Anywhere but Paradise (12 page)

We stumble back, dodging each other and the fabric pieces, patterns, and sewing baskets that spill across the floor.

Then we stream forward to the rescue.

I pick up an errant pincushion that looks like a tomato that met a porcupine. “See you around, haole,” says Kiki, and pats my back.

But not until Monday.

Twenty-six school days until the end of school. Twenty-six.

As I leave, a girl says, “Haole.”

Then another.

On my way to my next class, a boy passes me. “Haole,” he says.

Two more. Kids snicker.

My face is burning hot. I speed up and don’t stop until I flop into my seat in science. Paper crinkles behind me. I twist around and tear the sign from my back.

Haole
.

I crumple it into the tiniest ball I can make it into.

Twenty-six days. Twenty-six too many.

54

THAT AFTERNOON,
Mr. Nakamoto passes back our tests facedown. “Some of you studied more than others,” he says.

So we spend the whole class time reviewing the answers.

Queen Liliuokalani was overthrown by haoles who wanted to control the Hawaii sugar trade.

President Cleveland told the overthrowers they broke the law. But they didn’t listen.

To date, no one has ever apologized.

The queen tried unsuccessfully to restore her kingdom.

The overthrowers imprisoned her for eight months.

The queen wrote the famous song “Aloha ‘Oe.”

Her brother was King Kalakaua.

She married a haole.

I didn’t remember most of this from the study guide.
Or a bunch of other stuff, including how to spell the Hawaiian names.

Which is why I got a 54 on my quiz.

“You’ve always been a strong student,” Mama says after school.

“This just proves I shouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t be so quick to judge.” Mama takes off her sunglasses. Her eyes are puffy.

“Allergies,” she says.
No
, I think,
rock fever
.

Mama fixes TV dinners for supper.

The phone finally rings. A job, I just know I have a job.

Wrong number.

Before I turn in, Daddy and I walk out back and look at the night-blooming cereus.

It doesn’t look like anything has changed.

Something wet and heavy plops on my foot. “Eee-www!” I scream and flick my ankle.

Daddy’s flashlight catches a bufo hopping away.

“Leave me alone,” I say, and scurry back inside.

Visiting Howdy

SATURDAY AFTERNOON,
Howdy bathes himself on top of the wooden bench.

“Daddy,” I say. “He looks different.”

“Do you think?” Daddy asks as I lift the handle and open the cage door.

Howdy stops licking and looks at me. Slowly, I walk to the bench and sit, placing a small paper bag beside me. “How’s my favorite cat?” I ask, and scooch toward him. I reach under his white chin and rub my finger back and forth. He shakes his head, but doesn’t run. “It’s good to see you,” I say, and pet him from head to tail. Like last time, hair sticks to my fingers. Not a little. A lot. “You okay?”

He meows.

I don’t know if he means yes or no.

I wrap my arms around him and lift him onto my lap.

“Daddy,” I say, hugging my cat. “He’s lighter.”

I look at his food bowl. Almost full.

I remember what one quarantine officer said.

I remember Tinkerbell.

“Snack time, Howdy,” I say, and reach for the bag with two last bites of my tuna and potato chip sandwich inside.

Howdy sniffs and turns his nose away.

“Please, Howdy,” I say.

“Everyone has off days,” says Daddy, rubbing the top of Howdy’s head. “Even cats. He’s going to be okay.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if …” I say, and kiss my purr-less friend.

I pull a piece of string out of my pocket and wave it in front of Howdy’s face. He’s always loved to bat and chase string.

But not today.

Just before we leave, Mr. Santos, a quarantine officer, stands at the door. “May I come in, folks?” he asks. His bald head is shiny and his smile bright.

“Sure,” I say.

“How’s the big boy today?” Mr. Santos asks.

Howdy doesn’t answer. But Daddy does. “Doing great.”

I know he says that to make me feel better. I press my lips together.

“Howdy and I are buddies,” Mr. Santos says, and reaches over to scratch behind my cat’s ears. Howdy leans in. “He listens to all my stories. Laughs in all the right places.”

“Laughs?”

“With his eyes.”

Now Daddy and I are the ones laughing.

“Thanks for coming by,” Daddy says, and shakes Mr. Santos’s hand.

“Yes,” I say. “Most of all, thanks for being his friend.”

“Catch you later,” Mr. Santos says, and steps out of the cage.

“Love you, Howdy,” I say as I give him one last pet. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Then there’ll be ninety-seven days to go. I’m trying my best,” I say into his fur. “But I know it’s not good enough. Please be okay. Please.”

Daddy and I walk out to overcast skies. Whitecaps top the water nearby.

The sun wants to shine, but somehow it just can’t break through. We’ve had showers on and off for days. Rain makes weeds grow. Why don’t folks call?

First Real Job

I KNOW EXACTLY
what Grams is up to right now. It’s past noon on Wednesday in Gladiola, and twelve ladies will have gathered with their sewing baskets and stitchery at someone’s house. Grams calls it her lunchtime sewing circle. Grandpa calls it information central. The ladies talk and eat more than they sew or needlepoint.

Here in home ec, I have the sewing machine to myself. This is the third day Kiki hasn’t shown up. I figured she had the chicken pox, but before school, I could have sworn I saw her in the courtyard. So I keep one eye on the door.

She never comes.

During Hawaiian history, Malina invites me to babysit with her right after hula today. Which goes to show that life can change for the better in an instant.

The Silva family lives five doors down from Malina and she’s sat with the boys before. We arrive on time. And after quick introductions, the parents take off.

In the living room, dozens of little army soldiers line up on either side of the masking-tape border.

“Cross it and you’re dead,” hollers Kevin as he and his older brother, Kenneth, stare down their two younger siblings.

I don’t have a good feeling about this.

“Ready. Aim. Fire,” Kevin hollers. “Attack. Attack.”

Sounds of gunfire and explosions fill the air. The war is on full volume.

Malina sits in a recliner reading a
National Geographic
article about Paris. I back up and take a seat on the couch. Basically, the older boys are clobbering the younger.

“I think the first thing we have to do when we get to Paris is go to the top of this,” says Malina, holding up the magazine page with a photo of the Eiffel Tower.

“But of course,” I say with a fakey French accent, and quickly cross my fingers behind my back.

“Whoa, take it easy, y’all,” I say as the older boys topple the younger ones.

No response.

“It’s getting a little loud in here,” I say.

It gets louder.

I wave my arms.

Nothing happens.

Malina looks up from her magazine, raises a whistle to her mouth, and blows.

The war goes silent.

“Attention,” she commands just like Mr. Nakamoto, and the boys salute.

“Troops need sustenance,” she says, opens her straw bag, and hands each boy a chocolate bar.

I am watching a pro. And I am way out of my league.

The boys inhale their snack and start again. When the battle gets loud enough to be heard in Honolulu, Malina blows her whistle again. She sends the troops around the room four times. Once, they are told to do twenty-five jumping jacks. Once, they have to be silent for a whole minute. And last, they have inspection before chow time.

After supper, sponge baths instead of regular baths commence since water is rationed on the frontlines, and then we do a competition to see who can build the sturdiest fort.

“We want a spooky story,” they chant as we tuck them into bed.

“Not until you’re older,” says Malina. “Remember what happened last time?”

She turns to me, mouths
Madame Pele
, and pantomimes screaming and crying and not sleeping.

“But we’re older now,” says Kermit. “That was last week.”