by Tiffiny Hall
Elecktra is always losing her earrings and pays me three dollars each time to find them. Using my best detective work, I’ll discover them in the living room’s green rug, beside the bathroom sink, on the floor of her bedroom. Now whenever I need three dollars, I hide her earrings so she’ll pay me to find them.
I’m thinking about asking Mum to make her famous chicken and lemongrass balls for dinner when I notice a strange movement on stage. I look more closely and see the school captain’s shoelace coil towards the ceiling, then loop down to meet the shoelace of the deputy school captain. The shoelaces tie together into a neat bow.
I blink. I must be imagining things. Shoelaces don’t move on their own. Maybe I need some food. I blink again. The shoelaces are still tied together in a perfect bow. I rub my eyes. Perhaps I need glasses. Is anyone else seeing things? I swivel my gaze around and happen upon Elecktra. She is cross-eyed and concentrating on the shoelaces. She must have seen them move too. I take a deep breath. Maybe there was something off in the Hulk juice this morning. Or maybe Elecktra needs glasses too.
‘We are the sum of our pleases and thank yous. Thank you,’ Mr Cheatley concludes.
The school captain and deputy school captain stand. They wear the look of future lawyers on their faces: analytical and ruthless. I bet they will act like prefects for the rest of their lives — it’ll work well for job interviews, but not so well on dates, I reckon. The school captain takes her first step, but her foot yanks backwards and she flies into her deputy behind her. They fall across the chairs, then roll onto the stage. Now it’s the LOL-ympics. Elecktra is beside herself with laughter.
The captains, in a tangle of limbs and burning cheeks, finger-fight over their laces, each convinced she can more quickly undo them. I get a good look at the laces as I hobble out of assembly, pins and needles attacking my legs. They are tied exactly the same way as Elecktra ties her shoes. She’s never grown out of double knots with huge rabbit ears.
I find Lecky in the school corridor. ‘What did you think of assembly?’
‘It needed spicing up,’ she says. ‘It was so dull, I could hear my own thoughts.’
‘A quiet conversation, I suspect,’ Jackson says, joining us. His eyes glint when he teases Elecktra. Girly girls seem to be his type and there’s nothing pink about me.
‘As if!’ Elecktra retorts. Ever since she ‘dumped’ Jackson — even though they never really went out — things have been tense between them, at least on her side. One near-kiss did not equal a relationship, though Elecktra obviously disagrees.
‘Can’t we just be friends?’ he asks.
‘A friend would go on a date with another friend,’ Elecktra says, scrunching her nose. It’s as if she only ‘dumped’ him so that he would know what he was missing out on. She clearly still likes him. Her mind games are too hard to keep up with.
I decide to butt in. ‘Lecky, did you notice that the captains’ laces were tied rabbit-style?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cat.’
I cringe at the use of my nickname. You can tell the word tasted sweet on her tongue — she knows I hate her using it in public. I wish I had a cool nickname like Mum. She was ‘Flash’ because you didn’t see the flashing silver blade of her dagger until it was piercing your skin. Instead I’m called ‘Cat’ after the birthmark on my foot.
Elecktra tosses her hair over her shoulder and walks away. Her shoelace comes undone halfway down the corridor, but she doesn’t stop to tie it.
Jackson turns to me and peaks his eyebrows. ‘So? Spill!’
I drag him over to my locker where we can talk in private. His eyes, green reeds, rustle through me. Focus, Roxy, I tell myself.
‘So what did you think of that weird blue smoke and the green moon?’ Jackson begins. I’d almost forgotten he’s been to the Cemetery of Warriors before. A rush of adrenalin spikes through my veins. We squeeze our faces into my locker to guard against samurai ears.
‘And all the warriors waiting for you — it was so scary,’ I say.
‘Then Hanzo shows up —’
‘And the blindfold stitches over your eyes,’ I finish his sentence.
‘You think it’s going to hurt, hey?’ he says.
I nod fervently.
‘He smelled rank, like off meat. Did you kick the apple?’ Jackson asks, our faces so close I can feel his breath. My cheek is touching my school books and Jackson’s jaw rests on my football. I still can’t believe that a guy in Year Ten, as old as Lecky, would even talk to me, let alone be neck-deep in my locker.
‘It rained green diamonds,’ I say.
