White Ninja

by Tiffiny Hall

  We barely fit in the cramped space, so I snap my leg up past my right shoulder and spear Krew across the collarbone. My muscles and tendons are totally flexible for the first time in my life and feel like elastic bands that snap and whip. Bruce has an iron grip on my arm. I swing my left leg over his arm, slash his knee with my toes, then kick over his arm again to cane his other knee with a flick of my hamstring. I smile. You gotta make it even!

  He looks at me in pain and confusion, before I move the sole of my foot to his face and lean my weight backwards. I wait for him to heave me forwards, and when he does, somehow I know to absorb his force into my foot and strike it into his nose. His eyes burst with tears.

  Hero picks up Rescue and tosses him back into the toilet bowl. He turns to me, striking outwards with supernatural strength, but he is no match for my new techniques. I catch his fist between both my hands, stamp my heel hard on his shoulder socket, then slide into the same pain-gripping arm bar that he used to hold me hostage before.

  The door to the toilet block slams open. I release Hero. Bruce and Krew scuttle to the urinals and I lean casually against the wall as if nothing is happening. Dennis walks in.

  ‘You’re not allowed in here!’ he says to me.

  Hero leans over me as if he’s about to kiss me.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Hero,’ Dennis says and leaves.

  Hero grabs my hair from the front. I feel the roots bite my skull to stay attached. As his grip tightens, I almost scream. But again, I know instinctively what to do. I slap both my hands down across his knuckles, flattening them against my crown, then I step back, twist my body and, with a firm grip on his arm, twirl his entire body in the air without releasing my grip on his knuckles, then let him go to fall hard on his back.

  I race for the kitten, but Hero is too quick. He flushes the toilet again and this time Rescue is struggling harder to stay out of the vacuum of water.

  ‘Nooo!’ I yell. Tears stand in my eyes as the three boys approach. There is no time to save him.

  I crouch into a low fighting form and study Hero with tigerish eyes. I feel my muscles, reflexes, speed awakening. I kick off my shoes to feel more balanced. I’ve never kicked with my bare feet before and hope the birthmark on my right sole will freak out the boys.

  Hero’s eyes fire a message to his friends: he wants to take me out himself. I feel a prickling on my skin, as if someone else is in here, watching, but there is no time to turn and look.

  When Hero launches for my throat, an innate sense of knowing envelops me; a mixture of skill and technique flames into my muscle fibres stronger than memory — instinct. As soon as his fingers clamp around my neck, I reach my knee between us and kick his nose. He sees the birthmark on my foot and gasps. He stutters something, but I don’t hear him. I slam the blades of my hands into his elbows to weaken his grip and pull him closer. ‘Slow learner, aren’t you?’ I say.

  With his hands still clutching my neck, I blast the pressure points in his upper arms with short, sharp strikes, lashing out with my elbows, wrists and hands, then knee him in the groin. When I am staring deep into his dark eyes, certain that he tastes the bile of fear dripping from his tonsils, I arch my neck backwards, tempted to spit in his eyes, but am glad I don’t sink to his level.

  I scoop up Rescue and race over to the hand dryer to warm him. He coughs up water. Bruce and Krew have backed off; they’re watching Hero doubled over on the floor. I don’t know what just happened, but whatever it was, it felt awesome!

  As I walk out into the corridor with Rescue in my pocket, a hand grabs my right shoulder from behind. I turn sharply, lift my arm to brush the hand off my shoulder and scoop it into an instant arm lock. A pair of speckled green eyes shimmering with shavings of gold stares down at me from beneath a backward cap. It’s as if I’m being seen for the first time ever. I release my grip.

  Green Eyes straightens himself up and smiles. ‘Fast,’ he says, then winks.

  I dissolve into a blush and cast my eyes down. When I look up, the boy has disappeared and the corridor feels cold and empty.

  FIVE

  ‘There you are!’ I clutch Cinnamon’s arm. ‘We’ve got PE in the gym now and Sergeant Major will turn troll if we’re late! Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Looking for you,’ she says.

  ‘Rescue’s safe in your locker,’ I say.

  Beaming, Cinnamon grabs my hand and hurries us to her locker to check on him. Rescue is fast asleep, recovering from his mammoth swim. I don’t tell Cim about his near-death experience.

