My Life as a Ninja Page 6

  The entire day comes down to scratching or not scratching. All I want to do is rip off these bandages and scream.

  After watching tons of videos, I decide to use some of my time wisely—not doing homework (duh!)—by checking out photos of the Minotaur murals online. There are several, but the one from a local parents’ group is a good one and I study it closely. I then research different sites of local graffiti artists to see if I can spot someone with a similar style.

  A few of the artists also use mythological characters but not in the same style as the school vandal. One artist in particular uses the same colors and tones as the Minotaur guy but his characters are completely different. I return to the photos of the Minotaurs and zoom in to see if the artist left a signature. (They’re called tags in the graffiti world—I told you I did some research.)

  I enlarge one of the images and print it on Dad’s high-end printer so I can see it more clearly. The individual letters are barely legible; all I can make out is that one of them looks like a Minecraft crossbow. Is it a W? An M? I squint to read the letters but can’t. If the mystery artist is trying to hide his identity by squishing the letters of his signature, his plan is working.

  At lunchtime, Mom brings me a grilled cheese sandwich with a bowl of tomato soup (good), then insists I take another hot bath (bad). While I’m in the tub, she gets an emergency call from the office; a Chihuahua a few blocks away just got hit by a car. She tells me to enjoy the bath and she’ll be back to reapply bandages as soon as she can. After fifteen minutes, I’m bored and shriveled like a raisin and have to dry off carefully. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, my skin is raw like a zombie, so I have no choice but to act like one.

  As I wait for Mom, I get an idea. I grab the poison oak lotion from the counter and slather it on my rash. But the great part of the idea is the second part—instead of bandages, I’ll wrap myself head to toe in my ninja gear. Centuries of ninjas can’t be wrong—the uniform helps keep you focused and lets you know who you are, like a fireman or a Marine. With my face mask, hood, tabis, and shinobi shozoku, I grab some bologna for Frank and Bodi and settle in to watch more videos.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Mom screams.

  “Practicing my mental discipline, like you said.”

  She’s in her scrubs and hopping mad. “You dyed those ninja clothes, right? Dye comes off with heat and you’ve got open wounds! You could get an infection! Why couldn’t you just wait in your robe till I got back?”

  She helps me take off my shinobi shozoku, examines my skin—it’s beyond embarrassing—then makes me take the third bath of the day.

  The ninja competition is in five days and I’m swaddled in front of the TV like a baby. Matt’s going to kick my butt.

  Itchy Ninja

  I end up missing two days of school. Dad works from home to hang out with me but has to take a million phone calls from Felix instead. By the end of the week, I’M the one who needs an energy drink. Dad says Mom’s the expert and I have to get her blessing to be able to go to the competition on Saturday. After examining me for the billionth time, she tells me I can go.

  Matt and I are the first ones at the dojo Saturday morning. He’s only here because today’s the competition and he knows he’ll whoop me. I don’t bother arguing because OF COURSE HE WILL.

  We warm up with kicks and punches but it hurts for me to move. Mom made me promise I’d “take it easy,” and for once, I listen. (It’s not like I have a choice; I can barely raise my legs.) Matt goes back and forth between concerned friend and throwing it in my face that he’s going to kill me.

  Everyone silently lines up when Sensei Takai enters the dojo. I’m still embarrassed from the grocery store incident and don’t make eye contact. He doesn’t either.

  The first part of the competition is sparring, so we each put on our pads, headgear, and mouthpiece.

  It takes me longer to put on my stuff than it does to compete; Karen knocks me out in less than a minute. Whose bright idea was it for me to come today? Oh, yeah. Mine.

  I spend most of the competition sitting on the sidelines watching everyone else have fun. Sensei Takai takes notice of me from the front of the room.

  “The last part of the competition will test inner strength,” he announces. “All students will stand quietly until the bell.”

  Everyone looks around, confused. Isn’t the whole point of a competition to practice our moves? Matt’s the most bewildered of all and raises his hand. Sensei Takai ignores his question and nods for us to begin.

