Read Ninja At First Sight Online
Authors: Penny Reid
Ninja At First Sight
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
Copyright © 2015 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
Caped Publishing
Made in the United States of America
Final Edition: November 2015
ISBN- 978-1-942874-13-3
EBOOK EDITION
Table of Contents
Part 1: Two ninjas walk into a bar…
Part 3: There once was a ninja from Nantucket…
Part 4: Did you hear about the ninja who invented knock-knock jokes?
Part 5: Why did the ninja cross the road?
Part 6: What’s the difference between a ninja and an empty room?
Part 7: What do you get when you cross a ninja?
~Dedication~
To Mr. Reid.
– August 1997
“I don’t like
this. I feel like I’ve been lied to.” My mother said this loudly, glaring at the open door to the suite area. I was certain her voice carried down the hall. “I’ve never heard of
co-ed dorms
. It’s disgusting. They might as well just hand out condoms and host an orgy.”
I was silent, though I was tempted to point out that my university did hand out condoms during orientation. Really, the goal was to encourage her to leave as soon as possible. Any mention of condoms, regardless of how much passive-aggressive joy it might bring me, would be counterproductive.
“I see your face. Just you wait.” She glared, pointing her finger at me.
I lifted my eyebrows and shrugged. “What?”
“Just you wait until you have children, then you’ll understand. When you have your own children, you’ll be calling me up and apologizing for everything you’ve put me through.”
Turning back to the box of books I was unpacking, I muttered under my breath, “Yeah, that’s not likely.”
I heard footsteps approach and turned toward the open door just in time to see my father enter, throwing his thumb over his shoulder. “There sure are a lot of young men hanging around here. When I went to Cornell, boys weren’t allowed to just wander around in the women’s dorm. They weren’t allowed in at all.”
My father winked, obviously knowing this statement would drive my mother crazy. He lived for pushing her buttons. I gave him a pained smile.
“They’re not hanging around, George.” She leaned closer to him and loud-whispered, “They live here!”
“Live here? Huh…” His eyes widened with what I knew was mock surprise, and he added thoughtfully, “I need to go back to college.”
“George!” She smacked him on the shoulder, her forehead a maze of consternation wrinkles. “How can you joke about this? Fiona could be raped, murdered, or worse!”
I frowned at my mother, tempted to ask what she had in mind that was worse than rape or murder. She was a reactionary, always had been. She followed the mantra of react first, think later (if at all). I loved her, but she was exhausting.
“Okay.” I said loudly, “Time for you to leave. Let me walk you to the elevator.”
My mother huffed, and I could see the anxiety on her face. My heart softened a little—a very, very little—at her expression, but hardened when she said, “Fiona, you don’t know how much time you have left on this earth. What if the tumor comes back? What are you going to do? Hmm? You’ll be helpless, alone, with strangers. This is your last chance to come home with us. If you insist on staying here, we will follow through with our decision to cut you off. I mean it; you’ll have no support from us, and you’ll have no insurance.”
I held my tongue and peeked over her shoulder to my dad. He gave me the faintest of head shakes, his eyes narrowing just a smidge. Although he didn’t agree with my decision to go to college so far from home, he’d pulled me aside last week and assured me that he wouldn’t be removing me from his work insurance policy.
He’d even offered to provide financial assistance as well, but I turned him down. I didn’t want to cause any more drama in their relationship. My academic scholarship would cover the bulk of my expenses. Plus I had my sponsorship dollars from when I was still an athlete, the accounts just recently signed over to me on my eighteenth birthday.
Like my mother, my father was overprotective. Unlike my mother, his decisions were typically grounded in well-reasoned arguments, facts, and reality. But his overprotectiveness of me was largely due to guilt, guilt that he’d been mostly absent for my childhood.
I’d observed that much of what parents do, their decisions and actions, is driven by guilt—either directly because of it or as a means to escape it.
My eyes returned to my mother and I cleared my face of expression. “I know, mother. We’ve already discussed your feelings on the matter.” She’d told me how angry she was with me every day since I told them of my decision to move seven states away from home, where no one knew me, and I could be just another college freshman. “I know how you feel. Now it’s time for you to go.”
