White Ninja Read Online Free PDF

position.
    â€˜Attention!’ he orders.
    Each kid snaps into a rigid position next to his or her metal-framed desk: ankles together, eyes forwards, shoulders back.
    He nods in approval as he passes the first line of desks.
    The classroom bin captures his attention. He stomps his right foot, rattling our desks, and strides over to the bin. He bends from his hips, with his hands in fists byhis sides, to inspect its interior, then reaches in and pulls out a soft-drink can.
    â€˜Why is there an unidentified object in the bin?’ he yells.
    We freeze. No one owns up.
    He throws the can in the recycling basket, then, on second thoughts, retrieves it. ‘You know the drill!’ he barks.
    We do know the drill. We push our desks out in front of us by exactly half a ruler’s length, sit on our hands, walk our feet out, then drop our bums to the floor, dipping our body weight from our elbows.
    â€˜One. Two. Three. Four,’ Sergeant Major yells.
    At ten body dips no one has owned up. My arms are beginning to burn. Cinnamon is struggling to keep her pocket to the ceiling so as not to disturb her sleeping kitten. Sergeant Major will make us all do desk squats if he discovers she’s brought a pet to school.
    â€˜Nose to the plank,’ Sergeant Major commands.
    No one dares complain. We sit back on our chairs, pull our desks in, fold our hands behind our heads and crunch our stomachs down until our noses touch our desks, like a sit-up. Many of the kids wheeze, practically pass out, but I have always found Sergeant Major’s exercises easy. I’m a natural at sport, like my mother. Our surname means ‘orchid’ in Japanese, butMum always says we live up to the meaning in English, since the Rans have always been fast. The problem is that I lack the confidence to join any of the sporting teams or even compete. I try to hide my ability from the other kids.
    Dennis, a notorious soft-drink addict, is exhausted from the dips and desk crunches. He waves his white ruler and surrenders. Sergeant Major strides over to him and holds the soft-drink can at arm’s length.
    â€˜Duck,’ he orders.
    Dennis stands under his arm and then, like a boxer, weaves to the left and right of the soft-drink can with his guard up.
    â€˜Open your books to page thirty. First one to solve the problem won’t get laps,’ Sergeant Major orders.
    Dennis continues weaving under the can.
    I notice Cinnamon wrestling with her pocket. Small beads of sweat drip from her hairline. Her bright afro swirls around her neck. Cinnamon is the most striking girl I have ever seen. If only she realised that too.
    â€˜Stop it,’ I hiss.
    â€˜He wants to get out,’ she whispers.
    â€˜Take him to the toilet. Let him walk around for a minute,’ I whisper.
    Sergeant Major doesn’t notice Cinnamon slip out of class. But Hero notices. His eyes laser onto her pocket.
    Dennis gives up, puts the can in the recycling basket and class begins.
    â€˜Bruce, Krew, hold up that map.’ Sergeant Major indicates the rolled map leaning against the pinboard.
    The boys, members of Hero’s group, slouch their way to the front of the classroom. Even they don’t dare to mess with Sergeant Major. They unfold the map and hold it up against the pinboard. Sergeant Major opens the top drawer of his teaching desk, takes out a handful of nuts and dried goji berries and guzzles them, then shoves his paw into his pocket. He retrieves a small staple gun and aims it at the left-hand corner of the map, still chewing, and shoots. A pin staples the map to the board and Sergeant Major shoots pins at the remaining corners.
    We stare at the map of Tasmania on the board, waiting for Sergeant Major to speak.
    I can feel Hero’s eyes on the back of my neck. But when I turn around, he’s disappeared. I can’t relax.
    Cinnamon slips back into the classroom with slick cheeks and swollen eyes. She takes a paintbrush from an