Red Samurai

by Tiffiny Hall

  ‘Hey, why do you always have to eat in a line?’ Elecktra asks.

  I shrug. ‘Dunno. I like to be neat, I guess.’ I move the muesli to the left a little, so the items are evenly spaced, then take out a bowl and place it in front of the food conga line. I’m ravenous after my fight last night. I turn around to get a spoon. Art is kissing Mum on the lips. ‘Yuk!’ I say. I spin back to my food: the muesli is where the pear should be and the milk has been replaced with the bowl.

  ‘Elecktra!’ I yell.

  ‘Not guilty.’ She sighs and turns a page of her magazine.

  I rearrange the items back into their food feng shui. How did she manage to do that so quietly and so quickly? I turn to the pantry to look for some cinnamon. I reach my arm past Mum’s healthy treats — quinoa crackers, beetroot chips and carob chocolate — and snatch the cinnamon from Art’s side of the pantry, which is decked out with chocolate spread, salty chips and lolly snakes. Mum says he eats like a teenager. Recently she’s been trying to introduce him to tofu. She keeps telling him that tofu is like healthy marshmallows, but he isn’t buying it. I turn back to the kitchen counter with the cinnamon, but my muesli has disappeared completely.

  ‘C’mon! Seriously, Lecky! Where’d you put it?’ I glare at her.

  She flicks over another page of her magazine.

  ‘Mum! Lecky’s messing with my breakfast,’ I say.

  ‘Girls,’ Mum warns without looking up. She is slicing celery with her ninja dagger for the vegetable Hulk juice. We’ve drunk it every day since we were young.

  I hunt around the kitchen island, but the muesli is nowhere to be seen. Lecky didn’t come around the other side of the counter because I would have noticed her out of the corner of my eye.

  ‘Is breakfast misbehaving, Rox?’ Elecktra asks. She is wearing a smirk spread as thick as jam on toast.

  When I look back at my line of breakfast items, the pear has now disappeared. ‘Lecky!’ I screech. I am too hungry to play games.

  Art opens the pantry to take out the tea bags and I see my muesli sitting at the front of the shelf. I snatch the box and realise it’s heavier. When I look inside, the pear is asleep on a pillow of rice flakes. I stare at Elecktra, stunned. There’s no way she could have put the muesli in the pantry — she would have had to run straight past me. And what about the pear? My eyes narrow. She’s acting weird. But, sitting on the stool, inspecting her split ends through her fingers, she looks as composed as a mannequin. I take the pear out of the box and put it back in the fruit bowl and choose an orange instead. The pear was letting the team down — I need more vitamins if I’m going to face Hero today and all this new White Warrior stuff.

  Still eyeing my weirdo sister with suspicion, I reach for a knife. I struggle with the handle until I realise the knife is stuck in the knife block. I wrestle with it more, but still it won’t budge. I sniff the handle, and it smells like superglue. I try to lift the knife block and it’s stuck to the bench.

  ‘Mum, the knives are glued down!’ I say.

  Elecktra looks up from her magazine.

  ‘Are they?’ Mum asks with the same innocent look Elecktra gives when she puts her dirty coffee mug in the dishwasher after a clean cycle. It drips all over the pristine plates.

  I give up on the knives and retrieve my ninja star from my blazer pocket. I slice my orange with a few flicks of my wrist.

  Art claps enthusiastically. ‘Like mother, like daughter,’ he says.

  Elecktra glares at me as I swallow an orange segment. She’s always had this thing about me being Mum’s favourite just because I look more like her. Now that I take martial arts lessons, she thinks I’m only doing them to suck up to Mum. Lecky has no idea I’m a ninja too.

  ‘Kitchen Kung Fu,’ Mum says, then kisses me on the cheek. ‘Girls, do you want to help make Ninja Meringues?’ She elbows me gently and whispers, ‘A little celebration treat for achieving White Warriordom.’

  Celebration? I know I killed it at the Cemetery of Warriors last night, but I don’t feel like celebrating. A thick slice of me wishes I could have crawled out of bed this morning a normal thirteen-year-old whose greatest problem was T-zone acne, not fighting warriors and bullies.

  ‘What on earth is a Ninja Meringue?’ Art asks as Mum hands me a large mixing bowl and spoon.

  ‘A meringue without refined sugar,’ I say.

