White Ninja

by Tiffiny Hall

  Jackson says it for me. ‘I’ll make you Gate One.’

  NINE

  A crowd of five-year-olds bursts through the dojang doors. Two mothers carrying large birthday cakes and balloons call out to Sabo: ‘Where should we put the fairy bread?’

  ‘The trestle table.’ Sabo points to the table at the front of the dojang.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jackson says to me. ‘Forgot we had a birthday party today.’

  ‘Good extra business. Hour or so of ninja games, half-hour to eat,’ Sabo adds. ‘We have a few each week.’

  ‘Beats a clown,’ I say.

  The mothers put out party hats, plates of fairy bread, party pies and red cordial. I can’t believe they’ve actually brought red cordial and remember how banned it is at home.

  The kids are swarming around the dojang. Jackson calls them over to a mat. They run over and sit down.

  ‘Who wants to be a ninja?’ he yells.

  The children cheer excitedly.

  ‘But before we can be ninjas, we’ve gotta look like ninjas,’ he says.

  Sabo wheels over a rack of multicoloured Taekwondo suits, and he and Jackson commence the job of dressing a large group of wriggly children and tying white belts around their waists. I help.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask a little boy.

  ‘Charles,’ he says.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Free.’

  I smile as I tie the belt around his tiny body and he shoots off to play with the other children.

  Once the kids are dressed, Sabo organises them into two lines. He and Jackson punch a small soft yellow ball with a smiley face to the first child in each line, who has to kick it, run to retrieve it and deliver it back to the instructor.

  ‘My feet are glued to this kick pad,’ Jackson tells one kid who refuses to fetch the ball. ‘If I step off it, I’ll get eaten by the sharks.’ He points to the blue mats surrounding them.

  The child races after the ball.

  Sabo throws me his ball and steps off his kick pad. ‘Sharks, sharks!’ the children scream. Sabo goes over to talk to the mums and has them giggling within seconds as he helps to cover more buttered bread with coloured sprinkles. I take his spot on the kick pad and begin throwing the ball to the children. Jackson smiles at me and nods approvingly, the gold speckles in his eyes flashing.

  There are almost thirty children and their screaming and laughing are deafening. Jackson stops the game and calls the children in. ‘Now for a bit of ninja stealth,’ he says and smiles.

  The children jitter around our waists.

  ‘This is Foxy Roxy,’ he says, indicating me, ‘and you’re all rabbits. If a fox catches you,’ he continues, twisting his black belt around so the ends stick out at the back like a tail, ‘you have to sit quietly in the fox’s den off to the side.’

  The kids scream and disperse, fizzing from one end of the room to the other. Jackson and I are super quick, darting between them, trying to give the slower ones more time to play. Within minutes we have caught all the rabbits.

  ‘Again!’ Jackson calls.

  The kids jump up from the den and scatter, screaming.

  ‘Out of curiosity,’ I say, ‘what happens when someone reaches the other world?’

  ‘They have to defeat four ancient warriors in the Cemetery of Warriors,’ he says.

  ‘Dead guys?’

  ‘Dead masters of martial arts,’ he corrects me. ‘If all four ancient warriors are defeated, the White Warrior will appear.’

  ‘Is that it?’ I say, knowing it is more than enough.

  ‘Cake time,’ Sabo calls.

  Lighting the birthday candles is hard work. One child keeps spitting on them to blow them out and the birthday kid starts crying. By the time we finally make it to ‘Happy Birthday’, the kids are bored. It’s up to Jackson and me to sing. I’m embarrassed to sing in front of him, but he starts off with such gusto I feel bad and join in.

  When the song finishes, Jackson leans in close and says, ‘You’ve got courage.’ I feel goose bumps on my neck. ‘And all-right reflexes,’ he adds. His breath tickles my ear. ‘I can train you to help me find the White Warrior and the Tiger Scrolls.’

  He pulls away and my neck stings cold again.

  ‘Hip hip!’ he yells.

  The children yell back: ‘Hooray!’

  The party finishes and the kids clear out. We are left with spilled cordial, cake crumbs smudged on the floor, scattered coloured sprinkles, and miniature uniforms and belts strewn all over the mats. Jackson begins to clean up.

