Saw the Karate Kid Remake. Fell in love with the Karate Kid Remake. Read a few fanfics based off of the Karate Kid Remake. Had an idea about a story for the Karate Kid Remake. Decided to dedicate the place that is my second story on this site to the Karate Kid Remake.

It is a strange relationship I have with him—if I can even call it a relationship.

Maybe words like attraction or pull describe whatever it is between us.

Cheng.

I have known him for a long time. Too long. And when I did not know him, I had known of him.

Our parents are close.

That is our relationship. Our status. It is what we tell everyone. It is what we tell ourselves. We do not talk much, outside of family meetings and gatherings. He just looks at me. And I look back. It is impossible not to. He is with his friends at school; when I am not practicing the violin, I am with mine. He may nod, or greet me quickly outside, but in school, we just stare.

He just looks at me. And I look back.

His eyes are magnets. I may be looking the entire opposite direction. But when I feel that prickly, hair-rising sensation crawl up my spine and continue up the nape of my neck, I know he's looking—I know he's there. It's like Cheng-radar.

And I have to look back.

Because it is impossible not to. And I slide my eyes to the right and there he is, with his friends. When I meet his gaze, he shifts his eyes away from me and stares directly in front of me.

ooo

"What are you listening to?" The question snaps me back to reality. I pull my line of vision back in front of me.

"Bach," I say, looking up from my seat on the park bench to smile lightly at the boy with light chocolate skin in front of me.

"Oh Bach? I listen to them all the time. They're tight," the American boy says to me with that funny accent. "Ever heard of this?" He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cell phone. After pressing a few buttons, music sounds quietly from the small device; music I am not at all familiar with.

Not able to stop myself, I glance briefly to the side again. I see him glaring hard at the American boy. And I want to get his attention; tell him with my eyes to walk away. But he does not notice me looking at him.

"Check this out," I turn back to the American boy when he speaks again.

He steps back and starts to dance. And I laugh; hoping to sound genuine, and not worried. He grins, and keeps dancing.

"Oh, yeah, you like that, huh?" he asks in a confident manner.

By the time I look back at Cheng, it is too late, and he is coming over here, with his friends, his eyes fixated on the dancing American boy with the funny accent. I push the end button on the cell phone upon their arrival, silencing the music, and place it on the bench next to me.

Cheng stares at the boy, who hasn't noticed him approaching, for a second more, then turns to glare pointedly at me. He comes to a full stop when he's standing directly over me.

"You're supposed to be practicing," he says in a menacing voice, looking at the abandoned violin on the bench beside me.

"I am practicing," I tell him, slightly raising the sheet music I had placed in my lap.

"No you're not!" he looks at the sheet music with disdain, "What is this? You don't need this!" He slaps the papers out of my hand harshly, enough to make my hand sting a bit from the hit. I stand up so he won't be looming over me; so I won't feel so small.

"What's your problem?" I find myself asking.

The American boy looks confused, as Cheng is speaking Chinese and he does not know who he is, what he is saying, or what he wants. He bends down to pick up the sheets, as he does so, Cheng looks at him murderously. I turn to gather my violin and its case and quickly put them away.

"Leave it!" Cheng demands, speaking English so he can understand. But the American boy just steps closer to hand me the sheets. I wish he wouldn't bother. Cheng just turns to him and slaps them out of his hand in a harsher way than he had done to me.

"Come on, dude," the boy glowers at Cheng before bending down to retrieve the abused papers yet again. I stop myself from snapping at him to put the pages down and walk away. I would rather he not get on Cheng's bad side. His time here would be so much easier if he stays on his good side, no matter how small that side is.

"I said leave it!" Cheng tries to swat the paper out of his hands for the second time, but fails as the boy moves his hand to avoid the hit. And to add flame to the fire, he gives Cheng a daring glare. Now Cheng's attention focuses on him. And I wish for the boy that he would just leave. In the next instant, Cheng's hand is on the boys face, and Cheng pushes him roughly to the ground, grabbing the sheet music from the boy's hand in one swift movement. It all happens in less than three seconds. I feel bad for the boy, as he blinks up, half angrily, half surprised. And I watch in horror as he rises to his feet and takes a fighting stance. He does not know what he is getting himself into.

Cheng's friends begin chanting all around me, urging him to fight. Of course Cheng isn't going to back down now; his cocky nature will not allow him to. He motions with all four fingers for the boy to attack. And the boy charges at him. But before I—and apparently the boy—can see much of anything, Cheng crouched down, and sends him crashing to the ground with a sweeping kick. The boy looks dumbfounded. He was not expecting that at all.

