I was so angry. I stomped into my room and slammed the door.

No one could force me. I had human rights. I could sue them if they made me do something I didn’t want to do. Ooh. I could get money if I sued them. Maybe I could even buy an iPhone!

I bolted to the computer in the sitting room to google “human rights.” Mum was burning dinner by then so she wasn’t checking up on me. I looked up human rights and suing your parents and then I clicked on family honor and one click led to another. I don’t know how it happened but suddenly I was on this site about samurai.

If you don’t know who the samurai were, you really should. They were legendary warriors who protected the emperors and their clans in ancient Japan. You could only become a samurai if you were born into a samurai family, and they were super skilled at archery and fighting on horses as well as martial arts. They were molto cool except their hairstyles were a bit nuts. They didn’t live all that long ago either. From about eight hundred years ago, they got more and more important in Japanese society until they were super respected. Then in the 1870s the ruling emperor set up a more modern army of soldiers, made up of any old blokes and not just samurai, so they kind of disappeared.

The coolest things about them though, are the legends. Samurai were known to have a really sharp sixth sense. They could sense danger and noticed everything, even tiny changes in the breeze caused by, like, a butterfly miles away stretching its wings on a leaf. They could be in a room and sense someone approaching from far. So they’d sit silently, deathly still, and wait. And then, without even looking, at exactly the moment their enemy was raising his sword to kill them, they’d whip around and slice the enemy’s head off in one move.

And when they were captured, or if they failed in their duties, rather than be dishonored or killed by their enemies they committed seppuku, which is sometimes called hara-kiri. That little tradition was seriously disgusting. They sat on the floor, took hold of this special knife, dug it deep into their bellies and sliced it from one side to another. Then they lifted their heads so the person with them could decapitate them. There’s lots of decapitation in ancient Japan. There must have been heads rolling around everywhere like soccer balls.

Anyway. One part of the site was called “Samurai Clans” so I clicked on it.

I scanned through the list of the samurai clans. And then I saw something that made my eyes pop out of my head.

The name Miyamoto was on the list!

I couldn’t believe it!

Miyamoto was a samurai name!

If Miyamoto was a samurai name, I was obviously a descendant of the samurai!

I couldn’t stop thinking about it all through dinner. At least it took my mind off the taste of the food. I couldn’t wait to start doing some really cool samurai drawings, but then Mum ruined it by saying, “Do that illustration, Amber. Tonight. When you get back from Nonna’s.”

“But—”

“Do it.”

At Nonna’s I thought about samurai pretty much the entire time. Cleaning out the cats wasn’t getting any easier but those latex gloves made me feel invincible. I liked them so much I wanted to start using them all the time. In the winter it would be easy because I could put them under woolly gloves and no one would know I had them on, but in the summer it would look a bit weird paying for things in shops with them on, and doing work in class.

I wasn’t an expert or anything but I didn’t think the cats needed cleaning out every day, sometimes twice a day. I wanted to ask Nonna about it but I was scared she’d agree with me and I’d lose my first and only job, so I kept my mouth shut.

After doing my disgusting, bacterial, toxic job, I went back home, disinfected my hands with antibacterial gel, and put the money I had earned into the drawer. I was kind of hoping it would breed alone in there like bacteria and there’d be loads more of it every time I looked but it just wasn’t happening. If I was a hot-shot scientist, I’d so develop that.

My money was adding up though. When Mum wasn’t looking, I did a search on the Internet and read all about the features on my phone-to-be. There was even a small tutorial on the company website. It was so exciting.

I could almost feel that phone in my hand.

Later that evening, I went to my room and closed the door. I didn’t know what to do about the art competition so I lay on my bed with my face in the pillow. Which I’d been doing a lot of lately.

Then I heard something.

I looked up. You were standing above me, looking gigantic and butt-kicking, holding a raised sword. You were wearing this full body armor and a helmet with a visor, like the ancient samurai I saw on Google Images. The bottom part looked like a skirt but I didn’t like to mention it.

