Cinderella: Ninja Warrior (21 page)
Read Cinderella: Ninja Warrior Online
Authors: Maureen McGowan
Tags: #Fairy Tales & Folklore, #Juvenile Fiction, #Adaptations, #Interactive Adventures
The crowd went wild. Cinderella jumped up and down, clapping, and then realized she was the only other contestant doing so. Yes, she wanted to win, but she couldn’t help but feel thrilled for this contestant. If Cinderella didn’t win, she hoped that this girl did. If the prince was as tall and handsome as he was purported to be, they’d look fabulous dancing together.
A spark hit the ground at 87’s feet and they both jumped.
Cinderella spun around, fearful that her stepmother had come into the arena and had been aiming for her. Hearing a commotion down the line of competitors, she looked toward it, and within seconds a rope appeared out of thin air in front of a tall boy with silver hair. The rope ensnared him, binding his arms to his body, then it led him off the arena floor, without any evidence of someone pulling. It must have been that boy who’d shot the spark at the girl who’d done well.
Number 87 fell back into the line of contestants as her score was updated on the huge sparkling board. Forty-eight points.
Cinderella had trouble keeping still as she awaited her turn. If she missed the first time as 87 had, there was no way she’d have the skill and concentration to catch such a huge, heavy object in midair and guide it back up. That seemed far beyond her capabilities.
“Number ninety-eight,” the announcer called.
Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.
Her attempt at meditation wasn’t helping and anxiety sent little spikes of fear up and down her arms, over her neck, and into her brain.
She gripped the wand and reminded herself how easily she’d lifted the pumpkin in the first round. Surely lifting it a little higher and moving it forward wouldn’t be that different. Especially with help from her mother’s wand. She could do this.
After bowing to the judges, she turned to the bright orange gourd and studied its off-kilter shape. It was a huge pumpkin, nearly three feet in diameter and likely so heavy she’d struggle to budge it with her body, let alone her mind. But the wand would give her a chance. If she hadn’t found it, she wouldn’t even be here and Max would still be a cat. She’d been meant to find it. Meant to use it, she was sure.
Using her ninja training, she drew five deep, long breaths, trying to force what felt like bouncing beans in her belly to obey. They slowed to hopping and, given the circumstances, she figured that was probably as calm as she’d get.
Aiming the wand, she reminded herself whose daughter she was and tried to mimic what 87 had done, but until 87 missed the disk the first time, she’d made it look easy. Several competitors had raised their pumpkins high enough to make the attempt, but only two had managed to land their gourd on the pedestal.
Energy from the wand coursed through her and she slowly raised it. The pumpkin rose, too.
Joy rushed through her and the pumpkin wavered. She sucked in a sharp breath, but let it out slowly, refusing to let panic creep in and ruin everything she had worked so hard for.
Focused on the pumpkin, she raised the wand again, and the instrument tingled in her fingers, almost as if it wanted to jump out and do this on its own, which made her hold on more tightly. Power surged along her arm, making it difficult to keep still as the pumpkin lifted higher and higher.
But she was doing it. With the wand’s help—and her real mother’s spirit—she was lifting the largest and heaviest object she’d ever tried to lift, doing as well as many of her competitors, and all of them had trained with wizards who’d guided them with more than meows and the occasional paw to the head.
About two feet away from the height of the pedestal, the pumpkin stalled. Just a bit more and she could slide it into place. Gripping the wand even more tightly, a powerful surge of energy flowed through her and she felt weightless.
The crowd roared, and yet the pumpkin was lowering, getting closer to the ground.
Wait—there was a reason she felt weightless. The pumpkin hadn’t dropped lower; she’d actually lifted off the ground. Frowning, but concentrating, she focused back on the pumpkin and flicked her wand slightly, hoping to tame it to her will.
Her feet landed back on the ground.
The pumpkin exploded.
Everyone within twenty feet ducked as pumpkin flesh and seeds and chunks of rind flew everywhere. The crown of the pumpkin landed right on Cinderella’s head. Standing with her mouth open, she picked a seed out before closing it.
“Thank you, competitor number ninety-eight,” the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers. Then he turned and addressed the crowd. “Let’s look to see what she scored for that very dynamic and creative attempt.”
Cinderella lifted her head toward the scoreboard. Maybe she’d get some credit for lifting the pumpkin so high, for taking flight herself before it exploded? She twirled the wand in her fingers nervously.
The crowd gasped. So did she. Zero points. The judges had given her zero.
Even the contestants who’d barely lifted the pumpkin had scored a few points.
The announcer raised his hands to quiet the protesting crowd. “The judges tell me that destruction of the pumpkin means a default. That is too bad, as it was rather entertaining.” The crowd shouted more dissent.
Cinderella’s legs gave out and she slumped to the ground, burying her head in her hands. With zero points on this round, how would she ever win?
Before long, it was down to only twenty-three contestants in both the wand and no-wand groups combined. No one had a perfect record; each of the remaining wanna-be wizards would be out with even one more failure.
“Remaining wand contestants, step forward, please,” the announcer’s voice boomed, and the group of nine stepped onto the floor.
Ten wizards stood opposite them, arms crossed over their chests and all wearing different-colored robes. The crowd murmured as if they guessed what was coming, and Cinderella looked over to the faces of her fellow contestants to see if any of them could offer any clues. All she saw was abject fear.
She scanned the crowd for Ty. Seeing him right now might make her feel better, more confident, but he was nowhere to be found in the lower sections where she could make out some faces.