"Stop it!" I cry to Cheng, "Leave him alone!" And I try to run to the boy's aid, but Cheng's friends grab holds of my arms and pull me back firmly. And I am unable to help. One of Cheng's friends steps in front of me to block me from moving any closer; I recognize him as Liang. And the other one, who I am pretty sure is Zhuang—the awful one with the hat—goes to pull the American boy off the ground roughly, challenging him to continue this fight. They all join in, telling him to hit Cheng, to fight him back; Zhuang is laughing as he does so. The boy shakes his arm away, taking no heed of their taunting, for he cannot understand what they are saying. Instead he looks at me, probably to translate. Then they all start shouting, "Go, go, go!" and "Go get him!"which the boy does understand, and he turns around to charge again. Cheng looks amused, but not caught off guard that he has decided to keep trying. Cheng uses this charge to his advantage, simply throwing him over his shoulder; the boy's attack was blind and reckless. And the boy lands squarely on his back, which knocks the wind out of him. I turn my head slightly just before he lands, but I still hear him hit the ground. His face scrunches up in pain and he coughs roughly in a desperate attempt to catch his breath. Cheng's friends cheer.

There is a boy, a white boy with white-blonde hair, who's name I cannot remember—the boy who brought the American boy to the playground. He steps to Cheng, trying desperately to calm him down, to tell him that the boy knows nothing about him or this place. Cheng is annoyed by this. He interrupts his pleas and demands that the white boy leaves.

After much struggle, the American boy pushes himself off the ground again and faces Cheng. The blonde boy steps back, a defeated look on his face. I mentally scold him for not trying hard enough. The American boy was his friend first, right?

The American boy wipes his arm across his eyes. He looks as though he could cry. Like he is going to just burst out into tears of humiliation and pain. And I don't blame him. And I can't help him.

The boy throws a punch, but Cheng catches his wrist effortlessly. The boy's newfound look of determination quickly shifts to one of terror as Cheng delivers a ruthless blow to his stomach. Before the boy has the chance to double over in pain, he is kicked in the abdomen firmly and is sent to the ground yet again.

Cheng glares at the boy spitefully. "You wanna fight? Huh, Karate Kid?"

And I pretty much know how this will end.

ooo

Sometimes he tells me I annoy him. He openly states that he no longer wants to be around me. We disagree on many things. And the few times that we do talk mostly result in him bluntly telling me how irritating I am to him. I am not sure why, but these words sadden me. I do not want him to feel this way about me. But he is an angry person; a person taught at a young age to act the way he does. So I tell myself that he cannot help it, that it isn't personal; everybody irritates him at some point. But this still does not keep me from feeling disappointed when he looks at me with those cold, magnetic eyes before turning his back to leave. And I just watch him walk away most of the time, because I know that trying to reason with him will just aggravate him more.

And now as I try my hardest to concentrate on violin practice, all I can think about is the look on his face—in his eyes—when he first looked at the American boy (who I earlier found out is called Dre Parker). And then the look he gave me, as if I had somehow offended him.

It has become an unintentional ability of mine to read his feelings through his eyes. I spend so much time looking at them—into them—it was almost inevitable. And since his face is blank and indecipherable nearly all the time, it really comes in handy. I pride myself at being the only one able to somewhat read Cheng.

ooo

"Ms. Mei-Ying?" I suddenly hear the thick English accent of my violin tutor sound through my thoughts, "Are you paying attention to anything I'm telling you?" He gives me a stern look and I look away timidly.

"Sorry Sir," I murmur my apologies. Lately it is becoming hard to concentrate.

"Stop daydreaming," he commands, his tone unyielding, "you need to focus! Do you know how important this audition is to your parents?" My tutor always fails to mention that this audition is important to me as well; it will determine my future. Although he does not seem to see me as the type to take responsibility for myself. I should probably take this offensively, but getting accepted into the Beijing Academy of Music is much too important to defy the tutor. And he is my elder, so my parents expect me to be polite.

"I understand, Sir," I reply obediently and pick up my violin.

My tutor stares hard at me for a couple of seconds, then says, "Alright, time's up. I'll see you next practice, but take what I'm telling you and incorporate it into your at-home practice, understand?"

"Yes sir," I nod as I pack up my stuff. If I keep allowing my mind to wonder during practice, then pretty soon there will be almost nothing for me to incorporate.

ooo

I often wonder if Cheng talks about me around his friends. Maybe I'm brought up in random conversations? Sometimes? The majority of Cheng's friends do not really talk to me. And by the majority, I mean all but Liang. Liang is the only one that will speak, and that is why I always remember him by name. He is cruel, and he bullies people, and lives and breathes Kung Fu, just like the rest of them. But there is something different about him; he isn't quite as—heartless, for lack of better word. He is just a level lower than them in brutality, or maybe sometimes just half a level lower. He is a lot kinder to girls too. I mean, the other guys would not dare attack a female, but that does not stop them from being rude. Liang is more of a gentleman, so being around him is more or less pleasant.

I cannot say the same with being around Cheng, however. Being around him can be extremely nerve-racking. I feel the strange obligation to do whatever I can to not upset him. That usually means that I don't do much talking. It is completely logical for one to think that since being around him makes me feel this way, I would avoid it. But I don't. When he is not busy making somebody miserable, I actually long to be around him. It's strange, really.

But I would never openly admit it.

The hold he has on me.

I deny it to myself. But I know it is there. And it isn't fair.

That it is me who feels this way.

ooo

"He's looking over here again," Dre Parker murmurs to me through his teeth. He slides his eyes to the right quickly, keeping his head bent down. Then, as though he is seen staring, he snaps his dark coffee eyes back down towards his food.

