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then up at me, as what I was saying sank in. Her face found an expression I’d never seen there before. It was one part outrage, one part anger, one part huge sadness.
    “What are you saying? That I did this? You’re saying I killed those poor creatures? With my chopsticks? You’re a—” And then she said some bad words; first some bad English words, and then, when she’d used them up, some bad Chinese words.
    Before I had the chance to say anything back, I sensed a movement off to the side. It was Jimmy. He was reaching behind his back. I knew what was coming next: I was going to be staring at two pieces of heavy wood, joined by a short length of chain – a nunchaku, called the numchuck by idiots. In either case, a serious piece of hardware. I was guessing that Jimmy’s nunchaku would be Okinawa style: instead of being rounded like a broom handle, the wood was octagonal, the sharp edges designed to inflict maximum damage.
    I took a step back and got into my fighting stance. Then I saw something glinting in the fingers of another of the Chinese kids. Tony Yu. We had a couple of classes together. He was OK. OK, that is, when he wasn’t holding a hira-shuriken, better known as a Ninja death star.
    This wasn’t looking good.
    “I’m not here to fight you, Jimmy,” I said. “But I will, if I must.”
    And then I noticed that the expressions on their faces changed.
    “He thinks he’s Jackie Chan,” said someone.
    Another kid sliced the air with a couple of comedy karate chops.
    Laughter. Hard, mocking laughter. Maybe they were hiding their fear. Maybe they were just laughing.
    Then from his backpack Jimmy pulled out, not a nunchaku, but a banana. The hira-shuriken in Tony Yu’s hand turned into a coin that he tossed in the air, caught and tossed again.
    Suddenly my head hurt, and I had that feeling you get sometimes, you know, like when you put a T-shirt on back to front, and realize that something’s wrong, but you can’t put your finger on it.
    “OK, get lost, you’re putting me off my dessert,” said Jimmy. And then he threw the banana peel in my face.
    That was enough. I’d taken a lot of crap today. It was time to hand some out.
    “STOP!”
    It was Ling Mei.
    She was talking to the Chinese kids. “He can’t help it. He’s been … he’s not…”
    Then she swivelled and she was suddenly right in my face.
    “My chopsticks were stolen from my bag this morning. You get that? Stolen! I had nothing to do with the death of those things, nothing. If you ever thought I did, ever thought I could, then it means you never knew me, never cared for me, never – never…” And then she trailed off, because she knew that if she carried on, then she would lose control completely, and the world would see her weep.
    I thought about taking Ling Mei’s hand, but something told me the time for holding hands was gone.
    “Look,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady, “if I don’t find out who did this, the Shank is going to cancel the
Wiz
, and tell the Queens it was down to me.”
    Jimmy laughed and drew his hand across his throat.
    “You want white or red roses on your grave?” said Tony.
    I ignored them. “I never thought you had anything to do with it, Ling Mei. I just wanted to know who could have taken the chopsticks. It’s the only clue I’ve got.”
    She looked at me, her beautiful face red and puffy from the suppressed tears. The fire of hatred had burned out, as hatred that comes from lost love always will.
    “Anyone in my registration class could have taken them. Or anyone who bumped into me in the corridor afterwards.”
    Great. That narrowed it down to pretty well the entire population of the school.
    “You should go now,” she added.
    I looked at Tony Yu and Jimmy Tan and the other Chinese kids, their faces either blank or hostile or scornful.
    She was right.
    I went.

CHAPTER EIGHT
A D ANGEROUS L ADY
    SO , I’d gained a faceful of banana skin and lost my dignity. But that’s the