Wing Ding by Kevin Markey Page B

the kite. He hadn’t brought one of his own. As rattled as he looked after bucket ball, I wanted to rope him in to the fun.
    He nodded and peeled off twenty feet of string.
    â€œRun!” I said, taking up the slack. He charged into the wind, and I let go of the kite. Instantly it climbed into the air.
    â€œLet out more line!” I hollered.
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œAll of it!” I cried.
    Stump unspooled, and the yellow owl rose and rose, joining the frenzy high overhead. A second later, the Glove’s gray shark soared up to meet it. Next came Tugboat’s big pillow of a kite in the shape of a catcher’s mitt, followed by the rest of our colorful assortment.
    The wind whistled and the kites dipped and bobbed, wings flashing, tails snapping to wake the dead.
    We hooted and hollered. Billy Wishespumped his fist in excitement. Mr. Bones ran around leaping and licking. I glanced over at Stump and saw that even he, for the first time in days, wore a big smile on his face.
    Suddenly the music stopped and a deep voice boomed over the PA system: “And now, the event you’ve all been waiting for! Highlight of the annual Rambletown Kite Festival: the electrifying, blue-skying, death-defying, high-flying, mind-frying Kite Delight Dogfight!”
    Stuff my ears with cotton and lock me in an echo chamber, I’d recognize that buttery voice anywhere: it belonged to none other than Louie “the Lip” Leibenstraub. But the Kite Delight Dogfight? I had no idea what that meant. I must have been the only one, because the crowd let out a deafening whoop.
    â€œIf you are not participating in the dogfight,” continued the Lip, “now’s the time to reel in your kite. I repeat, combatants stay in the air. Everyone else bring down your kites RIGHT NOW.”
    About half the fliers instantly lowered their kites.
    I exchanged glances with Stump.
    He shrugged. “Better take her down, I guess,” he said, starting to crank.
    Before he could make much headway, a menacing red dragon swooped over and smashed my little yellow owl smack between the wings.
    â€œHey!” Stump shouted. He jerked on the line as the dragon struck again and the crowd roared.
    â€œThe battle is drawn!” cried the Lip. “Score one for the dragon!”
    As the DJ spoke, the dozen or so kites left in the air launched furious attacks on one another. Jabbing, ripping, pecking, and poking, they tore at one another like enraged hyenas. Wings were shredded, tails torn clean off. One after another, wounded kites crashed to the ground.
    â€œWait! Wait!” Stump cried, his right armjerking wildly on the winder. “I’m trying to get down!”
    I reached out to help. “Let me take it,” I shouted.
    Too late.
    The red dragon lunged and dealt another crushing blow.
    â€œNo!” Stump shouted, maniacally jerking the string.
    â€œThe dragon means business!” cried the Lip. “Can the owl retaliate? Or is this the end for our yellow friend?”
    Sensing a kill, three more kites moved in like vultures. One of them, I realized, was Flicker Pringle’s Death Star. I glanced around and saw him standing twenty yards to my right, grinning as he played his line. Panicking, Stump yanked on the reel. The owl sliced through its attackers, its wings ensnaring their strings. Stump twitched again. A pair of bats drifted harmlessly away, their lines severed. The Death Star split open and beganspiraling out of control.
    â€œNoooo!” Flicker howled as his kite plunged to the ground.
    â€œThat’s what you get for messing with the best!” Billy Wishes shouted.
    â€œThe owl fights back!” roared the Lip. “There’s life in it yet.”
    â€œGo get ’em, Stump!” Billy cheered, setting off a team chant: “Stump! Stump! Stump!”
    More kites joined the fray, swooping, swirling, slamming. It was like a demolition derby, except the punishment was being