Jackson smiles slowly. ‘I would have paid anything to see that,’ he says, then clears his throat. ‘Wow, Rox, I didn’t get past the first warrior. You’re amazing.’ And when he says it, I believe him. I feel prouder than proud of myself. Jackson always makes me feel good about having an inner ninja.
‘Who was next?’ he asks.
His enthusiasm is infectious and dissolves my self-consciousness. I tell him about the Monk with the teeth in his scalp, Mum and the Apache, then the Gladiator.
‘So your mum was there?’ he asks.
‘Yeah. Crazy, huh?’ I say. ‘She knew I would try to take back my powers. I thought she was away on business, but she was there at the cemetery for the whole week, waiting for me.’
‘Your powers.’ His eyes grow wide and almost swallow my next thought. My body tenses. I’ve been dying to tell Jackson and here’s my moment. I say my next words slowly so he will have the chance to digest the bombshell.
‘I’m the White Warrior,’ I say.
Jackson smiles calmly, his eyes enveloping me like a warm towel after a freezing swim. His reaction isn’t what I expected.
He winks. ‘The birthmark on your foot gave you away.’
‘The White Warrior will bear a mark on their sole,’ I recite the legend. ‘So why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Thought you’d freak out,’ he says, ‘and we still had a lot of training to get through before you were summoned.’
I nod, understanding that Mum and Jackson didn’t want to scare me, but I can’t help but feel a smudge of betrayal. I would have liked to have known.
‘So was that it?’ he prompts.
‘Thought so. Four master warriors, four tests, right? But then Hero showed up.’
A glint of jealousy skims Jackson’s eyes. ‘I heard he’d been training up at Samurai Falls for a summons. I never thought he’d be good enough to make it to the cemetery.’
‘Well, he came to the party all katana swords and kimono,’ I say. ‘He brought the ancient ninja’s Tiger Scrolls with him at least.’
‘What was it like fighting him?’ Jackson asks.
I laugh. ‘It was a nightmare! He nearly killed me several times. The earth moved, we were suspended on a cliff. I honestly thought …’ My voice trails away.
‘Thought what?’ Jackson asks.
That I’d never see you again, I think.
‘That I’d fail everyone,’ I say.
‘Roxy Ran, you could never fail us,’ he says. I feel his eyes draw me in and mash my stomach like the Octopus ride.
‘I won the Tiger Scrolls back,’ I say. Jackson pumps his fist and hits it on the roof of the locker. ‘But then Hero came back to life just like the baddies in the movies and I only had enough time to blow a dart.’
‘Got him?’
‘Got him real good,’ I say. ‘He was transported home after that.’
‘A dose of his own poison,’ Jackson says.
We giggle, thinking of the spit bombs Hero launches at Gate Two kids.
‘So where are the Tiger Scrolls now?’ he asks.
I open my mouth and crane my neck back.
Jackson looks puzzled. ‘Your throat sore?’
I laugh. ‘No, I ate them.’ It sounds ridiculous and for a fleeting moment I worry Jackson will think I did something stupid. Perhaps I was meant to preserve the scrolls for the official Lanter
nwood ninja museum. Jackson’s face crumples with thought.
‘The White Warrior will consume the power of the Tiger Scrolls,’ he recites. ‘Genius, Rox.’
‘The Earth Scroll tasted like the green tea Mum tries to make us drink and the Fire one tasted of harissa,’ I say.
‘That’s cool!’ Jackson says.
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘You guess? You’re the White Warrior now! I can’t wait to see your new powers in action,’ he says. Already I can see him planning our next training session in the dojang.
‘But what about Hero?’ I ask.
Jackson smirks. ‘Aren’t you the White Warrior with elemental powers? And you’re worried about a silly samurai in Year Seven? Hero’s got nothing on you. He’s just a bully.’
‘But Hero cornered me this morning. He’s really angry that the Warrior Peace Code stops him from finishing our …’ I search for the right word, ‘business.’
‘If Lanternwood wasn’t the gateway to the Cemetery of Warriors, we wouldn’t have to deal with thugs like Hero moving in to train.’ Jackson sighs. ‘It’s been sacred peace land for centuries. If he wants to kill ninjas, he’ll have to leave.’
I suddenly realise why Mum settled here. She knew I would be protected.