  ‘And the Cemetery of Warriors doesn’t exist in this realm?’ I say.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘How many realms are there?’

  ‘Not exactly sure.’

  ‘Why don’t you do it yourself?’ I ask.

  ‘He can’t,’ Sabo says, overhearing. ‘He’s already been transported once.’

  I stare at Jackson. ‘You’ve been to the Cemetery of Warriors?!’

  He doesn’t answer me.

  ‘He defeated one warrior, but that’s it,’ Sabo says.

  ‘She doesn’t need to know that,’ Jackson says and storms off.

  ‘It’s a bit of a sensitive subject,’ Sabo whispers, so Jackson doesn’t hear.

  Jackson returns with a mop and takes out his anger on the mats until they shine like mirrors. When the dojang is spotless again, he approaches me with a black square of folded fabric.

  ‘Ready to suit up?’ he asks.

  I push the uniform away. ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. ‘This isn’t me.’

  ‘What do you mean? The shinobi shozoku is flattering on any type of body,’ Sabo says. He rubs his big belly. ‘It covers a lot.’

  ‘I don’t mean the uniform,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve already done things today I would never ordinarily do.’

  Jackson studies my face. ‘Maybe that’s a good thing,’ he says.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘Thank you for the …’ I hesitate, searching for a word to summarise my first dojang experience, ‘information.’

  When I reach the door, I turn to see Sabo and Jackson still standing where I left them. I bow at the dojang entrance, as I saw them do earlier. When I slide my fists down my thighs, I suddenly realise my hands are invisible again. Panic pounces. I’m going to have to find some other way to deal with what’s happening to me, which doesn’t involve getting killed.

  TEN

  As soon as I walk into our living room, Elecktra yells, ‘Sending that photo was totally unfair! You have to make it up to me! You owe me a makeover!’

  She’s wearing a pink jumpsuit with yellow wedge sandals and her forearms are stacked with bangles. Her eyes are still the colour of warm bark despite her mood. She’s spread out her make-up on the green rug and the coloured palettes look like bright flowers growing out of a lawn. Elecktra often plays with her make-up when she should be studying. Art says it’s the artist in her, but I don’t think our school careers counsellor was thinking make-up artist when Elecktra said she wanted to follow in Mum’s boyfriend’s footsteps.

  ‘You made me strip off in front of your friends!’ I yell back.

  ‘You were ruining my T-shirt!’ she squarks.

  ‘Girls,’ Art calls from the kitchen, where he and his friend Hacky are talking about Art’s next exhibition and drinking tea. Art knows better than to interfere in our fights.

  ‘You know I love that T-shirt!’ Elecktra throws an eyeliner at me. ‘Do you want me to tell that new boy you think he’s cute?’

  ‘I do not!’ I spear the eyeliner back at Elecktra. It hits her in the chest and she immediately checks to see if it has left a mark on her bright pink jumpsuit. Luckily for me, it hadn’t.

  ‘You do so! I saw you staring at him!’ she squeals, then sings, ‘Roxy loves the new boy.’

  ‘Do not!’

  ‘You could be his It Girl!’

  ‘I don’t want to be his It Girl,’ I retort.

  ‘Come on — you owe me,’ s
he whines. ‘Makeover!’

  ‘Elecktra, no. Anything but a makeover,’ I plead.

  The last makeover Elecktra gave me, she waxed my top lip and I had to wear a Band-Aid over it until it healed. The kids at school teased me and said that I was trying to hide a moustache.

  I know Elecktra won’t give up. ‘Stubborn’ is her middle name.

  She looks up from the soft-pink blush palette she’s holding.

  ‘I’m designing,’ she says.

  ‘Designing what?’ Art asks, having come to see what all the noise and fuss were about.

  ‘Fash …’ she pauses for effect, ‘ion. FashION for the face,’ she adds, heading for her room.

  Art looks confused, but I understand her ‘Elecktrafied’ language, and I need to talk to her. I need answers, even if I have to go through a makeover to get them. Finally, I build up the courage and knock on her white bedroom door without its porcelain doorknob.

  ‘Go away, I’m rehearsing!’ she yells.

  ‘For what?’ I call back.

