White Ninja Read Online Free PDF Page A

friends encircle us. If Hero gets hold of the kitten, he’ll kill it.
    Cinnamon’s grip tightens on her pocket and I hope the kitten has enough air to breathe. ‘Nothing,’ she says in a trembling voice.
    â€˜Nothing doesn’t move!’ Hero says.
    â€˜She’s got nothing in her pocket,’ I say.
    His eyes shift to me without his head moving. It’s a creepy way to look at people. I put a hand acrossCinnamon’s chest to protect her, but my skin burns and when I look down, my hand’s flashing between visible and invisible. I retract it quickly and hide it in my pocket, but it’s too late. Hero’s eyes are now on my pocket. Why does this invisible thing happen? Cinnamon hasn’t noticed, but Hero’s definitely seen something. He licks his lips. I brace for spit bombs in the eyes.
    â€˜Pizza’s here!’ someone yells.
    Gate One kids often have pizza delivered before school and eat it in front of everyone else. The smell wafting from Gate One is tormenting. Hero glares at me for what seems like forever, then sprints off after the others.
    â€˜Saved by the smell,’ I say. ‘Now hide Rescue.’
    Â 
    Cinnamon and I take our places at the front of the geography classroom. Hero and the TCs (Too Cool kids) sprawl along the back row.
    The class is hysterical. Casual clothes day makes everyone a little nuts. Despite my warning, Cinnamon still has Rescue in her pocket. He has curled up against her warm thigh and gone to sleep. He is black with white spots and under his nose he has two brown markings like a moustache.
    â€˜Who’s your friend?’ Hero calls out to Cinnamon, one boxing-boot heel on his desk.
    Cinnamon stops breathing and her porcelain skin washes grey. She tightens her grip on her pocket.
    â€˜Your only friend!’ Hero yells.
    Cinnamon shuts her eyes, the way I do when I’m wishing I’m invisible.
    Hero persists. ‘Who’s your friend?’
    The class silences. Cinnamon doesn’t answer.
    â€˜On ya face!’ He laughs and the class joins in.
    Cinnamon lets go of her pocket and leans her cheek into her hand to hide her pimple. I turn slowly to meet Hero’s dark eyes. His brow pinches with a hateful thought, ready to fly at me.
    Sergeant Major stomps into the classroom and everyone, even Hero, falls silent. Sergeant Major’s wearing his regular uniform: commando laced-up boots, army camouflage pants and a tucked-in tight black T-shirt that seems to cut off the circulation to the bright blue veins strangling his shoulders and neck. Sergeant Major was in the war and he talks about it all the time. No one knows what war, or why everything reminds him of digging a hole and sleeping in it or slugging bullets, but it does. We went to the zoo once and saw an echidna, and he said it reminded him of the war and having to carry ‘lots of stuff on his back’.
    Sergeant Major is more entertaining than the other teachers, who are rusty gnomes in comparison anddrone on about uniforms and rules. They all wear old people’s clothes — cardigans, tweed jackets, knee-length shorts, slacks, pearls — but Sergeant Major gets away with wearing his army gear as Hindley Hall was once a boys-only school and cadets were popular.
    Sergeant Major is new to Year Seven teaching. After injuring himself in the army, he said he wanted to influence new recruits. We do a lot of physical education along with geography. He says all we need to learn is where we’re going and be fit enough to get there. He runs our classroom like a sleek military operation. There isn’t a pen or desk out of order.
    â€˜Morning, Sergeant Major,’ we chorus.
    â€˜Prepare for inspection!’ Sergeant Major shouts.
    We hurry, tidying our pencils, stacking our school books, straightening our belongings inside our desks, cleaning our shoes and resting them against the first right leg of our desks in a five-past-one