  In the gym, Sergeant Major has gone to collect a visitor and left Year Seven unattended. Kids are climbing the ladders on the walls, throwing balls and brick-sized beanbags at each other, wrestling on the mats and screaming. Whenever a teacher leaves a group of kids alone, their natural reaction is to scream their lungs out — any kid will tell you that.

  ‘Want to go on a date?’ Krew calls to Cinnamon. He doesn’t make eye contact with me.

  Cinnamon’s eyes brighten.

  ‘To a fat camp!’ He laughs.

  Cinnamon’s eyes fill with tears. I grab her arm. She bites her lip and the tears seep away. She’s had good practice at swallowing sadness.

  ‘Hey, wanna come over later and play with Rescue?’ she asks. ‘We could hang out together and check out some clothes online?’

  Cinnamon loves to trawl through dresses on the internet. She never wears dresses because they often don’t fit her. But online she can pretend to shop at all our favourite stores.

  I think Cinnamon is beautiful the way she is, but I know every time a boy calls her ‘Cinnamon donut’ she eats more and then hates herself for it. I’ve tried to tell her they are only words, but she says the food makes the words go away. I guess she’d rather feel full than hurt.

  ‘I’d love to come,’ I say. ‘I’ll head over after school.’

  Cinnamon’s smile leaps towards the light. ‘We can go visit my horse too,’ she says.

  ‘Really?’ I say.

  Cinnamon’s face blushes with pain. ‘I don’t ride any more, but you can,’ she says. She hesitates, then finally mumbles, ‘It’s not fair on him.’

  Her forlorn face fractures my heart. ‘Cinnamon, I can help you onto him. What’s his name again?’

  ‘Elf.’ She nods.

  There is a long pause licked with tears about to burst. Cinnamon’s fingers are knotted like lace.

  ‘How long since you’ve ridden Elf?’ I ask.

  ‘Six months,’ she says, looking away. ‘But,’ she pauses, ‘maybe if I had a friend with me …’ She looks back at me hopefully.

  I’ve tried to help Cinnamon, trading my lunch with hers, telling her the secret recipe to Hulk juice, showing her some of my mum’s moves, but she never sticks to it. It’s like she lets the stuff the kids say crawl deep down and then feeds those feelings with food. ‘I’ll come and see Elf with you after school,’ I say.

  ‘Promise?’ she asks, holding out her pinkie finger.

  ‘What are we, Year Three?’ I say.

  ‘Okay, spit swear,’ she says. We spit in our hands and shake on it.

  I am swinging from the gymnastic rings when Sergeant Major explodes through the door with another man also dressed in camouflage pants, but instead of a black T-shirt like Sergeant Major’s, he’s wearing a camouflage jacket and matching camo cap.

  ‘Attention!’ Sergeant Major booms. ‘I didn’t give up the army to teach Year Seven and have them behave like hooligans.’

  We stop screaming and instantly fall into side-by-side line formation, each kid’s left hand outstretched to the next kid’s shoulder.

  ‘I could have done anything after my Service, but I chose to teach Year Seven. Year Two — too distracted!’ he yells. ‘Year Three — still too distracted. Years Four,’ he pauses to inspect the distance between one kid’s fingers and the next person’s shoulder and adjusts them to be closer, ‘and Five — too slow and Year Six all that i-stuff kicks in,’ he huffs. ‘I say, give me Year Seven
. Impressionable. Smart. Fast. Resilient. Don’t make me change my mind.

  ‘Eyes front,’ Sergeant Major orders and we snap our heads to look at him. ‘This here,’ he slaps the man standing next to him on the back, ‘is Private Lincoln.’

  Private Lincoln stamps his right foot and salutes Sergeant Major.

  ‘Private Lincoln is in the army,’ Sergeant Major barks, ‘and he’s come here today to teach you about Stranger Danger.’

  Sergeant Major is called away by the school PA system to take an urgent phone call. We are left staring at only the second soldier we have ever seen in our lives.

  ‘Sit,’ Private Lincoln commands.

  We all plummet to the floor and sit cross-legged. Joshua is the last one down.

  ‘Pay attention!’ Private Lincoln commands.

