Blackfield’s sky was a dark, watery indigo, and the sun was a hint of a bruise on the horizon. A giant silver dollar hovered in the dome of blue, the moon a translucent all-seeing face. A huge bunker of darkness loomed in the east, threatening rain.
Delilah put the damp walkie-talkie against her chubby cheek and stage-whispered, “Yes, Castle!”
The girl on the other end of the line sighed in exasperation. “That’s not how you say it, Lilah. That’s totally wrong. You say roger, Castle two, over. That’s how they say it in the armies.”
Delilah sniffed. The evening dew on the grass was getting her socks wet. She hated wet socks.
The droning of the cicadas made it hard to hear Ginny without having the radio turned all the way up, and didn’t that defeat the purpose of being ninjas? You weren’t supposed to hear ninjas. Though, she supposed, the cicadas made it easy to be sneaky. That monotonous wheeling buzz covered you like a blanket.
“You didn’t say over,” she said into the walkie. She took a deep breath of that sharp cut-grass smell and coughed. “Are you sure ninjas use walkie-talkies?”
“Yes. . . . Over.”
“Ninjas don’t walk or talk. They hide in trees and jump over stuff and throw stars. I know. My dad lets me watch ninja movies with him. We have all the best ones.”
“Well,” said Ginny. “The ninjas in this army use walkie-talkies. I got them for my birthday so the ninjas can use them. Over.”
“Over.”
“You didn’t say anything!” squealed Ginny.
“You didn’t say over again!”
“Over over over!”
Delilah shrilled, “Over over over over over!” into the mike and it became a battle of who could blast the other off the radio saying “Over” the loudest, then fell apart into the high cackling of little girls.
“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” said Delilah. “I had to go to practice. My mom makes me. How old are you now? Seventy kabillion?”
“Noooooo. I turned seven today.”
“Good,” Delilah said into the radio. “Now we’re even. Oh! I’m really close to the base.”
“How close?”
Delilah looked up at the jungle gym and its birdcage shadow. “I’m like, really close,” she said, and then a shape peeled itself away from the darkness under the security lights.
Ginny was making a break for it. The girl ran smack into the metal bars, catching herself with her hands and throwing her chubby legs up into the tangle of piping. She sat down and kicked her feet in satisfaction, peering around the complex like a hawk on the lookout for field mice.
Delilah turned and crept alongside the base of the apartment building, loping around the corner, and then broke into a sprint down the sidewalk, past a row of identical front porches.
Everybody else was holed up in their cookie cutter apartments, living room lamps lighting up windows with a honeyed glow. The detritus of a dozen childhoods lay scattered across the tiny front lawns: tricycles, various pieces of Fisher-Price playsets, plastic ray-guns, action figures.
The parking lot flush with the sidewalk was populated with two-dozen vehicles of various makes, models, and conditions; one of them was her father Billy’s rattletrap pickup, a modest brown machine with OY painted on the tailgate, the T and OTA having faded away years ago.
“Where are you?” Ginny said.
Delilah keyed her mike. “You’ll never know if you don’t come looking! You can’t sit on the base, I can’t get near it. You’re cheating!”
“Nuh- uh! . . . over.”
“Yuh-huh! Over!”
“Okay, okay. I’ll come look. But you better be in a really good hiding place. I’ll give you thirty-five seconds.”
A big blue Dumpster loomed at the end of the parking lot. She briefly considered hiding there, but then remembered how bad it smelled the last time she’d been out that way to take out the garbage.
Hmm. She wasn’t crawling into one of the culverts by the street frontage, no way. That only left the
Delilah put the damp walkie-talkie against her chubby cheek and stage-whispered, “Yes, Castle!”
The girl on the other end of the line sighed in exasperation. “That’s not how you say it, Lilah. That’s totally wrong. You say roger, Castle two, over. That’s how they say it in the armies.”
Delilah sniffed. The evening dew on the grass was getting her socks wet. She hated wet socks.
The droning of the cicadas made it hard to hear Ginny without having the radio turned all the way up, and didn’t that defeat the purpose of being ninjas? You weren’t supposed to hear ninjas. Though, she supposed, the cicadas made it easy to be sneaky. That monotonous wheeling buzz covered you like a blanket.
“You didn’t say over,” she said into the walkie. She took a deep breath of that sharp cut-grass smell and coughed. “Are you sure ninjas use walkie-talkies?”
“Yes. . . . Over.”
“Ninjas don’t walk or talk. They hide in trees and jump over stuff and throw stars. I know. My dad lets me watch ninja movies with him. We have all the best ones.”
“Well,” said Ginny. “The ninjas in this army use walkie-talkies. I got them for my birthday so the ninjas can use them. Over.”
“Over.”
“You didn’t say anything!” squealed Ginny.
“You didn’t say over again!”
“Over over over!”
Delilah shrilled, “Over over over over over!” into the mike and it became a battle of who could blast the other off the radio saying “Over” the loudest, then fell apart into the high cackling of little girls.
“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” said Delilah. “I had to go to practice. My mom makes me. How old are you now? Seventy kabillion?”
“Noooooo. I turned seven today.”
“Good,” Delilah said into the radio. “Now we’re even. Oh! I’m really close to the base.”
“How close?”
Delilah looked up at the jungle gym and its birdcage shadow. “I’m like, really close,” she said, and then a shape peeled itself away from the darkness under the security lights.
Ginny was making a break for it. The girl ran smack into the metal bars, catching herself with her hands and throwing her chubby legs up into the tangle of piping. She sat down and kicked her feet in satisfaction, peering around the complex like a hawk on the lookout for field mice.
Delilah turned and crept alongside the base of the apartment building, loping around the corner, and then broke into a sprint down the sidewalk, past a row of identical front porches.
Everybody else was holed up in their cookie cutter apartments, living room lamps lighting up windows with a honeyed glow. The detritus of a dozen childhoods lay scattered across the tiny front lawns: tricycles, various pieces of Fisher-Price playsets, plastic ray-guns, action figures.
The parking lot flush with the sidewalk was populated with two-dozen vehicles of various makes, models, and conditions; one of them was her father Billy’s rattletrap pickup, a modest brown machine with OY painted on the tailgate, the T and OTA having faded away years ago.
“Where are you?” Ginny said.
Delilah keyed her mike. “You’ll never know if you don’t come looking! You can’t sit on the base, I can’t get near it. You’re cheating!”
“Nuh- uh! . . . over.”
“Yuh-huh! Over!”
“Okay, okay. I’ll come look. But you better be in a really good hiding place. I’ll give you thirty-five seconds.”
A big blue Dumpster loomed at the end of the parking lot. She briefly considered hiding there, but then remembered how bad it smelled the last time she’d been out that way to take out the garbage.
Hmm. She wasn’t crawling into one of the culverts by the street frontage, no way. That only left the
Similar Books