‘You did great, Rox,’ he says, gently knocking his fist across my chin. ‘You are the first legend I’ve ever met.’
I blush. A legend. My cheeks are sunburnt red and heat up the small dark space. I pull my head out of the locker and Jackson follows. The chaos of the school corridor assails my senses.
‘I’m invincible!’ I say, sweeping my hair off my face and grinning widely.
Jackson scrunches his nose. ‘Well, sort of,’ he says.
‘What do you mean, sort of? You’re either invincible or not.’
His eyes skitter away from me.
‘I’m the White Warrior now. I’m the most powerful warrior on the planet, aren’t I?’
Jackson returns his gaze to me.
‘What haven’t you told me?’ I press.
‘There is a little legend,’ he says, pinching his thumb and forefinger together.
I glare at him.
‘A tiny legend. About this Red Samurai. Some chosen guy with powers gets possessed by a sword filled with ancient warrior blood. The sword has more powers, but nothing compared to the White Warrior, I’m sure.’
I feel the colour drain from me. The name alone sounds terrifying, let alone a super sword that can possess you.
‘But no one has ever seen the sword. Samurai have been searching for it for decades,’ Jackson consoles.
‘No one could find the Tiger Scrolls and they were in my kitchen the whole time! Someone will find the sword. It’s only a matter of time,’ I panic.
‘It’s just a bit of ninja gossip,’ he says.
‘Gossip has to come from somewhere.’
Jackson puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re the White Warrior,’ he says quietly so the other kids don’t hear. ‘I’ll let you know if there’s something to stress about, Rox. I’ll see you at lunch, okay?’ He winks at me and a gust of warmth floods my body.
‘If you’re lucky,’ I say.
I like French. All the le, la, les make the language sound melodic. My French teacher, Madam Livre, is one of the most stylish women I’ve ever met. As Lecky would say, she ‘haemorrhages style’. She wears a pair of Chanel clear-framed glasses, a cashmere jumper in cobalt blue and a pleated knee-length skirt with a tiny navy-blue bow on the hip. Her shoes are a pair of sky-high Mary Jane pumps with a red sole. Cinnamon thinks she paints the bottom of her shoes with red nail polish, but I know they are some fancy French designer because Elecktra always wishes for a pair when she blows out her birthday cake candles.
Cinnamon and I aren’t the best at French. We should be conjugating verbs, but all I can conjure are stories from the Cemetery of Warriors. Cinnamon’s eyes are wide as they absorb the details of Hanzo’s white bone eyes, the fangs in the Monk’s head, the scars on the Apache’s face and the hook in the Gladiator’s arm.
‘Were you scared?’ she whispers, her cherry hair glistening in the light filtering through the classroom windows.
‘En français,’ Madam Livre says to Cinnamon, who drops her gaze and shifts in her chair — I don’t think she knows how to say it in French. Our French teacher is so cool. She doesn’t mind us gossiping, as long as it’s in the language of love.
‘I was freaking out,’ I whisper to her. As I tell her about the fights, defeating Hero, taking hold of the Tiger Scrolls, I see Cinnamon gradually sit straighter. It’s as if something kindles inside of her, a small camp fire. She doesn’t say anything, but there is an intensity in her eyes. Her shoulders draw back, her chin lifts, her breath deepens. I can’t quite put my ninja star on what is fuelling her. By the end of my story, the small camp fire crackling behind her eyes has grown to a bonfire.
‘You are so brave, Roxy,’ Cinnamon says. ‘I wish I could be brave, just once.’
‘En français,’ Madam Livre says, taking off her glasses in exasperation.
I smile at Cinnamon. ‘You do have le courage, mon amie. What about the day you took Gate Three with me?’ I remind her of holding hands and flying across houses to school while her red hair rippled through the sky. She nods brightly. Then Cinnamon lifts the lid of her desk and I expect her to sneak a lolly into her mouth, like she always does when the teacher turns her back. But instead she takes out the bag of lollies and scrunches it in her hand.
‘C’est maintenant ou jamais,’ she says.
‘It’s now or never?’ I try to translate.
Cinnamon walks over to the rubbish bin. She looks back at me, winks, then drops the lollies into the bin. I look at her, surprised.