  ‘Actressing.’

  I unscrew the white porcelain doorknob from my bedroom door and fit it into the gaping hole in Elecktra’s door, then gently turn it. Her door clicks open.

  ‘What did you do?’ she screams.

  ‘You can keep carrying your doorknob around in your school bag if you like,’ I say, ‘but all doorknobs fit all doors in this house, so it won’t keep anyone out.’

  She flies towards me, enraged. She’s changed into a long multicoloured kaftan that makes her movements more dramatic — she looks like a human kaleidoscope. As she tries to slam the door in my face, I’m struck by whatever sickening sweet perfume she’s lathered on her neck. It smells like crayons on a melting car dashboard and nearly causes me to give up.

  ‘I can’t wait to tell Mum and Art about you wagging school,’ she says, pushing with all her strength on the door, squeezing my shoulders against the doorframe. She isn’t as strong as me. I punch the door.

  ‘What the —?!’ Elecktra screams.

  I look at the door and realise I have punched a dent in it. I’m not used to my new strength. I am so in trouble. First, I ruined her top, then wagged school, and now I’ve vandalised her door.

  ‘I’m telling!’ she yells.

  I grab her arm firmly and squeeze my voice soft. ‘Please, Lecky, please don’t,’ I beg.

  Elecktra huffs and shakes her arm free of my grip with a symphony of bangles on her wrist. She abandons the futile pushing and suddenly asks, ‘You know that new kid?’

  I stop breathing.

  ‘I think I should be his It Girl,’ she says.

  I look away to hide my dread. I want to keep Jackson Axe mine, my friend.

  Elecktra combs her fingers through her wispy fringe. ‘He’s in my year,’ she says, looking at me from under the branches of her thick eyelashes. ‘Why’s he friends with you?’

  I’m frozen. The word ‘friend’ floats down onto my heart. He is my friend.

  Lecky rests her chin to the side and sighs, flipping her voice over her shoulder. ‘Anyways, it doesn’t count that he’s in my year, he just better be in my league,’ she says. ‘Contestant on any reality TV shows?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ I manage to stutter.

  She saunters back to the mirror and pouts at her reflection. I can’t swallow the threat of losing Jackson to Elecktra.

  ‘I thought you were going to tell the careers counsellor you wanted to be a celebrity stylist,’ I say. ‘What happened to forecasting pirate chic?’ Elecktra twirls on the spot, instantly refocused on herself. The best thing about Elecktra is that you can manipulate her mood swings.

  ‘Nope. I wanted to be a stylist, then a social media guru, but why be a stylist when you can be an actress and be on the red carpet.’

  She performs an animated silent mime in the mirror. I think she’s pretending to interview herself, but I can’t quite tell. I sit down on her bed. Her room is a mix of childhood and older girl. A ladybug lamp sits on a nest of Vogue magazines and there are high heels and stuffed animals all over the floor.

  ‘Lecky, can I ask you a question?’ I say.

  ‘You just have,’ she says.

  She turns towards me, but as she casts a look back over her shoulder at her reflection, I realise it’s only so she can admire her beauty from another angle.

  ‘Have you ever been invisible?’ I continue, hoping to raise a morsel of interest. Trying to have a conversation with my sister is hard work.

  ‘What, like a ghost?’ she says, whipping her head around to me. She picks up a hair roller and puts it into her fringe, pressing on it with all the force of someone thinking really, really hard, then releases the curl. She looks back in the mirror. ‘Not bad,’ she says admiringly. ‘Don’t believe in stupid ghosts,’ she adds.

  I sigh. Sometimes there’s no point trying to talk to Elecktra about anything but herself. ‘Good,’ I say. ‘When you die, you’ll be too embarrassed to haunt me.’

  ‘Why are you so weird?’ she says. ‘It’s stuff like that’ll make you Gate Two forever.’

  Her words sting, striking me in the thatched part of my heart where all the taunts and teases entwine. I hate it when she’s mean; it’s the only thing that doesn’t look good on her. I cross my legs and drop my head to my lap.

  ‘You really should get that lasered off, or fake-tan it.’ Elecktra’s pointing at the birthmark on the bottom of my foot.

