My Life as a Ninja Page 7

  After school the next day, Carly and I rehearse before the other kids arrive. I can’t remember if she’s ever heard me sing before and I start to feel pools of perspiration underneath my T-shirt.

  “Don’t worry,” Carly says. “You’ll be great.”

  Carly’s enthusiasm, as always, is contagious and I get into the role, gesturing along with the lyrics.

  But when we finish, Carly isn’t as thrilled as I thought she’d be. “Uhm … maybe you can take it down a notch,” she says. “Your performance was a little big.”

  “‘Little big’ is an oxymoron,” I say. “A real director would never say that.”

  “Okay, how’s this? You’re overacting.”

  “ME?” I pace the stage, exaggerating as I walk. “I am John Adams and I write letters to my wife because I’m most happy when she’s not in the same room with me.”

  Carly blushes, so I can tell I hit a nerve. She crosses her arms in front of her and tells me the rest of the cast will be here in a few minutes. “We’ll run through the song one more time—you’ll be fine for Friday.”

  “What’s Friday?”

  She looks ready to explode. “The play!”

  “THIS Friday? I thought it was next week!”

  Carly shakes her head. “You didn’t read any of the emails from Ms. McCoddle about the date change?”

  I admit I didn’t even open them.

  “Well, I guess you’ll just have to cram,” Carly says.

  Story of my life.

  Lying in Wait

  After I fill in Matt and Umberto with the latest on the Minotaur case, I ask who wants to come with me on tonight’s stakeout. But Umberto has a programming class and it’s Matt’s parents’ anniversary party, so neither of them can come.

  “How about Friday?” Matt asks. “I’m free then.”

  “He’ll be at the play,” Umberto says. “We all will.”

  Right …

  “Come on, guys—I don’t want to spy with my dad again!”

  It’s no use. Looks like tonight’s mission is up to the Fallon ninjas.

  But when I get home, Dad’s still at the office working on his company’s new product promotion. It’ll be dark soon, so Mom won’t let me go out on my own. Unless, of course, I’m going to Matt’s parents’ anniversary party.…

  Lying to my mother isn’t something I make a habit of—mostly because 99 percent of the time she ends up finding out the truth. I could ask her to come with me on the stakeout, but I can’t see her agreeing to spy on someone who works for her. After a quick internal debate, I tell her I’ll be at Matt’s and run upstairs to change.

  “Why are you wearing your shinobi shozoku to an anniversary party?” Mom asks when she sees me.

  I knew I should’ve changed after I left. To get out of this new dilemma, I pile another lie on top of my original one and tell her the anniversary party is a masquerade.

  She looks at me suspiciously.

  “I think it’s a great idea. Matt’s mom is going as Wonder Woman and his dad’s dressing up as Superman.” The lies come pouring out as I make up costumes for Matt’s entire family. (I’m not sure his Gram would appreciate the fact that I embellish the story further by having her dress up as Little Bo Peep.)

  Mom grabs her purse. “I’ll drive you over so I can congratulate Jill and Tom. Sounds like quite the party.”

  “No!” I realize my reaction is over the top and dial it down. “I mean, it’s just a few blocks away—I can ride my bike.”

  She thinks about it and puts down her purse. “Text me when you’re ready to come home and we’ll throw your bike in the trunk.”

  I tell her okay, hoping I’ll be at the police station handing over the vandal by then.

  By nature I’m pretty impatient, but part of Sensei Takai’s philosophy has definitely rubbed off on me. I’m actually looking forward to being outside and just waiting—a totally new feeling. The fact that I’ll be waiting up in a tree like a real ninja makes the whole thing that much more thrilling.

  When I was home sick those days, I mapped out the places where the graffiti artist had struck, and this large wall at UCLA is located dead center. I’m not saying the vandal will come tonight—or at all—I’m just saying if I were looking for a blank canvas in the same neighborhood, this is where I’d be.

  I still have remnants from the rash, so before climbing the tree, I make sure there’s no poison oak around the base. A few runners and skateboarders pass by but no one pays any attention to the giant wall.

  I’d be lying—again—if I said I wasn’t bored after thirty minutes. I’d love to play a game on my phone, but even with the sound off, the light coming off the screen would give away my position. I try to sing the lyrics of John and Abigail Adams’s song in my head but can’t remember more than the first two lines.

  There’s a noise on the path and for a split second my mind flashes to Umberto. It was wrong to jump to conclusions about him; there are a dozen reasons why he could’ve had a can of paint that day. I’d apologize to him if the whole idea weren’t completely embarrassing.

  This time the noise is closer. Judging by the darkness, it’s probably nine o’clock, earlier than I thought the artist would show up. But the wall is so vast, I guess he’d have to start early if he wanted to finish tonight. Sure enough, a figure steps out from the trees. Is it Charlie?

  There’s not a lot of light so I can’t make out much besides the fact that it’s a guy with a bag slung over his shoulder. He kneels on the grass and pulls out several spray cans and some folded-up papers, probably stencils. His back is to me so I can’t see his face. All I want to know is if it’s Charlie.

  As he prepares to work, I decide I should call 911, but I’m so close, there’s no way I could call without getting discovered. I have to remind myself to breathe.

