ground.
Rye watches his cousin plummet to the mats for only a moment, but it gives Tornado her edge. She somersaults toward him, finger on the trigger. I hear the pop.
Then Rye is falling. The crowd spouts a mixture of groans and cheers, and Tornado pumps her fists.
But just as Rye is about to the hit the arena floor, he catches a current and shoots forward, scooping up an M16 and skimming a foot above the ground. He zooms up the quarter pipe and launches through the roof high into the air, spinning tightly.
“I thought he was hit,” I yell.
“He was faking it!” Lila claps her hands. “He fell before the ball hit him.”
“Is there any ammo in that rifle?”
“I don’t know!” she squeals, jumping up and down.
Rye soars far above the roof of the nest, so high, it’s hard to see him. He’s going to hit dead air like that girl , I think. And, sure enough, he’s falling again. No, not falling. Diving. Rifle aimed directly for his opponent. Tornado hears the crowd scream and looks up. Into the barrel of his gun.
Rye gets the shot his cousin missed, and Tornado’s legs flip up over her shoulders, sending her whirling backward. His gamble paid off. It’s the win.
The crowd jumps to its feet, cheering wildly. Tornado regains control and comes out of the spin, yanking the helmet off her head and freeing long tresses of moist, blonde hair. She rubs her head, and I catch sight of a grimace. But then she’s smiling, thumping her helmet with her hand and bowing to Rye.
He’s removed his helmet as well. His hair sticks up in tufts, and a line of dirt traces his jawline. He pounds a fist on his chest. Then he sails over to Tornado and raises one of her arms. The crowd roars its approval.
A door on the observation box opens, and Naira steps onto a platform above the quarter pipe. Rye rides the wind up, landing next to her. She places a medal around his neck, and the spectators stamp their feet.
All of the players return to the field, and the scoreboard flashes the faces of the top scoring contestants. Buck earns third place with one hundred and six points, Tornado gets second with one hundred and twenty-seven, and Rye is named the tooka or winner, with one hundred and sixty-one. The screen changes to display a list of highest-ranking scores. Rye makes the top ten but falls short of the record two hundred and three.
The players thump their chests with their fists, everyone cheers, and then it’s over. I sit in my seat and stare at the arena, at the exhausted but smiling players leaving the field, at the space in front of me where the whole world just changed.
“Come on, Kit,” Lila says. “Let’s go.” I stand up, wincing when I feel the welt on my side. I had forgotten all about it.
I follow Lila toward the exit. As we leave, we drop our masks and jackets into the bins by the door. The kids around us jabber enthusiastically—about the types of weapons, about the winners, about the players’ moves—but I’m not listening. I’m not paying attention to where I’m going either, and I mumble apologies as I bump into the people in front of me and step on someone’s toes.
“It’s too bad we’re not allowed to windwalk back to the bunkhouse,” Lila says as we shuffle our way across the crowded bridge.
“Yeah.” So that’s what it’s called. Windwalking. I picture the players rocketing into the sky and whirling through the arena, all without parachutes or bungee cords. How did they do it? Are these people human?
I peek at Lila. She looks normal. All of the people around me look normal. Jeremy and the initiates from my van are normal, eccentric perhaps, but not alien. Jeremy can windwalk then. So can Aponi and Charity and even Diva. The whole idea is so crazy, so unbelievable.
I look up as the wind rustles the netting above me, and suddenly the camouflage and mirrors make perfect sense. I’ve just discovered the greatest secret in the universe.
“What do you think, Kit?” Lila
Rye watches his cousin plummet to the mats for only a moment, but it gives Tornado her edge. She somersaults toward him, finger on the trigger. I hear the pop.
Then Rye is falling. The crowd spouts a mixture of groans and cheers, and Tornado pumps her fists.
But just as Rye is about to the hit the arena floor, he catches a current and shoots forward, scooping up an M16 and skimming a foot above the ground. He zooms up the quarter pipe and launches through the roof high into the air, spinning tightly.
“I thought he was hit,” I yell.
“He was faking it!” Lila claps her hands. “He fell before the ball hit him.”
“Is there any ammo in that rifle?”
“I don’t know!” she squeals, jumping up and down.
Rye soars far above the roof of the nest, so high, it’s hard to see him. He’s going to hit dead air like that girl , I think. And, sure enough, he’s falling again. No, not falling. Diving. Rifle aimed directly for his opponent. Tornado hears the crowd scream and looks up. Into the barrel of his gun.
Rye gets the shot his cousin missed, and Tornado’s legs flip up over her shoulders, sending her whirling backward. His gamble paid off. It’s the win.
The crowd jumps to its feet, cheering wildly. Tornado regains control and comes out of the spin, yanking the helmet off her head and freeing long tresses of moist, blonde hair. She rubs her head, and I catch sight of a grimace. But then she’s smiling, thumping her helmet with her hand and bowing to Rye.
He’s removed his helmet as well. His hair sticks up in tufts, and a line of dirt traces his jawline. He pounds a fist on his chest. Then he sails over to Tornado and raises one of her arms. The crowd roars its approval.
A door on the observation box opens, and Naira steps onto a platform above the quarter pipe. Rye rides the wind up, landing next to her. She places a medal around his neck, and the spectators stamp their feet.
All of the players return to the field, and the scoreboard flashes the faces of the top scoring contestants. Buck earns third place with one hundred and six points, Tornado gets second with one hundred and twenty-seven, and Rye is named the tooka or winner, with one hundred and sixty-one. The screen changes to display a list of highest-ranking scores. Rye makes the top ten but falls short of the record two hundred and three.
The players thump their chests with their fists, everyone cheers, and then it’s over. I sit in my seat and stare at the arena, at the exhausted but smiling players leaving the field, at the space in front of me where the whole world just changed.
“Come on, Kit,” Lila says. “Let’s go.” I stand up, wincing when I feel the welt on my side. I had forgotten all about it.
I follow Lila toward the exit. As we leave, we drop our masks and jackets into the bins by the door. The kids around us jabber enthusiastically—about the types of weapons, about the winners, about the players’ moves—but I’m not listening. I’m not paying attention to where I’m going either, and I mumble apologies as I bump into the people in front of me and step on someone’s toes.
“It’s too bad we’re not allowed to windwalk back to the bunkhouse,” Lila says as we shuffle our way across the crowded bridge.
“Yeah.” So that’s what it’s called. Windwalking. I picture the players rocketing into the sky and whirling through the arena, all without parachutes or bungee cords. How did they do it? Are these people human?
I peek at Lila. She looks normal. All of the people around me look normal. Jeremy and the initiates from my van are normal, eccentric perhaps, but not alien. Jeremy can windwalk then. So can Aponi and Charity and even Diva. The whole idea is so crazy, so unbelievable.
I look up as the wind rustles the netting above me, and suddenly the camouflage and mirrors make perfect sense. I’ve just discovered the greatest secret in the universe.
“What do you think, Kit?” Lila
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