Read Online White Ninja by Tiffiny Hall - Free Book Online Page A

concrete on every bounce.
    â€˜If anyone wants to sign up for classes, please come talk to me. I run boot camps too,’ Sabomin says to the three people left watching. They are arching their heads to the sky, still searching for those pieces of wood.
    â€˜Do you do yoga classes?’ a mother asks, clutching her empty coffee cup. I’d seen her look of horror as she refused the instant coffee being handed out by the parents’ committee.
    â€˜As a former champion,’ Sabomin says, placing his hands on his hips, ‘I know how important it is to have mind control. Meditation is a big part of any martial artist’s life.’ He pauses and smooths his hand down his chest to soothe his heartburn, then burps in his throat and excuses himself. ‘But has yoga ever saved anyone’s life?’ he says, staring the woman right in the eye.
    The woman holds his stare then leaves, shaking her head.
    â€˜Roxy, wait here to sign people up. I’ve got to find the school principal,’ Sabomin says.
    â€˜But I don’t … How do you know my name, Sabomin?’
    â€˜I’ve had an idea,’ he says, ignoring my question. ‘And call me Sabo.’ Then he asks, ‘Heard of a swagger coach?’
    I shake my head.
    â€˜The team needs a bit more swagger, more polish. All the US hip-hop artists use them, you know?’ He taps a finger on his chin, which is covered in stubble that shines grey in the sun. ‘Leave it with me,’ he says and hurries off.
    Jackson is talking to other members of the team, so I walk over to the trestle table to look at the demo photos. Salvatore is there too, talking to a kid he’s managed to get to take a flyer.
    â€˜Taekwondo’s the best,’ Salvatore says.
    â€˜Taekwondo’s lame,’ the kid argues. ‘All that protective gear you fight in. You don’t punch in the face.’
    â€˜Why punch in the face when you can kick in the face?’ Salvatore says.
    â€˜Taekwondo copied Karate,’ the boy says.
    â€˜Not possible. Karate is Japanese.’
    â€˜So?’ the boy says.
    â€˜Taekwondo is Korean,’ Salvatore says, taking back the flyer he just handed the boy. Obviously, he doesn’t think he deserves one after those comments.
    The sound of a skateboard roars towards us and I turn just in time to see Hero skid to a stop in front of me. He’s holding a monster green slurpee in his right hand. He grabs a handful of flyers, throws them on the ground and rolls his skateboard back and forth over them.
    Everything seems to sag around me: the sausages slip out of their bread at the sausage sizzle, the jumping castle collapses in on itself, the trestle tables droop with the weight of leftover fundraiser carrot cakes. How did Hero know I was here? I clench my teeth. Has he told anyone about me skipping school?
    â€˜So, you’ve made friends with him?’ He points to Jackson, then runs a finger over a picture of Sabomin posing with somebody dressed up in an Easter Bunny suit. ‘These guys are real scary,’ he jeers. He rips a pin from the corner of the board and stabs it through every person’s eyes on the A3 laminated team photo. I launch at him, but he steps back and chucks his chlorine-coloured slurpee at me — just as Sabomin steps between us. In an instant, Sabomin’s pristine white uniform flashes snot green.
    â€˜This little display of yours is a waste of time,’ Hero sneers at Sabomin. ‘I’ll find him first.’
    â€˜What are you talking about?’ I ask.
    â€˜Stop pretending,’ Hero sneers. ‘You’re a liar, just like your mother.’
    I can’t believe he said that! I clench my fists, but before I can react, he’s roared off on his skateboard.
    Sabomin puts a hand on my shoulder and examines the vandalised photo of the demo team. Their pricked-out eyes make them all look like ghosts in their white uniforms.
    â€˜Sure hope