  The vandal steps into the light and I can’t help but gasp.

  He’s wearing head-to-toe ninja clothes.

  Like me!

  His aren’t tie-dyed, which leaves out Matt. (I have to stop suspecting my friends.)

  Does Charlie have a shinobi shozoku? I get an even worse thought—could the mystery artist be Sensei Takai? Why would he paint murals all over town? Whoever it is, vandalizing is SO un-ninja.

  I take another deep breath as the artist tapes his stencil to the wall. The paper is so large and unwieldy, part of me wants to jump down and help him. But the vandal works quickly and within a few minutes the wall is ready to paint.

  I’m surprised when he starts at the bottom right-hand corner of the wall. What kind of artist writes his signature BEFORE he paints? This guy must be incredibly conceited! But as soon as he spray-paints the wavy black letters I realize where I’ve seen this handwriting before. Sure, on the Minotaur photographs I printed out and studied but somewhere else too. Fancy letters—Dad called it calligraphy. Suddenly, I know who the vandal is before he pulls back his hood to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  It’s Felix.

  Trapped in a Tree

  I keep asking myself what a ninja would do in this situation and a realization smacks me in the head. I’m NOT a ninja—I’m a kid in a tree who can’t call for help.

  As I watch, Felix paints a swath of purple across the white wall. How can I stop him?

  In the past month, I’ve suspected Umberto and Charlie, not to mention lots of other random people, but not once did I suspect Felix. Of course, if I’d been paying attention to details when I looked at his drawings that day, I might not be in this awkward position now.

  Much to my disappointment, no one walks by to discover Felix. This really is up to me. I brace myself for the jump down just as Felix finishes the Minotaur’s head.

  A noise stops me before I jump.

  “Put down that paint.”

  The voice is firm and familiar.

  It belongs to my dad.

  Felix whips around, still holding the spray can. “Jeremy … what are you doing here?”

  “The questio
n is what are YOU doing here?” Dad points to the cans of paint and stencils on the ground.

  I hold my breath, hoping neither of them can hear me.

  Dad shakes his head. “I should’ve recognized the lettering, Felix. But luckily my son realized where you’d strike next.”

  Of course I thought someone ELSE would show up here, but if Dad’s handing out credit, I’m not going to quibble.

  Dad pulls his phone from his pocket.

  “There’s no need to call the police. I can be gone in a flash.” Felix hastily packs up his things.

  Dad continues to make the call. “Sorry, Felix. That’s not how this plays out. Nice ninja outfit, by the way.”

  Felix stands tall and faces my dad. “It’ll be your word against mine that I was here tonight.”

  I couldn’t ask for a better cue.

  Jumping out of the tree like a panther, I land silently beside Felix. Not to brag, but the move is TOTALLY ninja. “Looks like it’s your word against OURS.”

  In our ninja outfits, Felix and I look like we’re on our way to a father-son costume party. But my real dad’s the one NOT wearing a costume. He’s calling the police instead.

  I ask Felix why he’s wearing a shinobi shozoku.

  He stares down at his tabi boots. “After seeing you and Matt in yours, I thought it would be cool to brand myself as a ninja graffiti artist.”

  The fact that Felix would actually copy the clothes of a kid like me makes me feel proud and embarrassed at the same time.

  “I don’t get it,” Dad says. “You have a good job—why are you doing this?”

  Felix can’t look my father in the eyes. “I AM doing my job. These Minotaurs are promoting the energy drink we’ve been working on all month.”

  Dad seems completely lost. “Our campaign’s for TV ads, not graffiti. And there’s no Minotaur!”

  “There is in the social media campaign. These murals have been blowing up on Instagram and Twitter.”

  Dad shakes his head, still baffled.

  “The company wanted me to do this even before you hired me,” Felix says. “Why do you think all the murals are across from schools? Kids are our target market. The agency kept you out of the loop on this part of the job—they probably thought you wouldn’t approve.”

  I set my eyes on Felix, who acts like he just defeated my dad in hand-to-hand combat. As much as my father prides himself on being young and cool—for a dad—it’s obvious his coworkers don’t think of him that way. But it’s probably a good thing his agency didn’t tell him what they were up to.

  Dad’s expression turns from confused to knowing. “The product’s called Labyrinth—in Greek mythology, that’s where the Minotaur was trapped.”

  My mind flashes back to Ms. McCoddle’s class last year. If I’d been paying attention when Dad was talking about his energy drink campaign, maybe I would’ve made the connection between Labyrinth soda and the Minotaurs.

  Felix still isn’t giving up. “If you call the police, the advertising company will get in trouble too. You’ll probably even get fired, Jeremy.”

  My father smiles. “So be it.”

  It doesn’t take long before we hear sirens.

  Felix won’t admit anything to the police; instead, he just keeps asking for his lawyer. Dad and I wait around to give one of the officers a statement. When we’re done, Dad throws my bike into the trunk of his car.

  “As soon as your mom said you were going to Matt’s parents’ anniversary party in a ninja outfit, I knew where you’d REALLY be.” He smiles. “A stakeout is definitely more fun than an anniversary party, but you shouldn’t lie to Mom. You’re on your own explaining this to her.”