  She’s always going on about my birthmark. I rub my feet on her bedspread and she shrieks and jumps on me. We wrestle until we exhaust ourselves. I untangle myself from her kaftan, roll away from her and try again.

  ‘Lecky, don’t you ever wake up and feel like you’re different?’

  ‘Nope,’ she says. ‘Sometimes I wake up with a serious case of bad hair day, but that’s it.’ She shrugs.

  ‘Well, sometimes I feel like I’m adopted,’ I say. ‘Haven’t you ever wondered why Mum won’t tell us anything about Dad?’

  Elecktra’s not listening. ‘Time to leave,’ she says, shooing me away. ‘I’m in the middle of a scene. Make sure you introduce me to that boy. Things didn’t work out with Jarrod.’

  She slams the door and the lockout explodes the loneliness within me. I take back my door handle and slink to my room.

  That night I stand at my window, watching the shadows play across the pavement. The street is lined with houses, wheelie bins, gardens — and now ninjas and samurai. What do I care if Hero finds the White Warrior first? What real damage could he do? But I know the answer. Lots.

  I look over at my school bag on the floor. Jackson must have stuffed the shinobi shozoku in there and now it’s calling to me.

  ‘Be quiet,’ I tell it.

  I maroon myself in the island of light created by my desk lamp and fold paperclips into tiny coathangers to take my mind off it. But the uniform starts calling: Come on! Try me on! It won’t hurt! No one will know!

  I pick up a book and try to read, but the only words filling my mind are: Try me on now.

  ‘Okay!’ I say.

  I rush over to the bag and shake out the uniform. I wrap the jacket over my black T-shirt, tie my hair in a bun and fold the hood over my head, secure the pants into the cloth boots and strap them up. I finish by tying a belt around my waist. I turn slowly to see my reflection in the window. I look strong and confident. My eyes are wild. Forget pirate chic, this is the first time I have ever looked daring, the first time I’ve ever looked like … me, Roxy Ran.

  My eyes pierce my reflection … but I am not alone. Over my shoulder, another set of eyes glitters in the glass. Before I can react, the window is opened and I fling myself through it and onto the ledge of the roof.

  I run, jumping across gutters, driveways, rubbish bins, dog kennels. I look back and see a dark figure chasing me, silhouetted against the light of the moon. My eyes water from my speed and I find it easy to grip in the boots and leap higher than I could ever imagine. I can fly over houses, land on the f
ootpath and then leap to the top of a tree, tiptoe across power lines. My pursuer can also leap and fly. I glance behind me again and a blinding flash awakens my fear. A sword. I have no weapons, only the camouflage of my black uniform in the night. There is no time to will myself invisible — even if I knew how.

  I feel my pursuer gaining on me. Suddenly, feet land in front of me and I look up to see dangerous eyes staring at me. A sword is at my throat. In this moment, on top of a terracotta-tiled roof, I realise my life has changed forever.

  ‘Mum!’ I gasp. ‘It’s me!’

  Mum’s eyes are coal-coloured, hypnotic.

  ‘Mum, put down the katana sword — it’s me.’ I swipe the hood off my head. ‘Roxy.’

  Mum’s eyes widen and envelop the night. She is in her gym gear: black tights and black lycra hooded top. Her hair has fallen out in the chase and is flickering wildly around her. She has never looked more lovely. She pulls back the sword.

  ‘What are you wearing?’ she pants. ‘I thought you were an intruder!’

  I shrug. ‘Ninja suit.’

  ‘It’s called a shinobi shozoku,’ she says crisply, yanking my wrist so I stoop down. She scuttles on all fours to the top of the roof and down the other side, pulling me with her. Now we can’t be seen from the street.

  ‘I’ve been picked to help find the White Warrior,’ I say proudly, standing up. She yanks me back down.

  The night fills her eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘The White Warrior. You should know,’ I say. ‘The warrior born every century with the power to control the elements. But the powers were taken from him and put in a book or something.’

  Mum screws her mouth tight. I see a storm building within her. ‘The Tiger Scrolls,’ she whispers, darting her eyes around us.

  ‘I met this boy at school, Jackson, and we’re going to find the White Warrior before Hero does.’