  ‘We use agave nectar instead,’ Mum adds. Even her treats are healthy. Mum always says there is a difference between treating and feasting, and tells us how important a treat is every now and then to feed our soul.

  ‘Boring,’ Art says and smiles when Mum flicks him with her tea towel. He leaves the kitchen to continue work on a new mural on the living-room wall. Elecktra exits quickly too — cooking equals dirty hands and may hurt her manicure.

  ‘Don’t you hate it when she reads those magazines?’ Mum asks as soon as Elecktra is upstairs. ‘I can sense them sapping her intelligence. Dribble about boys, the latest food fads …’

  ‘You know some of Elecktra’s friends are on diets?’ I say.

  ‘Did you just swear at me?’ Mum turns sharply with a pointing spatula. ‘Did you?’

  ‘I-I,’ I stutter.

  ‘Rox, I’ve told you, “diet” is a swearword in this house. If you are fit and healthy, you don’t need to diet. How many times do I have to say it! Those girls should focus on their health, not their weight.’ She slaps her spatula on the bench. ‘I think it’s time I gave Year Ten another lecture. Isn’t anyone reading my blog?’

  ‘No, Mum, please. I think they are just eating more like, um, cavemen. Or is it caterpillars? Anyway, there’s no need for another lecture,’ I plead. Mum is passionate about teaching kids to protect themselves from ‘junk food, junk thoughts and junk influences’. When she found out Elecktra was on a diet, she organised a seminar on body image for all the Year Ten girls. Of course Elecktra pretended she didn’t know Mum so the girls’ fury was directed at me.

  Mum made all the Year Tens write themselves a fan letter detailing what they liked about themselves on the inside. It was meant to be a one-off, but Elecktra was quite inspired and writes herself fan mail often. She even posts them to herself to make them feel more authentic, then hangs them up in her locker.

  ‘Okay, no lecture, but I think it’s time Elecktra put down the magazines and picked up a hobby. Applying blingles to her nails doesn’t count,’ Mum says.

  ‘She’s started Ballet Fu,’ I offer.

  ‘What?’ Mum turns to me.

  ‘A mix of ballet and Kung Fu. It’s the next big craze, apparently.’

  ‘That’s something!’ she says. We both laugh at the thought of Elecktra pirouetting with an ‘ay-yah!’, wearing her rose tutu with a black martial arts headband.

  Mum cracks open an egg and in one graceful tap separates the yolk. I’m not so elegant with my egg: the yolk oozes into the mixture. Mum scoops it up quickly with an eggshell, then heats a saucepan of water on the stove, adding cream of tartar, agave nectar and vanilla extract into the bowl. She holds the bowl over the saucepan of simmering water to heat the mixture. This is the most normal I’ve felt in a long time.

  ‘Mum, can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Yes, anything,’ she says.

  ‘What does it really mean to be a ninja?’

  Mum’s thoughts web across her face as she thinks. ‘To protect what is important to you: your family, your honour, your desires, your dreams,’ she says, then smiles. ‘I’m sure Hero won’t be bothering you any more, now that you showed him how ninja you can be.’

  ‘Maybe in another realm, but definitely not at school,’ I say. I thank my lucky ninja stars that according to the Warrior Peace Code, ninjas and samurai are forbidden to kill each other in the town of Lanternwood. Hero would have me five times dead by now. ‘How did you know he was bothering me?’

  ‘Rox, Hero bothers everyone in Gate Two. Cinnamon’s mum is distraught about it. I was waiting for you to find your voice. Ninja is all abo
ut using your voice to stand up for yourself,’ she says.

  ‘My voice?’

  ‘Sometimes a ninja speaks with their hands and their feet.’ Mum dips her ninja dagger into the mixture to test it, then slowly sips her Hulk juice while losing herself in the creaminess of her creation. After a few minutes of silence, she asks, ‘How are you feeling about being the White Warrior?’

  The question startles me. I haven’t even had a chance to ask myself that yet. ‘It hasn’t sunk in,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure what it really means.’

  ‘Well,’ Mum says, removing the bowl from the heat and placing it on the bench, ‘you can control the elements with your mind and your skills are superior to any other ninja’s.’ She fires up the electric whisk and beats the egg whites into a tiny delicious mountain range.

  ‘I know the legend, but what does it really mean for me?’ I ask.