  “That’s IF I decide to tell her.”

  “I’m leaving that up to you,” Dad says. “I’ve got some important phone calls to make.”

  When we get home, I come clean and tell Mom everything—mostly because I’m bursting with the news.

  I calculated where the vandal would be!

  I apprehended the bad guy!

  I, Derek Fallon, am a super ninja!

  (With a little help from my dad, of course.)

  Carly’s Revolution

  The next few days are a flurry of information. Dad doesn’t get fired from the advertising agency—he quits. No one gets thrown in jail, but Felix and the agency both get fined a LOT of money and have to pay to clean up all the graffiti.

  Umberto and Matt make me tell the story a hundred times about how I used my ninja skills to catch the vandal. (Actually, they don’t MAKE me; I tell the story to anyone who’ll listen.) And talking about the Minotaur takes up so much of my time that I don’t have a second to spend worrying about the school play.

  In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Carly as nervous as she is the night of the play. Umberto tries to help by guiding her through a deep breathing exercise but it’s hard not to laugh at a kid teaching meditation when he’s dressed like Paul Revere.

  The auditorium is packed with students, parents, and teachers; it’s nice to see Mr. Demetri back to his jovial self since no one’s painting Minotaurs on the walls of the school anymore.

  Umberto pulls me aside. “I’m not having any luck with Carly. Do something!”

  “Come on, rock star,” Matt jokes. “Do your thing.”

  Turns out, what has Carly catatonic isn’t standing in front of several hundred people or being the one in charge. It’s that she won’t do her character justice.

  “Who am I to think I can play Abigail Adams?” Carly asks me when no one’s around. “She was one of the smartest women of her time. She was married to one president and raised another! She influenced policy!” Carly paces back and forth backstage.

  I can’t help but smile at seeing Little Miss Perfect so unraveled. “How do you think I feel? I’m playing John Adams!” I lean in next to her until our foreheads touch. “Let’s freak out together.”

  “ARRRGGGHHH!” Carly screams first, then I join in.

  Darcy, Farida, and Umberto stare at us in a panic.

  When Carly finally stops screaming, she bursts out laughing. “OMG—do you think the audience heard us?”

  “I think they heard us in Chicago.” I laugh.

  Carly squeezes my hand. “Thanks, John Adams.”

  “No problem, Abigail.”

  She gathers the cast for a pre-performance cheer then tells Matt to dim the lights and open the curtain.

  Our scene isn’t till later in the play, so I get to watch the others from backstage for a while. Darcy is going so fast in her wheelchair horse that she almost loses control, which is kind of funny. Umberto’s Paul Revere sings about warning the colonists while Darcy’s Sybil Ludington bemoans the fact that no one’s ever heard of her when Paul Revere’s a household name.

  Farida belts out her Hannah Arnett song with so much force, the audience gives her a standing ovation.

  When it’s time for Carly and me to read/sing/perform some of the letters of John and Abigail Adams, a jolt of anxiety shoots up my spine. This time Carly returns the favor and calms me down immediately.

  “You ready to have some fun?” she whispers.

  I’m not sure if that’ll be possible but I head onstage anyway. I’m so glad I nixed the white wig she wanted me to wear.

  With the spotlights on full force, I can’t see the faces of the people in the audience, which is a good thing. Carly sits behind the first desk, I take my place behind the second, and Umberto joins us onstage as the narrator.

  “Abigail Adams was another woman who played an important role in the American Revolution,” Umberto begins. “When the infantry received their first shipment of muskets, they were surprised to find the guns didn’t come with bullets or gunpowder. Abigail told her children to gather all the silver and metal in the house. Then she melted them down to make bullets. Her actions impressed the soldiers so much, they snuck into the British camp to steal gunpowder. She really inspired the troops.”

  There are murmur
s from the audience. Most people today pro-bably can’t imagine the wife of a statesman being so hands-on.

  Umberto waits for the audience to settle down. “The Second Lady is the woman married to the vice president and Abigail Adams was the first Second Lady.”

  From my seat at the desk I watch Mr. Demetri nod. I’m not sure he knew that fun fact either.

  “But Abigail Adams was also the second First Lady because her husband John was the second president of the United States.” Umberto pops a wheelie, which isn’t in the script but gets a laugh from the crowd. “Let me introduce you to Abigail Adams, the first Second Lady and the second First Lady.”

  He gestures to Carly, who taps the microphone before she speaks. I’m not sure if it’s to test the sound or for good luck.

  “Hello, I’m Abigail Adams. Not only do I help fight for the country’s independence, but I’m very outspoken about women’s rights. This is an excerpt from a letter I wrote to my husband on March 31, 1776, as he and other patriots were drafting the Declaration of Independence.”

  She reads a letter about men not abusing their power, which gets a lot of hoots from women in the audience. I read a letter back about how much Abigail means to me. In the few times we’ve rehearsed this, the letter felt a little corny but now looking at Carly listening so intently, I can almost identify with John and Abigail Adams. For all our squabbling, Carly and I are friends and partners too.