‘Le courage,’ she says, returning to her seat. ‘Can I share some of your lunch? The ninja nutrition your mum makes sure beats the canteen.’
‘Bien sûr,’ I say, thinking of course — and I must ask Mum to pack extra lunch for Cinnamon tomorrow.
For the rest of the class I can tell Cinnamon is daydreaming about my adventure. But still I can’t pinpoint the new look on her face. It reminds me of Elecktra when she has a knotted necklace chain and sits for hours with a needle trying to untangle it, or Art when he is painting. I mentally click my fingers. That’s the look of determination.
At lunchtime, Elecktra sits with all the other Year Ten Gate Ones in the shade of a silver birch tree. I would usually never approach them — it’s against the rules for a Gate Two to approach a Gate One — but I need to talk to Lecky as I can’t get this morning’s assembly out of my mind. I know Lecky has twenty-twenty vision and she’s grown out of the phase of counting blackheads on her nose, so I can’t figure out why she’s suddenly going cross-eyed all the time.
‘Broccoli florets, green beans, avocado, baby spinach, mung bean sprouts, snow peas, mint, coriander, parsley, orange, pepitas, sunflower seeds, orange juice,’ Cinnamon mutters the ingredients of Mum’s Wellbeing Power Salad like a mantra. She’s nervous. I know how much she hates being on Gate One turf. It’s haloed in sunshine, daisies sprout at the feet of lunch tables and benches, and it’s close to the lockers. In our area of the playground, the grass is dead, it always feels cold, we have no tables or benches, and there is the constant smell of natural gas.
A crowd of students is ahead, clapping and cheering. One boy punches the air and yells, ‘Elecktra’s the coolest! This is the best magic show ever!’
‘I thought Elecktra had stopped her magic classes,’ I say to Cinnamon. Elecktra used to spend a lot of time at the Magic Emporium in town, convinced she was a magical fairy trapped in a magician’s body, but I had no idea she was still practising magic at the age of sixteen. My inner ninja taps me on the shoulder and reminds me that at thirteen I still play ‘Holidays’. I’ve always wanted to travel so I used to rehearse packing my suitcase, even though I didn’t actually have one. I’d lay out my clothes and toys on the bed in neat rows, then fold a
nd refold them until they were perfect. For my tenth birthday Art bought me my first suitcase — it was pink with a Disney Princess on the front. I named her ‘Princess Holiday’ and every weekend I’d pack my suitcase ready for our adventure. Sometimes I’d only go as far as the front yard, sometimes it was an undercover mission into Elecktra’s room.
‘I’m not going any further,’ Cinnamon says. ‘We shouldn’t even be on their turf! Besides, I have to call my mum — I’m going to walk home today.’
Cinnamon ate half of my chicken wrap for lunch, but instead of bread to wrap the chicken Mum used lettuce. We washed our wraps down with Hulk juice, which Mum thinks helps to fight the ‘afternoon fuzzies’ that threaten during class.
‘But you never walk home,’ I say.
Cinnamon smiles. Rescue, her kitten, pokes his head out of her blazer jacket. Sergeant Major catches her eye and begins to stride towards us. Cinnamon squashes the kitten back into her jacket and waddles off as fast as she can. ‘Fill me in later,’ she calls over her shoulder, losing Sergeant Major in a swarm of kids.
I elbow my way through the cheering crowd. Elecktra is sitting cross-legged in the centre of the circle, her lunchbox in her lap, arms wide to embrace the applause. ‘I have a Facebook page: Elecktrafied. Like it,’ she orders, then looks down at her lap and the students quieten. I crouch to get her attention, but she’s concentrating on her food — she’s cross-eyed again. A grape glides up from her lunchbox and straight into her mouth. I gasp. The crowd whoops. She didn’t use her hands.
The shoelaces, the disappearing muesli this morning, even the way Elecktra kept changing the channel on the TV the other night, despite me having the remote — it was all her. Elecktra catching in her mouth every knob of popcorn that she throws into the air, slam-dunking every bit of paper into the bin, the boot of Mum’s car closing by itself whenever we forgot to shut it. My sister has powers too.
‘Elecktra!’ I yell. A second grape drops into her lap. ‘What are you doing?’ I squeak as she turns to me. Though I have no idea where Lecky’s powers have come from, I do know that she shouldn’t be using them at school.