  As usual, everyone fidgets—we all want to be moving—but this is one section of the competition I CAN do. After such strenuous activity, standing in one place is actually a relief.

  An eternity later, Sensei Takai nods for us to stop, then directs his assistant to tally the scores.

  Matt’s been practicing, so it makes sense he wins the sparring section of the tournament. Karen’s aim has been great from day one, so no one’s surprised she aced the section on kicking. But when Sensei Takai softly calls my name as the winner of the discipline segment, everyone is shocked.

  He calls the three of us to the front of the room and ceremoniously places ribbons around our necks. I feel like an Olympian, which is funny considering I just stood still to win.

  “Pursue the silence,” Sensei tells me as I join the rest of the class.

  It’s probably good advice, but all I can think about is how much this ribbon itches.

  Dress Rehearsal

  On Monday, there are history and science quizzes but I’m focused on spying on Charlie as soon as I get home.

  Carly’s got something else in mind. “Ready for dress rehearsal?”

  “You never told me I was officially back in!”

  She smiles. “I just assumed you were.”

  “Then why didn’t you TELL me?”

  She shakes her head. “Why is there always so much drama with you?”

  I’m ready to scream at the top of my lungs until Carly bursts out laughing. I wait for her laughter to subside.

  “Calm down,” she finally says. “Rehearsal’s at three.”

  I will never understand girls. Never.

  When I text Mom after school, I casually ask what time the office closes today and if Charlie’s working. I’m relieved when she texts back “5—yes.” There hasn’t been a new mural in weeks and I wonder if the vandal’s attention has waned. But if it IS Charlie, I’ll be there to catch him in the act.

  Because I haven’t been to a lot of rehearsals, I’m kind of behind, which doesn’t make me feel too bad since it’s a state of mind I’m familiar with. I check out the other kids and try to follow along.

  The play opens with Farida playing a patriot named Hannah Arnett, whom I’ve never heard of before.

  Umberto is the narrator, so he’s on the side of the stage. “In the Revolutionary War, lots of women helped behind the lines. One of them was an unsung hero named Hannah Arnett.”

  The curtain opens to reveal the inside of a small cabin. I’m shocked with what Carly and the others have been able to pull off in less than a month. I recognize the old oak table from the art room; the other pieces are probably donations.

  Farida addresses the pretend audience.

  “I’m Hannah Arnett. My husband, Isaac, and I live in New Jersey. The war hasn’t been going well and he and his friends are deciding whether to throw in the towel and join the British. They’re actually thinking about giving up!”

  Several kids yell, “Boo!” at the thought of surrender. I might actually have been missing out on some fun by not coming to rehearsals.

  Farida points to the boys on the stage. “My husband and his friends are thinking about signing a proclamation pledging their loyalty to Britain in exchange for not losing their property.”

  Farida gets the rest of us to “Boo!” even louder this time.

  She crosses her arms and lets the suspense build. “But luckily for the patriots, I’m really good at nagging.”

&nb
sp; The rest of the cast laughs before Farida bursts into song.

  I grab Carly in a panic. “IS THIS A MUSICAL NOW?”

  She ignores me and focuses on Farida, who’s doing a great job singing a song called “War Is Nothing Compared to How Much I’m Going to Bug You.” During her solo, the boys onstage are hilarious—hiding under the table, covering their ears, pretending not to listen. It’s a big comedy number that Farida nails.

  Am I going to have to sing too?

  I try to make eye contact with Carly but she doesn’t notice.

  THIS IS A DISASTER!

  Umberto takes the stage. “You’ve all heard of me,” he begins. “I’m Paul Revere—the silversmith from Boston who made a famous midnight ride to warn the colonists the British were coming.”

  Umberto looks great in his tricornered hat and jacket with silver buttons. His wheelchair has an awesome papier-mâché horse head attached to the front.

