After two minutes, the gong sounds, and round three begins. Immediately, Tornado, the boy with glasses, and the girl with blonde hair whip around the arena wall and fire paint into the blue team. The blue players scatter, and the rest of the red team moves in to pick them off. The tall boy with blue eyes locks on Buck. Buck darts around the obstacles, but he can’t shake him. Rye fires the Glock at his own pursuer then swoops down to help his cousin. He gets behind Blue Eyes and aims the pistol. Nothing comes out.
Rye lets the weapon fall and dives toward the ground. He snatches up an abandoned knife and leaps straight up, catching a wind current above his head and doing a gainer in the air. He lands directly in front of Blue Eyes. The blade slashes the spot on the boy’s thigh, and a blue streak of paint marks the kill.
Blue Eyes starts to fall, but Rye suddenly grabs him by the arms and jerks him back up. A second later, a red bullet slams into Blue Eyes’s spine. Rye pulls the tomahawk out of his belt and whirls the blade through the air. It hits the stomach of the person who was firing at him—the blonde girl. On the screen, Blondie’s face goes dark, and she topples onto the mats. Rye pushes Blue Eyes aside and goes after the tomahawk.
Blondie was one of the last contestants to have any ammunition. Only one other person is still carrying a gun: Tornado. The brown-haired girl on the blue team goes after her with a spear. Tornado zigs her way to the nest roof, hops over one of the branches, and hooks her legs around it. She flips her body back and, hanging upside down, fires directly into the girl’s chest. Eight players left.
Tornado unhooks her legs from her perch and dives headfirst for Buck, who is leaping for Brown Hair’s spear. Tornado doesn’t fire right away, probably because she only has a few bullets left. That gives Buck some time. He grabs the spear before it hits the ground, but then he accidentally drops into the wind current created by the fan. He manages to stay in the air, narrowly missing a tree, but the blast sweeps him away from Tornado.
Across the arena, the heavyset boy is grappling with Shorty, both of their knives poised directly over a kill spot. Only their shaking arms keep the blades at bay as they twirl in the air. It’s simply a matter of time. I look at the scoreboard. Both of their energy levels are flashing red. Finally, Heavyset collapses and plunges toward the floor. Shorty barely stays aloft and gets the kill with his knife.
I look back at the board. It’s down to six players: Rye, Buck, and Shorty, and Tornado, the boy with glasses, and the girl with the broken arm. Now almost all of the fighting is hand-to-hand. Rye contends with Glasses, while Buck tackles Broken Arm and Shorty takes his chances with Tornado. Rye’s knife finds its target. So does Buck’s spear. And Tornado’s gun. Three left. Energy levels at fifteen percent and dropping.
The gong resonates again, and the screen flashes, “
Kauna
4
.” But this time, there’s no break. They have to keep fighting. Buck finally catches up with Tornado and, twirling his spear, launches the weapon at her chest. Another blue mark slashes her gray armor, but it isn’t a kill. And now Buck has no weapon. Tornado takes her shot, and Buck falls to the 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 asks.
“What?” I stammer. I look to my left and see that Holly has somehow found us in this throng of people.
“
Wakemo
ten is hosting a dance tonight,” Holly repeats. “Wanna go?”
I try not to wrinkle my nose. In my experience, dances usually involve boys standing on one side of the gym and girls giggling in clumps on the other. I was rarely asked to dance, and when I was, it was only by boys with sweaty palms and bad breath.
“I guess,” I say.
“What should we do now?” Lila asks.
“Let’s go swimming!” Holly says.
We climb down from the platform, and I follow them to a lake on the other side of the camp. On the shore is a small cabin, built into the base of a large pine tree. It has two doors, one marked
Kama
and the other
Tamo
. We enter the first door.
The inside of the cabin looks a lot like the bunkhouse bathroom but with a row of shelves containing folded swimsuits and towels. We each grab a swimsuit and go into a changing stall. I take off my clothes and necklace, wadding them into a ball, then step into the suit. It fits perfectly—just like the other clothes. Frowning, I pinch the slick material and snap it against my skin.
“Last one in the lake is dead air,” Lila yells.
I shove my clothes into one of the fancy wood lockers, grab a towel, and run outside. After kicking off my shoes and dropping the towel on a rock, I dive into the lake.
The water is cool and silky and gorgeously blue. And it’s the perfect temperature. Most people would probably call it too cold, but I like that tiny nip on my skin. It makes me feel alive—and it feels great on my welt.
