Oh, but get this! Mr. Teifert forces me to change into a pair of Juicy Couture sweatpants and Nikes before starting my training. Says something about my beautiful black silk dress and combat boots combo not being appropriate work-out attire. Puh-leeze. Oh, and if that wasn’t bad enough—this pair of Juicy Couture sweatpants just so happens to be pink! If anyone evil and cruel were to walk by with a camera phone at this very moment, my entire high school image would be irreparably shattered.
After donning the Pepto-Bismol outfit, we start our training. He has me do some weight lifting first (five pounds is about my limit) and then jump rope (three jumps maybe before I get hopelessly tangled), then run laps around the gymnasium. (And when I say laps, I mean lap—singular—before I’m completely out of breath. I’ve so got to give up smoking.)
He looks a little distraught at my physical condition, but simply motions to the punching bag and tells me to go at it. I smile. Now we’re talking.
“Hi-YAH!” I cry as I slam my fist into the punching bag and then follow it with a beautiful roundhouse kick. I lower my head and narrow my eyes and focus on the bag, making it my enemy. If I’m lucky, this Slayer Training will get some of my pent-up aggression out.
Dad. Is. A. Loser. Punch. Kick. Repeat.
“Rayne, focus. You’re not in control,” Teifert repeats for the ten-thousandth time. “A slayer must find her deep strength. Her inner power. She must become one with the universe.”
I stop punching, reaching up to wipe the sweat from my forehead. “Can we cut the Zen crap for a moment?” I ask. “I’m trying to beat this bag to a pulp.”
“No we cannot cut the ‘Zen crap’ as you say,” Teifert says wearily. “Rayne, one cannot become a good slayer through sheer force and anger. You must find the power within your center. Within yourself.”
“Maybe I don’t have a center. And if so, maybe I should use what I got.” I hold up my fists. “Here’s where my power lies, Teifert. Look out, vamps, it’s Raynie Power time.”
Teifert shakes his head. “Where do they find these girls?” he mutters under his breath. “And why do they keep sending them to me?”
Oh, that’s nice. “Hey, you chose me, dude,” I remind him, lowering my fists. “I didn’t ask for this gig.” Great, now I’m a slayer reject, too. Go figure. I punch the bag a few more times. Might as well burn some calories while he’s bemoaning my slayer suckiness. “Maybe you chose wrong. Ever think about that? Maybe I’m not really slayer material.”
“We don’t choose wrong. We have a very precise methodology for picking our slayers. You just don’t see the power you have. You’re stubborn and you refuse to learn. And therefore your power will remain dormant. Locked inside of you.” He grabs the punching bag so it no longer sways with my hits. “Let’s try you with your stake.”
He motions over to the bench, where I left the half-carved chunk of wood. I roll my eyes.
“Can’t I get a real weapon?” I whine, walking over to the stake and picking it up with some reluctance. “A sword maybe? Or a big two-handed axe like Buffy?”
“By carving this stake, you have embedded it with your slayer essence,” Teifert explains, completely ignoring my request for sharp metal objects of death. “Now, it has bonded itself to you and will only work when wielded by your hand. Each stake is unique to its slayer.”
“Sort of like the wands in Harry Potter?” I can’t help but ask.
“When you take this weapon into your hands, you will feel the essence of the tree from which it was taken. You will be filled with the power of that mighty oak. The strength will flow through you and make you one with Mother Earth. Only then will you be able to find your center. And get the job done.”
“Huh.” I roll the stake around in my palm. “And to think this looks like something you grabbed out in the schoolyard.”
“Hold up the stake, Rayne,” Teifert commands. “And concentrate on its power.”
I sigh, then do what I’m told. Otherwise I’ll probably be here all day. I raise the stake above my head and focus my eyes on it.
And then things start to get weird.
As I stare at the stake, the world around me starts to lose focus and the wood starts to take on an almost unearthly glow. I watch in awe as it morphs right before my eyes from a chunk of unpolished wood into a sleek, sharp instrument, smooth as glass. I wave it around, hesitantly at first, then with growing assurance. So cool. So, so cool. I wish you could have seen it.
“Am I making it do that?” I whisper. From the corner of my eye I can see Teifert’s nod.
“You are the chosen one. The slayer. As I said, we don’t make mistakes.”
“Wow, that’s pretty amazing.” I step forward, toward the punching bag, and then stab the wood into it, with all my might. The stake slides through the tough leather like a knife through butter. Whoa! Now we’re talking.
I pull the stake out. It’s no longer glowing. I turn to Teifert. “Okay, I believe you now,” I say. “Who knew I had all this power in me?”
“Who knew you were going to stab the punching bag?” Teifert grumbles, not looking at all impressed by my feat. He walks over to the bag and examines the hole. “Do you know how expensive these things are to replace?”
“Dude! I’ve just been given magical superpowers to slay vamps and all you care about is your Visa bill?”