Anywhere but Paradise (7 page)

My skin is tight. Itchy. Cindy’s older sister looked bronzy beautiful after all her sunning. I look like the inside of a hot dog—pinky red.

Mama sits beside me on my bed, applies cold compresses, and rubs in handful after handful of lotion. I wince as she smooths another layer of cream back and forth across my shoulders.

“Your daddy and I think you need to stay put this afternoon,” she says.

“Mama, no,” I say, turning to meet her eyes. “I’ve got to see Howdy. He needs me. I don’t want what happened to Tink—”

“I know you’re disappointed.”

“Mama, please. I promised. I don’t think Howdy recognized me yesterday. If I don’t see him today, he’s going to forget me.”

“That cat surely knows you. He’s just going through an adjustment period,” she says, covering my red arms with white.

Daddy enters, bearing a tall glass of water with extra ice, just like I like it. “Tell you what,” he says. “How about if I check in on Howdy tomorrow?”

Daddy knew I’d be worried. “Thank you,” I say.

“You look all tuckered out, Peggy Sue,” says Mama. “Let me fix you a plate and then you can take a nice long nap.”

Warm smells from Mama’s smothered chicken permeate our house. Usually, that starts my mouth watering. But not today. All that candy has turned
in my stomach. “I’m still full from breakfast.”

I lay on top of my bed. Mama covers me with an extra sheet and tiptoes out of the room. I’ll just rest for a few minutes. Then she’ll see that I’m good to go and we’ll visit Howdy after all.

But I sleep until Mama wakes me for supper and more lotion. I sip water and eat a few bites of chicken and fruit salad.

At midnight, her cold compresses warm against my skin.

“I hurt everywhere, Mama. Even my ears.”

“I’m so sorry, Peggy Sue, but it’s going to be okay. Unfortunately, it may get worse before it gets better.”

Still Burning

I’M SWEAT-STUCK
to the backseat of the car idling in front of school Monday morning and all prickly on the inside.

“You’ll feel better if you socialize,” says Mama.

Only if I were in Gladiola.

Before breakfast, I heard her tell Daddy that I can’t stay at the house all day by myself. She’s going to the doctor and a newcomers’ club meeting.

“Go get ’em, tiger,” Daddy says. “I won’t forget to tell Howdy you said hi.”

“Thank you.”

More sweat collects at the back of my legs, travels to my ankles, and sneaks under my arches. I am a living puddle.

I’m delaying the pain. Fast or slow, it hurts to move. I should get out now, get it over with.

“Bye,” I say, propel myself forward, and release the
suction from my back
riiip-pop
. I grit my teeth, swing my legs out the door, and stand. I think I still have all my skin.

Even though I’m wearing my lightest, softest outfit—an old pink seersucker sundress—it feels like soggy sandpaper against my skin. I’m both hot and cold.

Everyone cringes when they see me walk up.

Laughs.

Okay, just one girl laughs.

“Leper,” she says.

Sour Pineapple

“LISTEN TO THIS,”
says Kiki to the girls at the machine next to us at the beginning of class. She slides her chair closer. “This haole’s mother was yelling at the grocery man yesterday when she was picking out a pineapple. I knew it was her because she was tall and had a funny kind of accent like hers.”

My face grows hotter.

Mama had fixed a fruit salad with oranges, cherries, and marshmallows last night. Usually, she added pineapple. It might have been her.

“Plus,” says Kiki, “the grocer called her Mrs. Bennett. I’m telling you, she was giving the guy a hard time. She was really huhu.”

It was her, all right.

If Kiki’s trying to embarrass me, it’s working.

“Um, Kiki,” I say.

“Don’t interrupt me, haole leper,” she says, and
turns her back to me. “The lady held a pine in her hand and said, ‘You told me this was ripe. I cut into it at home and look. It’s practically white and very sour.’ Everybody in that part of the store turned their grocery carts around to get out of her way. The produce guy was turning red.”

