Anywhere but Paradise (14 page)

Malina stretches her arms up and wiggles three fingers. Before I can stop, a laugh spurts out. It is the third time in ten minutes that Mr. Nakamoto has said “behoove.” His record in homeroom is four. Today it might be broken.

“Miss Bennett, a comment?”

“No,” I say, and cover my eyes so I won’t look at Malina and laugh again.

“The civil defense will conduct a test today, Miss Bennett. I mention this for your benefit.”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

We’d hear the siren loud and clear. That I know for sure. An enormous two-headed megaphone perches on top of a tall, skinny pole near the street in front of the school. It looks just like the one in Gladiola.

“Thank you,” I say. “I know about the duck-and-cover drill.”

“Excellent. But if it is a tidal wave?”

“Swim?” I say.

The class cracks up.

Mr. Nakamoto clears his throat extra loud and everyone snaps to.

“In the event of a tidal wave,” he says, “we will move to higher ground.”

I turn to Malina for an explanation after class. “We march up to the hillside until the all-clear. It’s like a big party, only we have to stand in straight lines.”

“Got it,” I say.

“I don’t care what drill we do,” says Malina, “I just hope I’ll end up near Kimo.”

“I hope so, too.”

Kiki ignores me in home ec.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, keeps coming up to her and telling her how boss she looked on the May
Day stage. They say her hand sign was the coolest. They say she was the best dancer in the whole program.

Maybe this is what the last day of school will look like. Maybe everyone will crowd around her to say good-bye. Maybe Kiki will forget I’m even here.

Kiki really was the best dancer. If I tell her, will she think it’s a trap?

In the Event of an Emergency

“TEN, NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN …”
the boy next to me in math counts down the seconds on the clock.

“WaaaaAAAHHHHH,”
wails the siren.

I cover my ears and wish I were with Howdy. He doesn’t cotton to loud noises. I’m sure all the dogs around him are howling, which will only make things worse. If I were there, I’d tell him the commotion would end soon.

“Duck and cover,” hollers Miss Liu. For a teeny woman, she sure has a giant voice.

In Gladiola, we’d move to an interior hallway, crouch with our backs to the wall, and cover our necks with our arms. Here, we’ll stay put, but protected.

The desks in this room are older, wooden, heavier. Each sits two people. My desk partner and three other boys get dibs on the teacher’s weighty desk. Another boy and I push mine toward the windows. “You’re Peggy Sue, right?”

“Uh-huh,” I say over the squeaks and grunts around us.

“The one with the window-washing and weeding businesses?”

“That’s me.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

I stop pushing. “What? Why?”

“My dad saw your signs and now I’m doing the work for free. Do me a favor. Let me and my friends know if you have any more great ideas, so we can destroy your signs.”

I pick at the neck of my blouse to get some air. “Sorry,” I say. “I was just trying …”

“Save it,” he says, and gives the desk one last push. It slams into another one and he disappears underneath.

“Take your positions below,” yells Miss Liu.

We kneel, tuck, and cover our necks with our arms.

I’m squished between a boy and a girl.

Someone forgot to shower after PE.

Someone wears the same kind of cologne as Daddy, only four times as much.

I smell bubble gum, too.

It’s warm under here. Drippy warm.

“I’m suffocating,” someone says.

“I’m dying.”

I’m mortified. I have even more people mad that I exist than I thought.

“Quiet,” shouts Miss Liu.

Someone fake-snores.

My right foot is asleep. I hope Malina got a spot next to Kimo.

“All clear,” says the teacher after way too long.

Crawling out, I bonk my head.

The whole drill takes twenty-five minutes. I don’t mind missing math.

Except Miss Liu gives us extra homework.

Civil Defense Meal

APPARENTLY, AFTER THE SIREN,
Mama hurried to the stores and stocked up.

Which is why the coat closet is now full of cans of beans, spaghetti, corn, jugs of water, extra blankets, a new flashlight, and a first aid kit.

For supper, Daddy and I heat up some emergency cans of spaghetti and green beans because Mama is in bed with a headache.

“Your school phoned today,” he says. “The counselor called it your final-month checkup. It seems your grades aren’t what they should be. I know you are spending time with Malina, practicing hula, writing letters, and putting in a lot of effort finding a job.”

“They called you at work?”

“They tried the house, but your mama must have been shopping.”

“I want to dance well at the recital, and Malina and I are saving for Paris.”

“That’s wonderful, but your first job is schoolwork, okay?”

“Sure, Daddy, sure.”

Let’s Make a Deal

“TAKE YOUR SEATS QUICKLY,”
says Mrs. Barsdale at the start of class the next morning. “I’m coming by to check everyone’s progress.”

Kiki and I watch as she inspects every inch of Kiki’s blue flowered dress, checking for straight seams, even stitches, offending bumps and puckers. “The facings are off-kilter here and here,” she says. “And the zipper is crooked.”

Mrs. Barsdale doesn’t miss a stitch. On my lime-green print dress either. But I get a better report. “I’m expecting greatness, girls,” she says. “From both of you.”

“Hear that?” Kiki says, and bumps my shoulder. “Greatness.”

That sets my foot to jiggling. “I heard,” I say as Mrs. Barsdale and her beauty mark bustle away.

Because of guest speakers, a film on Parisian couture, and a written test, we have only nine more class
periods to complete our projects. I could just flat-out finish her dress. Then two out of the three of us would be happy. Or maybe, just maybe, there’s a way all three of us can be.

“Kiki,” I say.

“Extra-credit girl.”

“You know what you said about me trying to trick you earlier?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I was.”

“Typical,” says the girl next to us.

I pretend I don’t hear. My foot jiggles faster.

“And I want to say that I’m sorry about that.”

Kiki looks like she doesn’t believe me.

“So now I want to be completely honest. I want to make a deal. You were busy all last week with May Day, so you’re a little behind.”

Actually, a lot. “I’ll make your dress if you won’t fight me.”

“That’s an interesting proposal, Piggy Sue.”

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s a maybe.”

A maybe. Everyone knows a maybe is a hundred
times better than a no. A maybe can turn into a yes.

“I’ll take maybe,” I say.

“Deal,” says Kiki, handing me her dress.

My foot stills.

Daddy would call this the path of least resistance. Like the mountain water that irrigates the sugarcane. Wooden flumes carry it down to the fields—gravity in motion.

I’m leaving. Eventually. What do I care? This will make at least one problem go away. And I can make it happen.

It’s win-win-win.

Kiki gets to start summer vacation while she’s still in school. Mrs. Barsdale will be happy. I’ll get what I want—peace.

Almost four more weeks of school. Surviving is important.

At any cost.

“Don’t just sit there,” says Kiki, “get busy.”

I sew.

Kiki socializes.

We don’t switch seats at the machine halfway through class. I keep working on Kiki’s dress.

Later, as Mrs. Barsdale winds her way toward our side of the room, Kiki threads a needle and holds it
over a facing as if she’s going to stitch it down on my dress.

Kiki should be an actress.

Me, too.

We are faking out Mrs. Barsdale.

Best of all, I’m yards closer to a yes.

We repeat our great performance the next day.

With identical results.

A Way Out