“You’re breaking my heart!” My mother said dramatically.
I tried to keep my voice as gentle as possible as I ushered—pushed—them out of my room, out of the suite, down the hall, and to the elevator. “You’ll be fine. I’ll call you.”
“I won’t take your calls. I don’t want to hear from you if you won’t listen to reason. And don’t try calling your sister. I don’t want you polluting her mind.”
A pang of homesickness and longing—for my sister—hit me square in the chest, and my voice wasn’t exactly steady as I responded, “Okay, I won’t call.”
“You’ll die here, Fiona. At a s
tate
school!” my mother sobbed. I tried not to roll my eyes.
I didn’t know which she felt was worse: the fact that my brain tumor might reoccur or that I was going to a state university (in Iowa) rather than to Vassar.
My dad pressed the button for the lobby and wrapped his arm around my mother’s shoulders, addressing me, “You should call; don’t listen to her. She’s just upset.”
“Don’t patronize me, George!” She snapped, pulling away from him.
The doors slid shut while they continued to argue, and I closed my eyes, my forehead hitting the hallway wall. I could hear their bickering for the first few seconds as the elevator descended.
I sighed, and it felt like the first real breath I’d ever taken.
People completely fascinate
me.
Take my college roommate, Dara, and her boyfriend, Hivan. They had sex in our dorm room all the time. It didn’t matter if I was asleep, and it didn’t matter if I was at my desk studying. Usually Dara was topless by the time they made it in the room. At first, Dara would be surprised by my presence and try to gently ask me to leave. Meanwhile, Hivan asked me if I’d like to join them.
I declined.
But it wasn’t the nonstop sex that fascinated me. In fact, as an eighteen year old who’d never been kissed or had a boyfriend, I was a smidge envious of the sex part.
They fascinated me because 1) they saw nothing odd or inappropriate about interrupting my sleep, studying, or privacy at all hours of the day or night, and 2) Hivan cheated on Dara all the time.
By the third week their relationship followed a predictable cycle. For three days everything would be fine. On the fourth or fifth day, Dara would burst into the room crying and sobbing and screaming, throwing anything within reach. She’d tell me that she was through with Hivan because he’d cheated on her.
He would eventually show up at some point during the next two days. I would leave. They’d have sex. Everything would be fine for the next few days, and the cycle would repeat.
Also fascinating, by the end of the first month, all pretext evaporated. They’d just plow into the room and go at it as soon as they’d breached the threshold, regardless of whether I was present. Sometimes, if I was already asleep, I’d put on my headphones, blast music, and cover my face.
The part of me that had a voracious appetite for observing and studying people was enthralled by their theatrics. It almost seemed like Hivan created the drama and excitement because he sensed Dara thrived on it. I didn’t understand this, why someone would crave this kind of drama, and so I studied them.
Honestly, the situation didn’t bother me once I adjusted to it as my reality. In addition to my fascination, I figured it was all part of the genuine college experience. I supposed I was odd in this way. Situations that typically made other people uncomfortable or angry or offended were of intense interest to me.
I’d always been an observer of human nature, more content to sit back and watch than get involved, but I suspected my upbringing was the root cause. I never had many friends because I’d had very few opportunities to make friends. Social interaction, social order, and social norms and dynamics were a mystery to me.
Usually, I would discuss my observations with Hannah, my sister. But every time I called my mother would pick up the line and listen in.. Therefore, we hadn’t talked at all for the last four months about anything of significance and I missed her perspective.
I understood athletes. I understood drive and competition and ambition to succeed and to have a singular purpose. But I didn’t understand this world of normal and varied interests because I’d never lived in it.
The other two girls in my suite were Beth, a perpetually anxious and serious-minded pre-med freshman, and Fern.
Fern was Beth’s opposite in every way.
Where Beth was reed thin and dressed conservatively, Fern was voluptuous and dressed like a 1950’s pinup. Where Beth was studying all the time and waking up early to exercise, Fern hardly ever went to class and frequently staggered into the suite intoxicated at all hours of the day and night.
I think Beth and Fern got on each other’s nerves; Beth left by week six, opting to move into a single room elsewhere on campus as soon as it became available.