Higher in the stands, she saw that the prince was seated and had moved forward on his chair in anticipation. His purple velvet cape was lined with snow-white fur and his crown, sitting on tightly tied-back hair, glistened in the afternoon light.
Although she couldn’t make out his features from this distance, she couldn’t really understand why girls thought he was so special. Sitting on that fancy chair, his hair all tied back, his clothing so ornate, he really did look stiff and stuffy, despite what Ty had said about him.
The announcer waved his wand in a huge, sweeping gesture, and a second later, Cinderella saw her reflection. The announcer had used magic to build a clear wall a foot in front of the line of contestants. She and a few of the others tentatively reached forward to touch the barrier. Hard as rock but pulsating, it sent vibrations through her body, and she pulled her hand back.
From what did they need protection?
The first contestant, number 63, was called out from behind the screen. The largest of the entire group, he was close to six and a half feet tall, towering over the rest of them.
The announcer said something she couldn’t hear from behind the clear barrier and 63 braced himself, raising his wand in front of his face in a defensive mode. He took a step forward, and that was when Cinderella noticed a red line about twenty feet ahead of the boy. It appeared all he had to do was cross that line. But it couldn’t be that simple, could it?
He took another step, and a huge flame shot toward him.
Cinderella’s head snapped toward the group of wizards across the arena floor, and she tried to guess from whose direction it had come, but was distracted as another wizard flicked her wand to send a huge swarm of bees toward the boy.
He ducked under the flame—it barely singed the cloth of his shirt—but he didn’t move fast enough to avoid the bees. He waved his wand frantically, but it only seemed to increase the number of bees. Number 63 had barely regained his balance when a fireball hit him square in the chest. The boy was engulfed in flames and Cinderella gasped. Surely the wizards wouldn’t let a competitor die!
The boy tossed his wand in the air—the signal of surrender and defeat. Immediately, the announcer flicked his wrist, and the flames disappeared. The crowd clapped politely, but it was clear from the expressions on the few faces Cinderella could make out in the crowd that they’d been shocked and disappointed by how badly 63, so far the favorite in the wand group, had fared.
Patiently yet eagerly waiting for her turn, Cinderella watched the other contestants, hoping to figure out some kind of strategy, but every new contestant was given different challenges. Where ducking the flame had worked for the first boy, the next flame shot had angled directly toward the contestant’s feet, and jumping aside had been the only way to avoid being burnt to a crisp.
Cinderella kept thinking about the clear wall in front of them—built from thin air—and the swirling tornado she had recently created to fend off the wolves. Instead of dealing with each challenge one by one, she wondered if she could build a shield to protect herself from all of the magical weapons?
Two contestants had tried sprinting, only to be frozen in place or pushed back by winds, and the tall girl in the bright blue suit was the only one to have made it across the line so far. She’d done a dizzying display of acrobatics, leaping and flipping and twisting through the air, diving over fire, ducking under swarms of bats, and leaping over a river of molten lava.
Cinderella’s acrobatic skills were good, but not that good, and she realized that her ninja warrior aspirations were still many years beyond her grasp.
Her number was called and, fighting to control her sudden shaking, she strode out from behind the shield to the starting line.
“You’ve seen the other competitors perform,” the announcer said. “Any questions?”
She shook her head, unable to think of any except
How do I stop the horrible things they’re going to throw at me?
And she knew he wouldn’t answer that one.
How do I stop the horrible things they’re going to throw at me?
And she knew he wouldn’t answer that one.
“Are you ready?” the announcer asked, and she nodded in reply.
“Go!” he shouted.
Although a very big part of her wanted to sprint for the red line as fast as she could, she held up her wand, focused on a pole just past the finish line, and started to spin her body in circles. She kept her eyes focused on the pole, snapping her head around with each turn as a funnel of air formed around her. The air built and swirled, and she barely saw a flash of light when what must have been a fireball glinted off the side of her personal tornado and then shot toward the stands.
A roar rose, but she blocked it out. Concentration was crucial.
Still spinning, she moved forward, bringing her air funnel with her and continuing to spot like a dancer, keeping her eyes on the pole behind the finish line to avoid dizziness. Through the wall of swirling air, she now caught sight of a wall of water, a wave that had to be twelve feet high. It rushed toward her and she braced herself, concentrating as she pressed forward. The wave knocked both her and her tornado back a few steps and water drenched her from the funnel’s top, but it held.
She could do this. She was almost there.
The pressure changed in her ears and the ground trembled. The line was right there. It was so close, but her limbs felt like lead, and pushing her tunnel of air forward became akin to pushing against a mountain.
Looking up, she saw what looked like a storm headed her way. Just a few steps to go, but no longer spotting the pole, she lost her balance and the wand wavered, moving erratically in her hand.
Her tornado forced her sideways. She was almost at the line. Enough with the funnel. Time to break it and run.
She raised her wand and flicked it, but must have done something wrong, because instead of disappearing, her wind tunnel turned to smoke. She choked as the acrid air filled her lungs and stung her eyes.
The next moment, she was slammed backward, her arms and legs flailing in all directions. A windstorm picked her up and she flew down the field to land on her back—the starting line was beneath her head. Refusing to give up, she rolled onto her belly and crawled backward toward the red line, but the force of the wind was too strong. Every muscle in her body strained; she turned and lifted her wand, hoping she could cast a spell to stop the wind.
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