"He is?" I feign a little bit of surprise, even though I was aware of his deep onyx gaze well before the boy sitting across from me was. But nobody has to know that. Except for the owner of those eyes.

Cheng always knows.

"Yes!" Dre hisses quietly—almost whisperingly—trying his best to keep himself from looking back at him. "He freakin' hates me." He picks up a noodle with his thumb and forefinger. I guess he has given up on the chopsticks. He's been trying to eat with them the whole lunch period.

"He does not," I disagree, though it is not at all a true statement of disbelief. I believe—no, I am sure that Cheng is perfectly capable of feeling hate. Sometimes for no evident reason at all. But I would not feel right telling Dre that. It would only make him feel worse.

"Are you kidding me?" Dre sticks with whispering, for whatever reason, "I swear the dude would kill me if it was legal!" It's more like a whispering exclamation. I don't know how else to contradict his accusation so instead, I settle for giving him an apologetic look. Dre looks at me funny.

"That was kinda suppose to be a joke," he states slowly. "Wait, you don't seriously think he'd…" his dark brown eyes widen. He looks half frightened, half disturbed. I realize my mistake and force out a laugh to lighten the mood. And thankfully, he laughs too. He turns to the left and unzips his backpack.

"Wanna see a picture I drew?" Dre asks, taking out a folder.

"Sure," I nod with a smile as I finish up the last of my lunch. Dre pulls out a sheet of paper and lays it out in front of me proudly. It is a picture of me. Me on a bench with my violin. It actually is not half bad. I pick up the picture.

"This is pretty good," I tell him, smiling brightly.

"Well uh, you know," he says.

"I know what?" I ask him, placing the drawing back on the table. He gives me this really funny look. Then he shakes his head.

"Never mind."

I laugh and grab the folder to look at some of the other things her has drawn. I open it and flip through. I do not recognize any of these people, but it's nice to look.

"That one's my mom," he tells me proudly when I come across a picture of a woman with curly hair.

"Who is this?" I ask, pointing to a boy.

"My best friend from Detroit," he says and I can tell by the look on his face that he's feeling a bit nostalgic. I place my hand over his tenderly to somewhat comfort him. It has to be hard moving to a new country, especially if there is an entirely new language and culture to learn. He definitely deserves a break.

I do not want to keep the mood a solemn one, so instead I look through some more of the pictures, complimenting the really nice ones. I am glad that violin practice was canceled for today's lunchtime.

I stop at a picture of what looks like Dre fighting someone.

"What's this one?" I ask him, turning the picture towards him. Dre looks a little bashful, and then he glances tersely to the right, at Cheng, who is now listening to something one of his friends is telling him. I mentally sigh in relief that he has something to distract him from staring daggers over here.

"You weren't suppose to see that one," he murmurs coyly and I can't help but giggle at his adorable embarrassment.

"You want to beat him up that bad?" I ask him, though I wish he would just tell somebody about Cheng and his friends messing with him.

"Yeah," he replies seriously, "I wish I could. I write about it in my diary all the time."

We both are quiet.

"You have a diary?" I question teasingly. He looks uncomfortable, like he has said way too much than intended. Though he quickly replaces that look with one of nonchalance.

"Yeah, uh, y'know, like a, a man-diary," he stammers out, "a book, journal thing." I laugh at his silly explanation. He is so funny. He laughs too, but it is an uneasy laugh. Though he stops very abruptly. I follow his gaze to the right, just as Cheng approaches our table, with Liang and Zhuang in close tow.

"What are you laughing about?" he asks blankly. Though I am confused as to whom that question is directed to because though he is speaking Chinese, he is looking squarely at Dre.

I guess it was rhetorical because instead of waiting for answer, he sticks his hand in Dre's lunch and pulls out a couple of noodles and drops them back in the styrofoam plate.

"You weren't going to eat this, right?" he asks him in English this time. Then he grabs the plate and flips it over, spilling the contents all over the picture I had been looking at.

"Dude!" Dre exclaims in frustration as he grabs the ruined paper. Zhuang and Liang laugh as Cheng smirks cheekily. I watch helplessly as Dre tries to clean up the mess they made. He knocks Dre's open backpack on the floor and kicks his stuff around with the help of his two friends. And after grunting rudely, he strolls away.

I glare at his back until he reaches the exit of the cafeteria. He turns around and meets my gaze. His eyes go from bland to anger. Full on anger. And that catches me off guard. Then he walks out of the cafeteria.

And that's the first chapter. Just a few things:

For one, I don't know Chinese at all, so since this whole story should technically be in Chinese since it's in the perspective of Mei-Ying, only English parts will be in bold letters.

Second, I skipped the part about Mei-Ying asking to touch Dre's hair; it seemed really irrelevant, since she was feeling kind of uneasy about Cheng's staring.

Also, I don't know if Dre really draws for a hobby, but I took the part when he was drawing the lady and the cobra and ran with it.

So yeah… and you can continue the cycle from above by reviewing this story for the Karate Kid Remake.