  Josh crosses his legs. We sit up even straighter.

  ‘What do you do if a stranger in a van pulls up as you’re walking to school and offers you a bag of sweets?’ he asks. ‘Would you get in the vehicle?’

  We are too nervous to answer.

  ‘Hands up!’ he yells.

  The whole class shoots both their hands in the air as if surrendering to a gunman.

  ‘Yes.’ He points at Martin.

  ‘Nope,’ Martin says in an uncertain voice.

  ‘Tick!’ Private Lincoln yells. ‘What would you do if the stranger in the van offered you a Nintendo?’

  ‘What sort of Nintendo?’ Gregory asks.

  ‘DS.’

  ‘Nah, already got one,’ Gregory says.

  ‘Tick,’ Private Lincoln says, a smile in his voice. ‘What about a Wii?’

  ‘That too!’ Gregory yells.

  ‘The latest iPad?’

  ‘Get in!’ we chorus.

  Private Lincoln’s face clouds over. ‘No!’ he shouts. ‘Tick, tick, cross. Don’t move,’ he barks and disappears.

  As soon as he leaves the room, the natural instinct to go wild takes over again and we run around yelling and giggling, swinging and throwing and laughing, until we hear footsteps and line up again.

  Private Lincoln enters the gym wearing a fat suit. His head with its camouflage cap pokes out of the top; it looks tiny perched on the suit’s dinghy-sized shoulders. The legs are like two inflatable swimming pools, making it hard for him to walk. He waddles to the front of our line. Across his chest is a massive bulletproof jacket and he’s wearing a fluorescent green mouthguard. I know from school sports, only serious people choose fluorescent mouthguards. If you’re not serious, you go with clear.

  ‘One at a time, you’re going to attack me!’ Private Lincoln shouts. ‘I want you to kick me with all your strength. When I fall down, you go to the back of the line. But you must make me fall down.’

  Hero cracks his knuckles and I suddenly feel sorry for Private Lincoln.

  My hands begin to sweat. I’ve never attacked anyone before … except for a few minutes ago in the boys’ toilets. And I still can’t believe I did that! I don’t know what’s come over me lately. I’ve already lost control once today and I’m terrified what might happen if I strike out again.

  ‘Psst,’ someone says behind me.

  I whip my head around to see the mysterious boy with the grass-green eyes slipping into the line next to me.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I say out of the corner of my mouth so Private Lincoln doesn’t notice.

  ‘I go to school here now, in Year Ten. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Not now,’ I whisper. ‘I’m about to take on a man in a fat suit.’

  ‘Come with me,’ he says, grabbing me by the wrist.

  ‘YOU!’ Private Lincoln thunders. My heart stops. He’s pointing at me. He turns his index finger to the roof and wiggles it, summoning me to him.

  I step forwards.

  ‘No!’ he yells. ‘Not you, you!’

  The boy with emerald eyes steps out from beside me.

  ‘Front and centre,’ Private Lincoln orders, and the boy walks hesitantly to the front.

  I notice Hero’s eyes flash with rage — and recognition. Does he know this boy? From his last school maybe?

  ‘Since you have so much to say, you can go first,’ Private Lincoln tells the boy. ‘Show everyone how it’s done.’

  The boy’s shoulders slouch and he looks at the floor. He must be terrified. Fair enough. I feel sorry for him. He’s going to get pummelled in his first week at school and it’s all my fault.

  ‘Ready ready?’ Private Lincoln shouts.

  The boy doesn’t move.

  Private Lincoln launches at him with his arms in the air and for a second the boy is completely enveloped in the fat suit. I gasp. Then the soldier’s arms fly backwards as the boy leaps up level with his shoulders and double-knees him playfully in the chest. He rebounds off the suit, spins once, extending his back leg like a scorpion, then his supporting leg shoots into the air and he hits Private Lincoln in the right shoulder, knocking him sideways. Private Lincoln teeters for a moment, before the boy jumps in the air again, forceps the soldier’s neck between his ankles and flips his body over his head. Private Lincoln lands on his back and the boy leaps onto his stomach and takes a slight bow. The class cheers.

  ‘Cease and desist,’ Private Lincoln commands, still on his back. He’s unable to stand in the fat suit.