Fern told me in passing that she was only going to college because her parents insisted that she at least try it for one or two years. What she really wanted to do was become a Scientologist minister, and she didn’t need a college degree for that. As such, Fern decided to major in Latin. She thought this was hilarious.
Mostly, I kept to myself; watching, considering, unobtrusively attempting to solve the mysteries of those around me, and trying to soak up every day.
Being alone in a sea of strangers didn’t trouble me. I didn’t crave social interaction, but I truly enjoyed watching people. I was enormously grateful for the freedom of finally living away from home, for being around people who didn’t know me and therefore didn’t look at me like I was breakable or about to explode or didn’t understand that brain tumors aren’t contagious.
Here I was, just another college freshman, and all the normal nuttiness and theatrics and drama felt like a gift.
***
“What are you
doing?”
I blinked at the voice and found Fern staring down at me, her bright red-painted lips curved in an impressively large smile.
I shifted in my seat; my eyes flickered to the wall clock above my desk space. I was sitting in the general suite area, curled up on my desk chair while Hivan and Dara screamed at each other. If it hadn’t been January and the weather hadn’t been sub-zero, I would have hiked to the library. My other option was the study rooms downstairs in the lobby of the dorm; however, on a day like this, those rooms were usually booked for hours.
“I’m studying.” I returned Fern’s smile.
She plopped herself down in Dara’s chair, her grin growing. “That sounds boring.”
I laughed lightly and slipped a piece of paper between the pages of my P-chem textbook to hold my place. I knew this wouldn’t be a short conversation. Over the past two weeks, Fern had been interrupting me more and more. We were often stuck together in the suite. I think the good weather kept her entertained and her options open such that she didn’t usually notice me, whereas the atrocious weather of mid-winter Iowa left her with few choices.
“What would you like to do?” I asked.
“Why are you so shy?” she volleyed without warning.
I flinched, confused by the question. “Am I shy?”
She nodded, her grin still in place. “Yes. You are shy. You speak to no one who doesn’t speak to you first. You never go out anywhere except the library and class and the gym. But you’re not a raging killjoy psycho bitch like Beth was. You’re nice…just quiet and shy.”
“Well…” I considered her statement and realized she was right. “I guess I’m not great at initiating friendships.”
“Why is that?”
I stared at her for a beat, thought about why I was this way. Probably my upbringing, first because of gymnastics and the hopes for my Olympic future; later because of the cancer.
More likely my reticence was because I typically enjoyed watching people more than I enjoyed actually speaking to them.
I didn’t particularly want to share either of these theories with anyone. I liked my anonymity, and I liked being normal. I liked blending in.
I opened my mouth to respond with something generic, but Fern cut me off. “You are so lovely once you actually speak, not boring at all. You should be more outgoing. You are too wonderful to live so quietly. You need to get loud every once in a while.”
“Okay. I’ll try to do that,” I promised, making a mental note to dedicate time to observing how people
get loud
.
As though reading my mind, Fern grabbed my textbook and tossed it to the floor. She reached for my hand, pulling me out of my chair.
“Excellent, let’s start right now. I’ll introduce you to everyone on the floor.”
“I-what?” My steps faltered as I glanced down at myself. I was in my ninja star pajama bottoms and an old green wool sweater. My feet were ensconced in chunky, hand-knit wool socks. I wore no makeup, and my short brown hair was a mess.
“We’ll start with the girls,” she said, meeting my eyes over her shoulder and wagged her eyebrows, “then I’ll introduce you to the boys.”
I brought us both to a stop just as she opened the suite door. “Should I go change?”
She wrinkled her nose and snorted. “No. You’re gorgeous. You’re an Audrey Hepburn.” She tugged on me again, successfully pulling me out of the suite.
“An Audrey Hepburn?”
“Yes, a Grace Kelly, Coco Chanel. You make everything look purposeful, like high fashion. You’re…” she waved her free hand through the air theatrically, “beautiful, gorgeous, you’ve got
panache
, infectious…
joie de vivre! Sagesse, attrait!
There is just something about you, something wonderfully magical and ethereal.”
