Anywhere but Paradise (13 page)

“I’m exhausted,” I say, collapsing on the couch after Malina’s not scary story. “And all I did was watch.”

“It just takes practice,” says Malina.

“Like years,” I say. I don’t have that much time.

Malina plunks down beside me, her hands on her knees. “Ask me,” she says.

“Ask you what?”

“About Kimo.”

“Have you been withholding information? Tell me, hurry.”

“Well,” says Malina, leaning in, “Tammy said Phyllis said Melissa said Lani said she heard Kimo say my name at lunch.”

“There you go. Just wait. He’s sure to make a move soon.”

“I know. I’m so excited. I just don’t know how much longer I can wait.”

“Waiting for what you want is hard.”

When Malina gets paid, she hands me some of her money. I finger it, and think about Howdy, about going home to Texas. “This belongs to you,” I say, returning the bills. “I wasn’t a babysitter or even an assistant.”

“Don’t be silly,” she says, giving it back. “It was so much better having you there. If you don’t want to use it for Paris, you could buy Howdy some toys.”

“Thank you, Malina.” I smile. “Maybe I’ll do both.”

Lei Making

ONCE MALINA FINISHES HELPING
her mom with laundry after school the next day, she bounces over. “Ready?”

“Ready,” I say. “Malina’s going to teach me how to make a lei,” I tell Mama.

“Have fun, girls.”

We pick and soak dozens and dozens of plumeria blossoms from our yards and the neighbors’. Then, it’s time for the next step. Malina hands me the longest needle I’ve ever seen and a strand of dental floss. “Stronger than thread,” she says.

Sitting here side by side reminds me of sitting next to Kiki. Only Malina doesn’t care that I’m haole.

She shows me how to make a double lei. “It’ll be fuller and fancier,” she says.

When we finish, I inspect mine. Since making it was
kind of like sewing, I thought mine would look perfect, like Malina’s. A stem shows here and there. A few petals are bruised, a few missing.

Well, at least it smells good.

Bud

WHEN THE STARS APPEAR,
I dance outside to check on the night-blooming cereus. Even though the plant is way, way up there, I think I see a bud. It is wrapped in green and about the size of an egg, only flatter. I’ve been here almost one whole month. Something is starting to grow.

Lei Day

SCHOOL SMELLS LIKE HEAVEN.

According to Malina, today is like a holiday. We’re celebrating May Day, even if technically it isn’t until Sunday.

Plumeria, orchid, carnation, and I don’t know what else are draped around shoulders, circle heads, or both. Kids stream by in Hawaiian print muumuus and aloha shirts.

“Close your eyes,” says Malina as we walk up to the entrance.

“But I want to see everything.”

“Here, hang on to my arm,” she says. “We’ll be there in a sec.”

It’s better not to argue.

“Coming through,” says Malina as I shuffle beside her. “Now look.”

Across the courtyard, a wooden stage, draped in
white, yellow, red, and pink plumeria, fronts the bank of classroom windows. Two wicker chairs with backs shaped like fans sit in the center with wooden classroom chairs lined up on either side. Poles topped with red and yellow papier-mâché cylinders stand at either end of the stage. Strings of yellow plumeria hang from the ceilings of the walkways that encircle the courtyard. Pink plumeria blossoms wrap around the trunks of the coconut trees.

“It’s like a movie,” I say.

“Just wait for the assembly.”

After homeroom, the whole school crowds into the courtyard. We spill over the walkways and onto the basketball court to the far left of the stage. Malina and I wiggle our way toward the right side and sit on the grass. “This’ll give us the best view,” she says.

I spot Tammy a few kids over. This is her last day. She and her friends are trading addresses, promising to write, and dreaming of visiting snow. Will that ever be me?

Mr. Kam, the principal, welcomes us to Lei Day.

“As is our custom,” he says, “let us sing our former national anthem.”

Everyone stands. A soft breeze stirs. The warm sun rises behind us. Some place a hand over their heart.

I send Malina a questioning look. “ ‘Hawaii Pono‘i,’ ” she says. “In Hawaiian.”

Mr. Kam lowers the mike to his side and begins. All around me, voices join his. Harmonious, strong, proud. Faces tender, earnest, resilient. Chill bumps cover my arms. The last note fades. No one speaks. We listen to the song’s memory—to the echo—as the birds reply.

Mr. Kam turns the program over to Steven Hamakua, the eighth-grade class president and MC. “Representing the Big Island of Hawaii,” says Steven, “we welcome Princess Sylvia Okubo and Prince Kimo Nahoa.”

We all clap. Sylvia wears a long red satin holoku. Kimo, in black pants, a white shirt, and a red sash around his waist, walks barefoot across the stage, arm in arm with Sylvia. They stand in front of the last chairs on the left and wave.

I wave back.

“I read,” says Malina, “that if you feel a little spark when you see someone you like, it’s a good sign. And I just felt one.” She strokes the K+M written on her hand.

“Y’all would make a cute couple,” I say.

“And now, representing the island of Maui, we
welcome a princess who is continuing a family tradition of being in the Lei Day court: Kiki Kahana and …”

Is that the Kiki I know? Her hair is up in a twist. Her holoku of pink satin has an extra-long train. She wears a nervous smile, like she doesn’t believe she is onstage. It makes her look softer. Instead of waving like the others, she holds up her thumb and pinkie on her right hand and shakes it back and forth.

The crowd hollers and does the hand sign right back.

It is Kiki. She must have been at rehearsals all week. “Who chose her?” I ask.

“We voted by grade before you came. It’s a popularity contest.” Malina wrinkles her nose. “I heard a rumor that the girls running against her dropped out.”

“Do you think she had something to do with that?”

“I think she wanted it really bad.”

“Look, it’s Connie from hula,” I say as the next couple appears.

Island after island, pairs parade across the stage. After the last representatives, those of Niihau, are presented, the royal court sits and the entertainment begins.

I recognize a hula song. It’s on the flip side of one of my records.

Kiki dances it as beautifully as Mrs. Halani. She sings to the music. Her eyes follow her hands. Her knees are soft. She smiles.

I wish this Kiki would come to school every day.

Half-Full or Half-Empty?

IT’S SUNDAY AFTERNOON
and Howdy lies in a thin beam of sunlight on the floor next to his door.

“Hi, sweet boy,” I say, and reach my fingers through the wire to scratch the top of his head.

Howdy stands, stretches, and rubs his whiskers against his cage.

“Back up just a smidgen,” I say as I lift the handle and open his door. I pick Howdy right up, sit on the bench, and set him on my lap. There’s less cat hair in my hands, less on my clothes.

“See that,” says Daddy. “A half-empty bowl.”

I lean back against the cage. “Why, compared to last week, Howdy, you’re almost a member of the clean-plate club. When you wake up tomorrow, you’ll have eighty-nine days left. You can do this. Keep up the good work.”

Daddy settles in beside us with a book about positive thinking.

Except for petting Howdy, I don’t move for two whole hours.

It almost doesn’t matter that he doesn’t purr.

When I get home, I send a postcard to Cindy with a photo of a lei stand. I recognize plumeria, orchid, carnation, tuberose, and pikake flowers. Only two I don’t know.

Civil Defense Announcement

“CLASS,”
says Mr. Nakamoto, “it would behoove you to listen.”

On Monday morning, May 2, the number twenty is on the board. Mr. Nakamoto shakes the announcement paper in his hand and raps the empty desk at the front of the room. I wonder if it snows in Colorado in May. I hope for Tammy’s sake it does.