Anywhere but Paradise (16 page)

“Hold still, please,” I ask her toward the end of class. I’m measuring and pinning the hem of her daisy dress. Everything about it suits her—the color, the style, the fit.

She peers into the full-length mirror, turns, fusses with her hair.

“Looking good, girls,” Mrs. Barsdale says as she dashes by.

“I’d swear it’s store-bought,” says a girl waiting her turn.

“Wanna trade?” asks another.

“No,” says Kiki, trying her best to look nonchalant. But her high-beam bright eyes give her away.

We’ve got a deal. I just know it.

After the bell, I ask for an answer.

“Maybe,” she says.

Again? She can’t say maybe forever.

Due Date

ON FRIDAY,
home ec buzzes from the get-go. Kiki’s dress is done, but I inspect it one more time just in case. Kiki is at my shoulder, inspecting, too. “Stray thread,” she says, pointing to a side seam.

I clip it. “Anything else?”

She keeps looking, but says no more.

“It’s all yours, then,” I say, much relieved.

A clothes rack for our projects is parked beside the teacher’s desk. Kiki waltzes over to the rack, grabs a hanger, and turns in her finished dress. “I did it, Mrs. Barsdale,” she says.

“I had no doubt,” says the teacher.

Could have fooled me.

I jump up as soon as Kiki comes back.

“So what do you think now?” I ask. My stomach flutters. I am sure her answer will be yes. Sure we have a deal. Sure there will be no fight.

“I’m still thinking,” she says.

And I’m scowling. No. That is not the right answer. “I thought—”

“You thought wrong, haole. I have another week to decide.”

She’s playing me. Like Howdy with a toy mouse. He tears out the eyes. Rips off the tail. Bites off the felt ears. Extracts the bell with claws and teeth. Until the toy mouse is stripped of all its senses, and its insides are on the outside.

I had a win-win-win plan.

But now I’m the only one with something left to lose.

I’m caught in the maybe-middle. For five more school days.

I’ve got to be positive. Keep up the hope. Her answer can’t be “no deal.”

It just can’t.

Luau Prep

I WASN’T EXPECTING
to see a whole pig in the Halanis’ backyard pit after school.

Especially one with an apple in its mouth.

But I’ve got to say, he smells smoky sweet delicious.

“Tutu will have the best retirement luau on the island, haole girl,” David says. Sweat trickles down his dimpled cheeks.

His father squints at him.

“I mean the whole state,” David says.

“That’s better,” Mr. Halani says, and laughs. “Peggy Sue, it’ll be a night to remember.”

And a good night for me to forget. Forget about school for a few hours.

The Halanis rented long tables and folding chairs for Tutu’s party and set them up in their front yard. Malina and I are in charge of decorations. For the past two days, we’ve strung rows and rows of plumeria
blossoms that we collected from all over the neighborhood. Now we lay them down the center of each table covered with white butcher paper.

Malina hasn’t mentioned Kimo in a couple of days, and the heart on her hand hasn’t been filled in. So I ask.

“I’m so down I can’t talk about it,” she says. “He ate lunch with Charlene yesterday and today.”

“Maybe they’re working on a school project together.”

“I would know,” says Malina.

She’s right. She would.

“Come on,” she says. “Only two more tables to fix up.”

Countdown. One hour to go.

Dog

AS SOON AS
the party starts, a brown medium-size dog with a red ribbon tied around its neck bounds over to us. I scoot behind Malina. “It’s okay,” she says. “This is Kahuna. He’s an honored guest,” and she pets him on top of his head.

“Kahuna, sit,” says Malina, and the dog obeys. “Meet Peggy Sue.” Kahuna holds up a paw. “You’ll hurt his feelings if you don’t shake it.”

So I do. The dog seems friendly. “Nice to meet you,” I say.

“Kahuuuuuuna,” someone calls. And with that the dog takes off.

I wish I could call for Howdy and he’d come running. Leaving Howdy last weekend was as hard as ever. Especially because he was purring.

“Don’t move,” says Malina. “I’ll go get us some punch.”

I watch. And wait.

I’m almost on my own at this party, which is kind of fun. Daddy had to pick up a man flying in from the mainland for work and take him to his hotel. Of course Mama went, too. They said that they’d drop in when they got home.