I wrinkled my nose at her French flair and descriptions, found it discordant with reality, and decided Fern enjoyed making life dramatic and meaningful when it was really mundane, with messy hair, and dressed in ninja star pajama bottoms.
We started with several of the girls’ rooms. Fern, it seemed, felt free to walk into each suite without knocking. After the first encounter, each presentation followed a predictable script.
Fern would announce herself like she was a fairy godmother, clapping her hands together to assemble all who were present—which was everyone since it was beyond freezing outside. She made introductions with flourish, putting me on the spot as the center of attention for a very short time, maybe three minutes. People would typically mention that they’d seen me or that I looked familiar; they’d ask me benign yet friendly questions about my major and where I was from. Fern would cut in, tell a scandalous joke or flirt with someone’s boyfriend, and we’d be off to the next suite.
Apparently, Fern knew everyone, and everyone was really nice; but I was feeling overwhelmed by all the socialization, new faces, and new names. Regardless, even with the brief introductions, I got the feeling that this exercise was an initiation of sorts.
People would talk to me now.
I felt certain that now people would wave, stop me in the hall, ask me to join them on social outings or runs to the store. Although it seemed like such a simple thing, for the first time in my life I realized the importance of an introduction. An introduction by a mutual friend buys instant credibility, especially when the mutual friend was universally liked—as was the case with Fern.
We were leaving the fifth suite area when I collided into a solid wall. When I glanced up I realized the solid structure wasn’t a wall at all. It was a boy. And this boy was studying me with unveiled interest.
“Hey, cutie.” His green eyes flickered over me, quick and assessing. A lazy, blatantly flirtatious smile curved over his lips. I stepped back, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. He had long, thick blonde hair that fell to his jaw, a dazzlingly handsome face, a stocky and muscled torso—the shape of which was visible through his black T-shirt—and was inexplicably tan. He also had an abundance of blonde chest hair that was poking out through the neck of his shirt.
“Uh, hello.” I gave him a polite smile and stuck my hand out. “I’m Fiona.”
“Hi,
Fionaaaaah.
” He grinned widely, inadvertently drawing attention to the fact that his neck was approximately the same width as his head; his voice was maple syrup, dark and rich and too sweet to be taken seriously. “I’m Sasquatch.”
“Sasquatch?”
He nodded, “That’s right.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing because I could tell he found the nickname both sexy and flattering.
“Oh,” I said and nodded. “Nice to meet you, Sasquatch.”
Still holding my hand in one of his, he braced the other on the door frame above my head and loomed over me, his gaze moving up and down my body several times in a leisurely perusal.
“So,” he licked his lips, “are you new here?”
“Ugh! It’s you!” Fern’s exclamation came from behind me, and her hands closed on my shoulders, pulling me away from…He Who Calls Himself Sasquatch.
“Oh, hey, sexy. I didn’t see you there.” Not missing a beat, Sasquatch leaned forward as though to give Fern a kiss.
She placed her hand over his face—her palm on his mouth—and pushed him away.
“Go away, beast.” She flicked her wrist and grasped my hand, maneuvering me around Sasquatch.
“That’s not what you said this morning,” he called after us.
Fern spun toward him, releasing my hand and flinging me away, and—again—I collided into a solid wall. And, again, it was not a wall but the chest of a boy.
“Oph, excuse me-” I reached my hands out to steady myself as his came to my upper arms, likely with the same goal.
“You have lice in your chest hair!” I heard Fern bellow at Sasquatch some distance behind me.
I glanced up distractedly at this second boy I’d run into, wondering if he’d also be employing an aptly-titled fictional subspecies as a nickname—maybe the Yeti—and did a double-take when our eyes met.
His face was completely calm, serene, though damp and reddish on his high cheek bones and the bridge of his undeniably masculine nose. This was likely from the perspiration associated with cardiovascular exercise in cold weather. His thick, dark brown hair was standing up and in spiky disarray, like he’d just taken off a hat. His jaw was angular—his bone structure more a sharp reverse trapezoid than a square—and he was tall, at least a full foot taller than me.
But his eyes…his dark, dark brown eyes were almond shaped, and they met mine directly; they struck me at once as expressive and cautious, curious and cynical.