stuff like that? How awful, if so. I resolve to be more relaxed about my wardrobe selection process in the future, even if I know I might be seeing Matthew. I mean, unless it’s CERTAIN that I WILL be seeing Matthew, in which case the wardrobe selection does deserve careful and prolonged consideration. . . .
    This fascinating train of thought is derailed at exactly that moment by the sound of Randall speaking in a deep, abrupt voice:
    “Osu! Onegaishimasu, Sensei!”
    Matthew and I look out through the windowed wall of the dojo to the reception area, where we see Randall bowing deeply to his sensei.
    And Sensei, now finished with his phone call and his Coke, is bowing right back.
    “Hey, guys,” says Randall, spotting us. “Sorry I’m late! I was calling to tell you but no one picked up the phone. I guess you’ve met Sensei Reynaldo.”
    “Not exactly. I’m Matthew,” says Matthew.
    “I’m Felicia,” I say. “Sorry we didn’t realize who you were.”
    “You think I be Chinese or something?” Sensei asks, smiling.
    “Uh, yeah,” I say.
    “Why?” asks Sensei, with an even bigger smile. “Karate is Japanese. Me, Sensei, is Dominican. I make dojo in Chinatown because rent is cheap. And because I love dim sum!”
    He bows to us both. We bow back.
    “Felicia-Felicia!” he says, smiling. “I like you name. In Spanish means happy! You be happy always with that name, yes?” Sensei Reynaldo’s teeth are very white and there’s something sweet about him, now that he’s being friendly. He looks at me and Matthew. “Randall say you have question for Sensei? You want to train?”
    “We want to learn about love,” I say, watching Randall out of the corner of my eye. Did his cheeks redden?
    Sensei grins again. “Ah! We train karate, you train love! Ha, ha, ha! Wonderful. Come inside dojo. I teach love and karate, together! No shoe, please.”
    And thus begins our barefoot lesson of love from Sensei Reynaldo.
    “Love!” says Sensei as we all sit down on the mats inside the dojo. “Love is why I start to do karate! Back home, in DR, where I grew