A woman in a tapa print muumuu talks to a man about Tutu’s trip and who’s who at the party. “I hear new tenants moved in,” she says, and points to where I live. “A shame they’re haoles.”

Her ugly words hit me, hit me hard. Like an unexpected wave.

“I wonder whose job he stole,” says the man.

“He works in ag,” she says as they stroll away. “At least this time his boss didn’t take away yours.”

The pair fades into the party, but their words still roar like pounding surf in my ears.

Mr. Halani was right. This’ll be a night I don’t forget. But I want to. I want to forget what they said. To pretend I didn’t hear them. Pretend everything is all right.

Malina returns with a fruit punch so sweet it makes my mouth pucker. “Lilikoi,” she says.

I push away the couple’s comments and breathe in the music. A Hawaiian trio—bass, ukulele, and steel guitar—play and sing. Strings of twinkling lights hang
in the tent, and the delicious smells of flowers and food fill the air. Tutu sits at the head table and greets her guests. She is covered up to her chin with leis. It looks like May Day all over again. Gifts overflow the card table.

In a little while, Mr. Halani hollers for everyone to gather around. A minister gives a blessing in Hawaiian, which sounds as pretty as a song.

Tutu blows kisses to her guests. “Enjoy,” she says, and points the way to the food.

Malina and I get our plates and sit down at a table up front. “Isn’t this ono?” she asks, licking her fingers.

“Delicious,” I say as I begin taking another bite of the pineapple. My Hawaiian vocabulary is growing, though the only word I understood of the minister’s Hawaiian blessing earlier was
amene
.

Malina and I scooch over our chairs to make room for another guest. I sweep the crowd. It’s elbow to elbow at all the tables. Laughs float across the still air. Malina chatters with a lady next to her.

It seems like everyone knows everyone else. I move a piece of pork from one side of my plate to the other. Avoid the poi. And remember. Somewhere in the crowd is a couple who doesn’t want me on the island. I wish my parents would hurry up and get here.

Not too much later, Mr. Halani stands. “And
now for more entertainment. First up, Tutu’s favorite grandson.”

Everyone laughs. “She only has one,” says Malina, rolling her eyes.

“Presenting my son, David the Magnificent, and his lovely assistant, Teresa.”

David does card tricks, pulls a stuffed pig out of a hat, and finds quarters behind the ears of people in the crowd.

“Malina and Peggy Sue, you’re next,” says Mr. Halani.

The trio begins to sing.

“No, not me,” I say.

“Come on,” Malina says, and pulls me out of my seat.

“Please, no.”

“ ‘Lovely Hula Hands,’ ” says Mr. Halani, and the crowd claps.

I stare at the crowd.

My mouth is dry.

I pretend-dance like a tourist at a hula show.

Someone laughs. Really loud.

I am not a dancer. I am a failure.

Cousins

“THANK YOU, GIRLS,”
says Mr. Halani. “And now let’s give a warm welcome to Hanu’s Kamehameha Day Parade’s favorite dog, Kahuna, and her owner, my niece, Kiki.”

Kiki?

Kahuna races from behind the house and runs in circles before the head table as people stand and clap. I can’t see the dog through the people until everyone settles back down. Kahuna sits at attention on the grass. Beside him is a girl. A girl in a long pink satin muumuu.

“She’s your cousin?” I blurt out.

Malina puts a finger to her lips and nods.

Cousin? With the girl who might beat me up? Why didn’t she tell me? Is this a game and I’m the bet?

“Kahuna, speak,” says Kiki.

The dog barks and the audience claps. Kahuna spins around and around.

I lean over my half-eaten plate of food. “What else don’t I know?”

Malina wrinkles her brow.

The crowd quiets. “Kahuna, sing,” says Kiki. The dog howls.

“You could have told me. You should have told me.”

I don’t give Malina a chance to answer.

I leap up and race next door.

Calling Home

I DIAL THE OPERATOR.

I won’t talk long.

“Collect?” the operator asks when she comes on the line.

My grip tightens on the phone. “No, bill us station-to-station,” I say. I’ll use my own money.

“One moment, please,” she says and my hand on the receiver relaxes.

After some silence and a few clicks, a ring. I know it well. A second ring. I picture Grams’s cheery kitchen with a pitcher of tea and a plate of iced sugar cookies on the table. A third ring. A fourth. Where are they?