“Amber Miyamoto,” you roared, “why do you lie there defeated? We are wushidao: martial arts warriors of the samurai way. On behalf of the shogun himself, I command you to rise.”

“Come back tomorrow,” I grunted into my pillow. “I’m having a bad day.”

“Tomorrow may never come. Tonight we battle against warlords who want to take our town and land. The shogun himself has summoned us. This is the ultimate honor. Rise, Miyamoto! Take your katana.”

Katana? I had to take a look. You were holding a gleaming samurai sword. It was super shiny and had a black handle with little triangles cut out of it. It was so beautiful. Suddenly I got kind of interested.

“Rise, Miyamoto! We must battle against our enemies until death.”

“Our death or their death?”

“Whichever comes first.”

Eek. Death. But I’d always wanted a katana.

I got out my pencils and some paper and started drawing myself in the armor, known as a do. The leather was thick and shone with lacquer. The lead plates were heavy as rocks and the helmet fell low over my eyes. I slid my katana into its sheath on my belt.

I really liked being dressed like that! Samurai Amber! I drew myself with my sword raised, and then in battle with you watching my back, and us defeating armies of enemies. There were bodies on the ground left and right, and squirty blood and dying horses and thunderous clouds—I did a whole pile of pictures and I was a butt-kicking warrior in all of them.

“Yes! This is who you are, Miyamoto,” you roared. “A mighty and fearless warrior of the samurai caste. Now stop sulking and give that woman a picture.”

“But I don’t want to give her my artwork,” I whined. “I won’t win and then I’ll feel stupid. It’s better no one ever sees it.”

“Hah!” you snorted. “Failure exists only so we can see what we need to do better. Get up, samurai, and draw like you’ve never drawn.”

You were right.

Samurai wouldn’t whine and hide. They’d get on with it.

I got off the bed. “Bring it on!” I roared, grabbing more paper from my desk.

I drew in my room until late. I did pencil sketches and ink drawings; I experimented with color using my Caran D’Ache pencils and a brush. I was on fire. My back hurt from hunching over the desk and I got eyestrain from concentrating so hard. Hours go by in a blink when you’re drawing. You can’t believe it when you look at the clock and it’s so late.

Just when I got too tired to carry on, you turned up again. You were sharpening your katana.

“Look at all these illustrations I’ve done!” I said. “Of me and you! I’m going to cut out this one and this one and make a collage of us defeating all these warlords.”

“And you’re going to enter it for the competition,” you said.

“Uh-uh. I’ve changed my mind,” I said, looking down at my drawings. “I’m not taking anything in.”

“If you don’t enter this competition,” you said, “I’ll use this sword on you.”

I grinned. But knowing my work was going to be judged made me feel sick.

“Everyone will see it,” I said. “It’s personal. I don’t want anyone to judge it and tell me what they think. And what if someone sticks the entries up on the wall? The whole school will ridicule me. They’ll take photos of my picture and post it on Instagram and Facebook. All of London will laugh at me. It’ll go viral on the Internet. Then they’ll call in much weirder psychologists than Miss Figgis and they’ll make me lie on a couch and talk about everything while they take notes and shake their heads. After that, they’ll put me in a special hospital for the rest of my life.”

You were squinting. I could see you weren’t convinced.

“Anyway,” I said, “I heard there are these twins called Max and Alex in 11B who are really talented. Everyone says one of them is going to win.”

“Maybe they’ll be too chicken to enter. Maybe they moved to Scotland last night. Maybe their arms fell off—”

“Okay, I get it. But still.”

“Do you really want an after-school detention with Joanne Pyke and Miss Figgis? Do you? Plus, you owe Miss Figgis big-time, seeing as she saved you from the bin. Give her a picture. So what? Big deal.”

I didn’t like it. But you had a point.