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Bunting morning
Nima Pell arrived at the Brindlewick Kite Festival with three things: an orange kite, a cheese sandwich and a speech for when she won. The speech was only six words. She had tried it on her bedroom mirror anyway. Her kite, Orange Orbit, had a turquoise crescent patch and two white streamers covered in tiny blue dots. At ten, Nima considered this a serious design. Her nine-year-old cousin Pip considered it a flying fried egg.
"An orange is not an egg," Nima told her. Pip pushed her black bob out of her eyes. "Then why does it look so pleased with itself?" Nima tucked the sandwich into her yellow jacket. Beyond the bunting, apricot trees bordered the meadow. A round wooden bandstand stood between the orchard and the crowded stalls. There would be judging at noon, an exhibition afterwards, and a wind procession to the far field for people who liked walking more than scores.
Joss Rook appeared beside their display stand. He was eleven, freckled, and already wearing the expression Nima had practised in her mirror. His kite, Blue Streak, waited in his family's tent. "Ready to come second?" he asked. "You first," said Nima. They had been friends since they shared a paint pot at six. They had been rivals since Joss announced that his half of the paint was faster. Pip rolled her eyes so thoroughly that Nima worried they might not come back.