“Was she wearing sunglasses?” I ask.

Kiki whips her head around. “No, and I told you,” she says, “stop interrupting. I’m getting to the good part about me.”

Kiki tugs on the bottom of her blouse and returns to her friends. “I know him, the grocer,” she says. “He walks his dog on the beach. So I’ve got to say something, defend the guy. So I tell her
she’s
the sour one.”

“You said that? To her face?”

“Yep.” She glances back and smiles. “What do you think about that, haole?”

I blow out a stream of air and look straight at Kiki. “Sometimes it’s true.” Like today.

I see the surprise in Kiki’s eyes.

I turn to my pattern directions to figure out what I’m supposed to do next.

If only I had directions for her.

Word Problems

LATER, IN MATH,
we tackle word problems. But I already have plenty of my own:

Likelike
is pronounced “leakay-leakay,” not “like-like.”

Hilo
is “hee-low,” not “high-low.”

Kaneohe
is “kah-nay-oh-hay.”

Pau
is “pow,” not “pa-you.”

Aina
is “eye-na,” not “a-in-ah.”

Kalanianaole
is a blur of letters and sounds.

And I still can’t figure
humuhumunukunukuapuaa
.

That evening, Daddy honks the car horn twice as he pulls up to the house. I bolt out the door. “Howdy’s in tip-top shape,” he says before I can even ask. “Though he did let me know I was a poor substitute for you.”

“Thanks, Daddy,” I say, and kiss him on the cheek. “I trust you to tell me the unvarnished truth.”

“Always,” he says, and grabs his briefcase from the backseat. “I just passed one of your flyers on a telephone pole. How’s my favorite entrepreneur?”

“Broke.”

“But not for long.”

“Daddy, don’t you get tired of being positive all the time?” I ask as we move toward the house.

“It beats worrying, kitten.”

I sigh. Deeply.

I wouldn’t know.

Detention

WHEN I GET
to home ec the next morning, Mrs. Barsdale and Kiki are finishing up a conversation. Kiki turns, muttering, and stomps back to our sewing machine.

I scoot my chair out of her way.

“Haoles never listen. Never say sorry. Never say thank you,” she says as she threads the machine.

“Typical,” says the girl sewing next to us.

Kiki studies the page of instructions, balls it up, and tosses it at me. I wince as it scratches my sunburned arm and lands on the floor. I let it be.

For the next fifteen minutes, Kiki sews in darts, pops up for water, and talks to the girls beside us.

She rethreads the machine at least five times because the tension is too tight. Not to mention her darts are on the outside.

I am silent.

“Look what you made me do, leper,” she shouts as she holds up her dress. “You should have stopped me.” Her eyes narrow. “See you in detention,” she says, and rushes away from me.

My stomach catches. “No, wait,” I say, following.

“Is there a problem?” asks Mrs. Barsdale.

Kiki holds out her dress. “This,” she says. “And her.” Kiki steers Mrs. Barsdale out of my hearing.

I should have known better. I did nothing while Kiki made those mistakes.

Mrs. Barsdale and Kiki return. Our teacher takes the dress from her. “Peggy Sue, this kind of oversight won’t earn you any extra credit today. Please help Kiki correct her error.”

“I will. Which should mean I won’t have detention either.”

“Detention?” asks Mrs. Barsdale.

“Gotcha,” says Kiki, and jabs me in the chest. “Gotcha good.”

“What is going on here?” asks Mrs. Barsdale.

“I need air,” I say, before barreling out of the room. And a smarter brain. I don’t go far. I slump against the lockers outside the door for the rest of class. No one comes looking for me. When the bell rings, I rush in, grab my stuff, and leave.

Only two more days of her this week. Good Friday can’t come soon enough.

That night, I tiptoe out back, plant my feet in the dewy coolness, and stare up at that cacti that’s hanging on for its life.

Are you going to bloom?

Show me.

Shut Out