  Mum looks up from gently folding cornflour into the mixture. ‘It will mean what you want it to mean. You can embrace your powers or you can ignore them. It depends on one thing.’

  ‘What thing?’ I ask.

  She peeks around her blonde braid. ‘Are you willing to face the fear?’

  I help Mum to spoon the Ninja Meringue mixture into tight circles on the baking tray. ‘The fear?’

  ‘Yes. The fear,’ she says. ‘For example, every day Art paints. Every day I see him stare at the blank canvas or whatever he’s working on and he has this look in his eyes. The same look of the samurai I used to fight when I was in the Emishi clan. His eyes fog with fear; the fear of failing, the fear of the unknown, the fear of standing up to other people’s expectations. It is a fear that grips all of us, Roxy, always at the moment when we are most trying to be ourselves.’ Her face softens. ‘One of the reasons I fell in love with Art is because he faces that fear every day. He goes into battle with his paintbrush.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I’m ready to face my fears or to know what I’m really capable of,’ I say.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘You’re terrified of the person your new powers force you to become. They are asking something of you that you haven’t been comfortable with in the past.’ Mum stops moulding the mixture and looks into my eyes. Her eyes are the colour of mahogany flecked with pips of maroon. ‘Your powers ask for courage.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. You’re telling me to face the fear now, but you had my powers extracted into the Tiger Scrolls. Why didn’t you let me just grow up as the White Warrior?’

  We slide the meringues into the oven. Mum closes the door and places her hands on my shoulders. Her braid whips over her shoulder as she leans down. It brushes against my face, the scent of lemongrass.

  ‘Choice,’ she answers. ‘I decided to take you to a very, very old mystic monk in a town far away. He extracted your powers into the Tiger Scrolls because I wanted you to have a normal childhood, Rox. I wanted you to make the choice to become the White Warrior. I hid the scrolls in a place where I knew you would find them, didn’t I? But you had to decide to look. It was your choice to face your destiny. You learn nothing from growing up powerful — it’s the struggles that teach you.’ She smiles. ‘Being Gate Two is teaching you to be courageous, to use your voice. In many ways, we should be thanking Hero, though he’s focusing on the past. His father was an enemy of your father many years ago. But since his father died, it would be dishonourable to bring up those grievances now.’

  ‘Hero’s dad is dead?’ I can’t help feeling sorry for him. I’m lucky that I have Art in my life.

  ‘The Ninja Meringues will be ready for you after school, okay?’ Mum says, squeezing my shoulders, then pulling me into a hug. That was obviously the end of the Hero discussion.

  ‘If Art doesn’t get to them first,’ I say, knowing he loves sweets so much he has a loyalty card for the dentist. We get every fifth visit free.

  Mum squeezes me tighter. ‘Keep training with Jackson and try to relax, Rox. There’s only one White Warrior. Enjoy it.’ She rakes her fingers through my hair.

  ‘Yeah, okay, but if I’m meant to be so relaxed, why are there mattresses on the ceiling and all the sharp objects in the house glued down?’ I ask.

  Mum smiles, but her eyes dim. She’s hiding something.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ she says. ‘Good luck at school.’

  THREE

  The school corridor is swarming with kids scrambling to put their stuff away before assembly. I escaped the terror of Gate Two this morning as Hero wasn’t there, but I know he’ll turn up. There are butterflies at battle in my stomach. The memory of hitting Hero with a dart last night flashes into my mind and I remember what he said just before he disappeared from the Cemetery of Warriors: ‘I am not the last samurai.’ I shudder.

  A kid slams his locker shut on his finger and tears spring to his eyes. ‘Bad start,’ he says under his breath, then kicks his locker. If only jamming my finger was a bad start to the day. I could fight a samurai or totally lose control of my new powers. I could deal with jamming a finger in my locker, but I’m not sure I can keep dealing with Hero.

  This is ridiculous, I am the White Warrior. In the other realm, I felt indestructible; I was so ninja I couldn’t believe it! So why can’t I be ninja at school?

  A hand with nails sharp as claws rips into my back and drags me into the nearest classroom, slams the door closed, then pushes my face against it. It all happens so fast I can’t see who is behind me. When he leans down to my ear, his foul breath gives him away.

  ‘You think it’s over?’ Hero sneers.

