Anywhere but Paradise

First published by Egmont Publishing, 2015
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806
New York, NY 10016

Text copyright © Anne Bustard 2015
All rights reserved

www.egmontusa.com
www.annebustard.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bustard, Anne, 1951– author.

Anywhere but paradise / Anne Bustard.

Summary: In 1960 twelve-year-old Peggy Sue and her family move to the island of Oahu, and she is finding it anything but paradise, because from the first day at school she is bullied and made fun of by the Hawaiian children, and she is worried sick about her beloved cat who is in mandatory quarantine—and then the tsunami hits Hilo where her parents have gone on business.
ISBN 978-1-60684-586-8 (ebook) — ISBN 978-1-60684-585-1 (hardcover)
1. Middle schools—Hawaii—Juvenile fiction. 2. Bullying—Juvenile fiction. 3. Ethnic relations—Juvenile fiction. 4. Friendship—Juvenile fiction. 5. Tsunamis—Hawaii—Hilo—Juvenile fiction. 6. Hawaii—History—1959—Juvenile fiction. [1. Middle schools—Fiction. 2. Schools—Fiction. 3. Bullying—Fiction. 4. Ethnic relations—Fiction. 5. Friendship—Fiction. 6. Tsunamis—Fiction. 7. Hawaii—History—1959—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.1.B89
813.54—dc23
[Fic]

2014039128

v3.1

Jail

BEST I CAN FIGURE,
Hanu, Oahu, is almost four thousand miles from home.

And my cat, my sweet Howdy, hasn’t purred in days. Hasn’t since we arrived all the way from Gladiola, Texas.

I can’t say I blame him, seeing as he’s locked up in animal quarantine jail with all the other cat and dog newcomers.

Sitting with him on this wooden bench inside his chain-link pen with a tin roof, taking in breath after breath of smelly disinfectant makes my eyes sting. Twisting my head, I can barely see the tops of the coconut trees swaying in the gray sky.

One thing’s for sure—Howdy doesn’t have rabies.

But no one believes a twelve-year-old girl.

When you’re twelve, a lot of folks don’t listen to you. Like jailers. Like parents.

When you’re twelve, you don’t have a choice about where you live.

Good-bye Again

FOOTSTEPS HURRY
toward us. Howdy’s paws clasp both of my shoulders.

“Closing time,” says the animal quarantine officer. “You can come back tomorrow.”

Not when you live on the other side of the island. Not when Daddy has to drive the car to work tomorrow. Not when the only reason you got to come today was because tomorrow is your first day at a new school. And you promised seeing Howdy would clear up your two-day-old stomachache.

I pick Howdy off my shoulders, look into his pretty greens, and give his nose a kiss. I hold him like a baby and he nuzzles his head into my side.

“Peggy Sue,” says Mama as she moves toward me with determination. “Say your good-byes.”

“He’s lonely,” I say. Howdy stirs his hind legs. I shift him to my lap and scratch behind his ears. Somewhere
inside him, I know he wants to purr. But right now he just can’t.

“He’s lucky,” says Mama. “Lucky he got to come.”

Mama’s changed. Before our plans to move and the packing and the good-byes and her headaches, Mama knew. She knew that Howdy has always needed me close.

But for some reason, Mama didn’t think Howdy should come all this way on account of his age, which is ten. She wasn’t certain we could visit regularly, seeing as we’d live a ways away. She wasn’t convinced we should spend the money. But Daddy and I had no doubt.

“I can see you need my help letting go,” Mama says, tucking both sides of her wavy brown hair behind her ears. “Let’s not prolong this.” And just like that, she reaches for my cat.

“No,” I say.

I let go. But I don’t mean to.

Howdy’s eyes open extra wide and he tries to meow, but no sound comes. His silent cry is the most pitiful thing of all. It is a sad so deep it can’t find its way out.

Howdy dangles in front of me.

“You’re hurting him,” I say.

Mama holds him at arm’s length like he is a suitcase of smelly clothes.

“This isn’t easy for me, either.”

“Love you,” I say to my gray tabby. “I’ll be back this weekend.”

The officer nods.

Mama plops Howdy on the wooden bench and brushes cat hair from her navy skirt. Howdy slinks underneath the bench, cowering.

The door squeals shut and the officer clamps down the lever on Howdy’s cell. His release date, July 29, 1960, is stamped on the small white card in the pocket at the front of his cage.

Right next door lives a young calico named Tinkerbell. She’ll leave a month before Howdy. Tink must still be out for a bath or something, because she’s not there.

Dogs bark all around the station. I’m sure they’re saying, “I want my family; let me out; take me home.” I am worried sick for Howdy. He is very afraid of dogs.

It’s our fifth day here. One hundred fifteen more days until he’s free?

Hang on, Howdy.

Hang on.

Hanu Intermediate