  “Here’s a fun fact,” Umberto continues. “I never yelled, ‘The British are coming! The British are coming!’ Who wants to hear what I really yelled when I took that famous ride?”

  “I never would’ve yelled ‘The British are coming’ because we colonists thought of ourselves as British. What I really yelled was, ‘The Regulars are coming out!’ Because Regulars meant ‘the army’!” Umberto zips across the stage in his wheelchair as if he’s on a horse like Paul Revere.

  The rest of the cast members clap and cheer him on. “RIDE. RIDE. RIDE. RIDE!”

  Suddenly Darcy slides down the ramp in her own wheelchair with horse head. I burst out laughing. What a creative way to get horses onstage.

  “I’m Sybil Ludington,” Darcy says. “I’m only sixteen but I rode forty miles through the night—alone!—to warn colonists in Connecticut.”

  Carly has to tell Darcy and Umberto to focus on the scene; they’re so busy zipping around in their dueling wheelchairs they miss their musical cue.

  I’ve talked to or texted Umberto every day for a week and not once did he mention the play called for singing! The power of his voice takes me by surprise. It’s low and strong; when he and Darcy harmonize on the chorus, a chill runs up my arm. Umberto is the REAL ninja—totally full of surprises.

  Carly tells everyone to take a ten-minute break and I hurry over.

  “Since when is this a musical?!” I whisper-shout. “The only thing possibly worse than reading love letters is SINGING love letters! You didn’t tell me on purpose!”

  A slow smile creeps over Carly’s face. “Matt, Umberto, and I thought it would be a nice surprise.”

  The idea that my friends hatched a plan to get me to sing in front of the whole school leaves me speechless. Since when is Carly one of the guys, coming up with pranks behind my back?

  I jump when Carly reaches for my hand. “You don’t have to be in the play if you don’t want to. You know that, right?”

  I’m horrified someone might see Carly’s hand touching mine but I’m also reassured that even though she was scheming behind my back, she still has my best interests at heart.

  “I’m in,” I tell her. “Looks like you and the cast have been enjoying yourselves.”

  “I guess Matt and Umberto each owe me a dollar,” Carly says. “I told them you’d do it.”

  “Wait, what? I thought I was being unpredictable!”

  Carly blows the whistle around her neck to get everyone’s attention. That girl is five hundred times smarter than the rest of us, hands down.

  Time to Spy

  Rehearsal ends up running long, so I thankfully don’t have to sing a song I don’t even know in front of the entire cast. Before we leave, Carly hands me the lyrics to the song she and I will rehearse tomorrow.

  “Does this mean we’re doing a duet?” I ask.

  “That’s usually what it’s called when two people sing the same song,” she laughs.

  I shove the lyrics into my back pocket and hurry home. Hopefully following Charlie tonight will make up for that stupid rehearsal.

  When I walk in the kitchen, Dad’s cutting up broccoli and cauliflower at the counter. I toss my pack in the corner and grab some veggies for the road.

  “You going out?” Dad asks.

  I look at the kitchen clock and tell him I’m going to ride my bike around the neighborhood.

  “I’ll go with you.” Dad places the veggies in a bowl and rinses the cutting board.

  “You want to ride bikes with me?” IS HE KIDDING?

  “Sure—I could use some fresh air.”

  I can’t remember the last time Dad and I rode bikes together; why does he suddenly have the urge to exercise when I’m on my way to a stakeout?

  He looks at me sheepishly. “Your mom thought it was strange that you asked if Charlie was working. She wants to make sure you’re not up to something.”

  “ME?”

  Dad dries his hands on the dish towel. “Is this some new ninja mission? And why Charlie?”

  It’s no use trying to keep this from Dad; he and Mom have always been mind-reading aliens from another planet. Most of the time it’s just easier to surrender. I grab another handful of veggies, sit at the table, and tell Dad the whole story.