  My cheek is squashed into my eye, but I glimpse the boxing boots he always wears and the black martial arts belt poking out from under his school jumper.

  ‘You think coz you’re the White Warrior everyone’s going to bow down to you?’ He applies more pressure.

  I could totally kick his butt for a second time, but I know I shouldn’t. Instead I grit my teeth and say, ‘No.’

  ‘We both know I can’t kill you here,’ he says, then spins me around to face him. Lanternwood is off limits. But beyond the lanterns outside of Lanternwood, it’s on, especially if you come face to face in the Cemetery of Warriors. ‘But just you wait,’ he threatens. ‘Someone’s going to end up dead.’

  ‘If we’re finished,’ I say, ‘I have pencils to sharpen.’ My voice sounds strong, but deep down I’m jelly.

  He studies me carefully, the angles in his face casting mean shadows across his cheeks. He knows I’m the White Warrior, he knows I’m more powerful than him, yet he still torments me. Maybe if he was to give up bullying he wouldn’t recognise himself. One thing I’ve learned through my training is that bullies are just as insecure as the rest of us. They may be bark on the outside, but at the centre they’re all gooey sap. I’ve seen Hero’s face when he wasn’t picked for a lunchtime footy game. His mates barred him and he was devastated, like anyone would be. He may be samurai, but he’s still just a kid.

  Hero slowly releases me, then pushes me hard against the door again. I flinch and air whistles around in my mouth. I try to swallow it, but before I can, a wooden chair flies across the room towards Hero’s head. He ducks and the chair spins and crashes into the wall, just missing me. I didn’t even summon the wind; he made me so angry I did it without thinking. This is dangerous.

  Hero, still with a firm grip on me, smiles at the broken chair. ‘Lanternwood isn’t what it used to be. It’s just not safe any more,’ he says. He shoves me out of the way, then throws the door open. That wasn’t advice; that was a warning.

  Assembly is a total drag. Two Year Eight girls stand behind the lectern, telling us about their camp. They did archery for the first time and a fire alarm left them shivering outside in their pyjamas at 1am. I think they expected their story to get the LOL-ympics. But no one laughs. Not even a fake laugh. My best friend, Cinnamon, fake-laughs whenever we go to the pet store and Ted is working there. I think she has a crush on him. Last time she fake-laughed so hard snot came out of her nose. We haven’t been
back to the pet store since.

  Cinnamon nudges me, her curly red hair tickling my arm. ‘Cool story,’ she whispers. ‘Needs more dragons.’

  I snort. We are sitting cross-legged on the floor, under the watchful eye of Sergeant Major, our geography teacher. He clears his throat loudly and looks pointedly at us. We slump down.

  Elecktra sits on the other side of the hall, opposite us. Her red boxer shorts poke out from under her school dress and fake tan dirties her knees. She is watching the school captain, who sits on stage with the deputy school captain and the principal, Mr Cheatley. Chantell, Elecktra’s best friend for life, is sneaking earphones into her ears and trying to hide them in the mass of her hair.

  Sometimes we have interesting speakers come in and tell us something cool about the environment or a new book. I hate the idea of speaking in public — it’s even worse than public humiliation. I’m still recovering from an OMG moment in my after-school art class last week. I was trying to glue a piece of cardboard down, eat a banana and think about Jackson all at the same time. I was so engrossed in my thoughts about Jackson that I took a bite of the glue stick instead of the banana! Cinnamon nearly wet herself laughing — particularly when I pursed my lips together and they got stuck. Talk about blush bonanza.

  I look back over to Elecktra and she’s still staring at the school captain like a weirdo. Suddenly she goes cross-eyed. Is she having a seizure?

  ‘Lecky,’ I hiss.

  Her eyes uncross and return to normal.

  ‘Miss Ran,’ Sergeant Major booms from his chair at the end of the row. My cheeks burn and I slump down again.

  Mr Cheatley begins a lecture about manners. I’ve already counted the pleats in the gold curtain hanging at the back of the stage, so I study the school captain: her face is pinched like she’s sucking on Vegemite and she won’t stop sniffing. The deputy school captain has eyes like X-rays; it feels like she can see right through you when you’re considering losing your blazer to walk through the Gate. She’s one of those older kids who thinks she’s a teacher. She is wearing silver heart earrings.