  But the boy ignores him and continues to play to the crowd. We cheer louder and louder until Sergeant Major storms into the gym and pulls the boy off Private Lincoln by the scruff of his neck. Private Lincoln stands up and takes his position at the front of the line again.

  ‘Next,’ he says and points to me with a wiggling finger. I approach him with a turtle shuffle.

  ‘Ready?’ he says, and I dive for his shoelaces, yank them upwards and send him rolling onto his back again. Then I drive my shoe into his private parts, imagining he’s a stranger about to mug or kidnap me.

  The class silences. They haven’t seen this side of me before — although I’m not sure if they know any side of me, possibly even my name. But since rescuing Rescue in the boys’ toilets, I’m imbued with a confidence that hardens me against whatever the class may think.

  ‘Cease and desist!’ Private Lincoln yells in a high-pitched voice.

  Sergeant Major, still holding Green Eyes by the scruff of his neck, launches at me with his other hand and catches me by the back of my T-shirt. Holding on tight, he leads us away. I swallow hard. I’ve never been in trouble before. Ever. I suddenly regret even coming to school this morning.

  ‘Beating up Private Lincoln was not the point of the exercise,’ Sergeant Major growls. ‘Self-control is the path between where you are and where you should be.’

  I am too embarrassed to look at Green Eyes, but I notice every girl’s eyes on me as we’re led away together. I’m guessing they are wishing it was them being hauled off to detention with him, instead of me. Most of them haven’t had the chance to meet him yet and flick their hair, hoping he’ll notice.

  Sergeant Major drops us near the equipment cupboard in the far corner of the gym and tells us to ‘Stay’. Even Green Eyes doesn’t dare disobey him and we sit there in silence until the class finishes, the gym empties and all that’s left of Stranger Danger is Private Lincoln’s fat suit hanging over a ladder stapled to the wall.

  In all that time, Green Eyes and I haven’t said a word to each other. He’s found a clipboard with paper and is drawing. I’m biting my nails. Being this close to those forest eyes, the blond hair sweeping over his face, the strong shoulders and sharp jaw, is giving me goose bumps. I’m tongue-tied; deciding whether or not to speak to him is like wringing out a towel in my mouth.

  I clear my throat. He doesn’t look up.

  I stand up and move closer. ‘Um …’ I watch his hand caress the paper. ‘What are you drawing?’

  He looks up and his eyes glow against the dark walls.

  ‘See.’ He smiles and lifts the page to show me two words embossed with what look like stars.

  ‘Look
s good. What does it say?’

  The boy’s smile is peanut-butter thick. ‘Thanks, Fancy Face. It says “White Warrior”.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  He doesn’t answer, just puts the clipboard down, slides his elbows onto his knees and rests his head on his hand. I sit back down on a pile of crash mats. I look around the room, trying to think of something else to talk about, but I have to ask.

  ‘What do you mean by “fancy”?’

  He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. ‘Well … pretty,’ he says gently.

  I drop my head, wishing I knew what to say.

  He continues. ‘But you’d get told that all the time.’

  I shake my head violently and my eye patch comes loose. Damn, I forgot I was wearing that stupid thing. Here I am with the cutest boy in school and I’m wearing a pirate patch. Lame! Then I realise I haven’t answered him.

  ‘Never,’ I say.

  ‘The world needs glasses,’ he says, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. ‘And braces.’

  ‘Braces?’

  ‘Must be bent if it doesn’t think you’re pretty,’ he says.

  I smile and feel my entire being blush.

  ‘Why are you saying this to me? I don’t even know you.’

  ‘I know you.’ He points at me. ‘You’ve shown a lot of yourself today.’

  I look at him, confused.

  ‘The boys’ toilets? Saving the cat?’

  I gasp. ‘You were there?’

  ‘I was in the next cubicle.’ He laughs.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I don’t know what’s going on with me lately.’ I tie my fingers up in knots and unpick them, not looking at him.

  ‘Midteen crisis?’ he offers.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just joking. It’s not a midteen crisis. I know what’s going on with you and I’m going to need your help.’ He stands at the sound of footsteps — Sergeant Major coming to dismiss us. ‘I’m Jackson Axe, by the way.’