While Lila and Holly splash each other, I float on my back and look up at the clouds. Thick, fleecy things. Warm gray in the center and glowing white on the edges where the sun shines through more easily. They stand out against the ultramarine sky, and I watch them shift and move, propelled forward by the wind. How high can windwalkers go? Can they fly up there, into the clouds?
I took a 4-H class a few years ago where we learned how to observe and measure the wind, how to use it. We talked about windmills and wind turbines, wind power and wind farms. I was so fascinated I even memorized the Beaufort wind scale. But this, this blows it all away.
In my mind, I see Tornado diving and flipping, spinning off the Aerie roof and free falling without fear. I see Rye twisting and rolling, shooting upward until he vanishes into a pinprick. Just thinking about it makes my heart speed up. I close my eyes and try to imagine what it would be like to ride the wind. It makes me want to laugh. Really laugh.
“Cannonball!”
Large blobs of water suddenly douse my face. Blinking and sputtering, I flip around in time to see five boys jump into the lake.
Catching my breath, I swim quickly for shore.
A head bursts out of the water in front of me, and I splash to a stop as the boy whips his neck around, his wet hair smacking his temples and spraying me again. He pushes the hair out of his face, and then I see the green eyes, the square jaw. It’s Rye.
For a moment, we do nothing but tread water and look at each other. I try not to stare at his defined chest bobbing above the surface, try not to think about the fact that we’re wearing next to nothing.
Then he grins. “Nice day for a swim.”
My tongue feels thick. “Sure,” I mumble as I duck my head and paddle past him. I’m shaking a little when I get to shore. Soon Lila and Holly join me.
“How lucky is this!” Holly says, openly eyeing the boys as she wrings out her hair. Some of them whistle at her.
“Was that Rye?” Lila asks me. “Did you talk to him?”
“Not exactly,” I say as I yank my towel off the rock.
“That’s too bad,” Holly says. “You had him all to yourself.”
“I wouldn’t have known what to say either,” Lila assures me, but we both know that’s a lie.
I retrieve my clothes and tell them I want to go back to the bunkhouse. Holly opts to stay and watch the boys, but Lila says she’ll go with me.
“
Taitai
!” Holly calls as we walk away. “Watch your back!”
“
Koka.
Watch yours,” Lila replies.
I raise an eyebrow.
Must be a windwalker thing.
A windwalker thing. This morning I didn’t even know such a thing existed. We return to the bunkhouse and I keep thinking about it, the way the contestants in the arena flowed with the wind, more graceful than figure skaters. I think about windwalking while I shower under the warm waterfall, while I comb out my snarled hair, while I put on clean clothes, while I apply fresh bandages to my hands, while I find ice for the bruise on my side, while I lean against the bunkhouse wall and gaze out the window.
Sometimes Rye’s green eyes pop into my mind, his smooth chest, white teeth. But then I think of him windwalking, and he becomes one with the rest of the group. Elegant warriors in the sky.
Lila decides to take a nap, but I can’t sit still so I leave the
wakemo
and stroll through the trees, breathe the rich forest air, look up at the pine needles, wishing I could fly to them. I’ve been walking for maybe twenty minutes when I hear voices up ahead. As I get closer, I discover that a group of people is gathered around a large canvas on the ground, each of them painting a section of it. Two counselors stand nearby, noting things on electronic tablets. A small crowd is watching off to the side. I see Holly, so I walk over to her.
“One of the guys from the lake is competing,” she whispers when she sees me, pointing to a boy crouched over the canvas.
I peer over the shoulder of the person in front of me, and as I get a good look at the paintings, my hand goes to my mouth. The contestants are using the most vivid pigments I’ve ever seen—and they change colors. One moment a streak of paint is deep cerulean. The next, it sparkles into electric violet and then sea green.
The painters dip sculpted wooden sticks into a tray of paint and swirl long lines across the canvas. It’s not in any logical order, a stroke here, a stroke there, but somehow the pictures come together.
I’ve never cared much about art before, but as I watch the initiates work, I feel something I can’t explain. Something waking inside of me. I can’t tear my eyes from the canvas. Stunning scenes of the heavens. Whirling waves in the sky.
Are they painting how they feel about the wind
,
or is this what it actually looks like?
Maybe that’s how they can ride it—because they can see it. I’d give anything to know their secret.
Time is called and a
tooka
chosen, but I continue to stare at the painting, losing myself in the streaks of iridescent jasmine and plum.