  When I’m finished, he seems confused. “Just because Charlie was staring at the mural and made a few sketches doesn’t make him the vandal. But it is a fluke—I’ll give you that.”

  “I thought I’d follow him and see if he goes to another crime scene.”

  Dad checks a text, then puts his phone in his pocket. “Let me come with you. What did Felix call it—a ninternship? You can be the sensei today.”

  Performing acts of espionage isn’t the same when one of your parents tags along. But Dad insists, so we get our bikes out of the garage and wait in the backyard for Charlie to come out.

  At five on the dot, Charlie comes out of the office, slips his bag over his shoulder, and jumps on his bike.

  Dad and I follow.

  I am the sensei!

  You Call This Spying?

  As much as it’s ludicrous to tail a suspect with your father, I have to admit, it’s also kind of fun. Lately, Matt, Umberto, and I have been practicing hand gestures like real ninjas, so I use some of them now. Dad gets a little carried away, making up silly hand motions and almost falling off his bike twice. Even with all the theatrics, we ride through the streets unseen by Charlie.

  At least I think so.

  After about a mile, Charlie pulls his bike alongside a stretch of grass behind one of the parking garages at UCLA. Dad and I look on as Charlie takes out his sketchbook, leans against a tree, and starts drawing.

  We’re several yards away but excessive talking is prohibited for ninjas, so Dad and I hide behind some cars where we can talk.

  Dad holds up his phone and shows me a text. It’s Mom wanting to know if we’re having fun.

  “This isn’t supposed to be fun!” I whisper. “We’re spies!”

  Dad winks and puts his phone away. “Just because Charlie’s sketching doesn’t mean he’s planning the next mural. He could be drawing pictures of cows in a pasture for all we know.”

  Technically that’s true, but my ninja radar tells me Charlie has something else in mind.

  And then it hits me.

  I gesture to the giant concrete wall Charlie’s facing. “That’s where the next mural will be.”

  Dad looks at the three-story wall of white cement. “It’s a great blank canvas, that’s for sure.” He turns to me. “This is still just a theory—but maybe we should formulate a plan.”

  It’s nice having a sidekick, even if it is your dad.

  Yet Another Surprise

  Mom, of course, thinks Dad and I are being RIDICULOUS.

  “Charlie’s not the one drawing Minotaurs all over town,” she says.

  “I don’t know, honey,” Dad says. “Tonight things seemed a little fishy to me too.”

  Mom takes Frank out of his cage. I don’t have to ask why—I can smell his soiled diaper from across the room. T
hankfully, she doesn’t hand him to me but takes him next door to her office instead. When she comes back, she’s not only with Frank but Felix.

  “Here are the sketches you wanted for the Labyrinth promotion.” Felix hands Dad a folder full of papers.

  “Worst name for an energy drink ever,” Mom says. She offers Felix a cup of tea.

  “Hey, Derek, how’s your ninternship going?” Felix asks.

  I know ninjas never blab but I can’t help telling Felix about the spying session I just had with Dad.

  Felix laughs. “You guys spied on one of your mom’s employees? On your bikes? What did this guy do—assault someone?”

  My mother rubs Frank’s head before putting him back in his cage. “I told Derek there’s no way Charlie’s responsible for those Minotaurs.”

  Felix almost does a spit-take. “What’s a Minotaur?”

  I pull up a picture of the mythical beast on my phone and give him the details of the case.

  Felix smiles. “Maybe those ninja lessons are paying off.”

  Dad gives Felix notes on his sketches and makes plans for their meeting next week. I’d love to sit around and talk about ninjas all night but I have rehearsal tomorrow and don’t want to look like an idiot.

  I spend the rest of the night trying to memorize the lyrics to the song I’m supposed to sing with Carly. When did she and the other kids have time to write these songs anyway? Fortunately our song is short, unlike Farida’s and Umberto’s, which are several verses long. I’ve been worried the song would be sappy and lame but it’s actually kind of funny, as if John and Abigail Adams were partners in crime during the Revolution.