Anywhere but Paradise Page 2

  Eventually, Mrs. Barsdale pulls a thin brown book from a tangle of measuring tapes and assorted notions. “Are you in seventh or eighth?”

  I remember the counselor had said this class has both. “Seventh,” I say. I study her angular face and the beauty mark above her upper lip.

  “Tall for your age,” she muses and print-writes my name at the bottom of a page.

  I slouch a tad. Back home, I’m smack-dab in the middle of my class heightwise. Here, I’m tall.

  “This way,” she says, and steers me toward the pattern books lying on a slanted tabletop at the back of the room.

  No introductions. Good. I just want to blend in.

  “Mrs. Barsdale,” girls call out, waving their hands as we pass by. “Please help me next.” “Then me.” “And me.”

  The teacher doesn’t answer.

  “Find a simple dress you’d like to make and I’ll bring you the supply list,” she tells me.

  I choose a stool, face the backs of my classmates, and turn page after page after page, shutting out the world around me.

  “You again?” says a voice behind me. “You following me, haole?”

  “Not on purpose,” I say, spinning around.

  “Kiki,” hollers the teacher from across the room. “Get to work.”

  I blow a puff of air toward my bangs and return to the pages. But I don’t hear her walk away.

  Two quick steps. A hand shoots out. Thwack. The thick catalog in front of me slams shut.

  I pull my fingers back, but not fast enough.

  “Hey,” I say, and shake my hand, trying to get rid of the sting.

  Kiki grins, tosses back her long waterfall hair, and walks away. A few girls turn; their faces offer pity.

  Sewing gives you second chances. I like that. If you don’t get it right the first time or the second or the third, it’s okay. You can rip out the stitches and begin again.

  When the bell rings, I am out the door before anyone else.

  It’s only the end of my first class and I already want to start over.

  Zigzag Day

  DOWNSTAIRS CLASS. Upstairs class. Upstairs. Down. Down.

  Add in three building changes, one wrong-way detour, and that was my morning.

  I shift my binder and heap of books from one hip to another and step away from the crowds surging over walkways and grass toward the cafeteria. It’s lunchtime. Behind me, dark clouds still cling to the mountaintops. Ahead and toward the ocean, the sky is lighter by a few degrees.

  When the sidewalk empties, I speed toward my locker. I haven’t made it there yet. Book spines jab into my skin. Red marks my arms from their weight.

  A teacher with a whistle around his neck whips around the next corner and hustles toward me. “Where’s your hall pass?”

  “I don’t have one, I—”

  “This area’s off-limits until the bell,” he says in a don’t-mess-with-me way.

  I make a U-turn and slog toward lunch.

  Inside the cafeteria, unfamiliar spicy smells fill the noisy, steamy space. I stand close to the door and scan for a seat at the end of a table. Any table. No one really looks at me, though a few give sideways glances. I’m late and there’s no room that I can tell.

  I set my books beside me on the rough concrete outside the cafeteria and choke down my baloney sandwich.

  After PE, I’m back in Mr. Nakamoto’s homeroom for Hawaiian history. Last period.

  I cram a few books and my three-ring binder into the wire holder under my desk and stack the overflow on the floor. I have a clear view all the way to Kealoha Drive, the main street through Hanu’s downtown.

  “Class will commence,” says Mr. Nakamoto.

  I fix my eyes on the front of the room.

  “Sixty-seven years ago, Queen Liliuokalani was dethroned by the haoles,” he says.

  There is that word again.

  But the two other haole girls and three boys in the room don’t flinch.

  Mr. Nakamoto didn’t say it ugly. But it did sound like he thinks they made a mistake.

  I study the photograph of the queen above the blackboard. I think I see kindness in her eyes.

  Apparently, the haoles imprisoned her, too, which makes me feel even sorrier for her.

  Beef

  AFTER THE DISMISSAL BELL, I track down my locker—bottom row, center. I pile up my books close by and work the combination on my lock. Everyone clears out, including the teachers. There’s a faculty meeting in the library.

  Five more tries and the lock still won’t budge.

  A flash of red and white at the water fountain catches my eye. Kiki. But she isn’t looking my way. I squat down. Listen. Hear nothing.

  “Haole,” Kiki whispers in my ear.

  My shoulders jump. “Look,” I say staring up, “I said I was sorry about this morning. Let’s move on, okay?”

  “Haole, you like beef?” she asks.

  Is there a right answer? “It’s okay,” I say, standing. “But I like chicken better.”

  “What did I tell you,” she says to the two girls beside her, bent over with laughter. “She needs to be educated.”

  “So educate her,” says the girl in yellow.

  “I’m asking you to fight,” says Kiki, glowering, showing me a fist.

  I pull in a sharp breath.

  “Didn’t catch your answer,” says Kiki, cupping her ear.

  “No,” I say a little too loudly.

  “No?” she asks, circling me.

  I stand rock-still.

  “No?” she asks again. “That’s it?”

  “No, thank you?” I say, my voice unsteady.

  “The haole’s trying to be funny,” Kiki says to her friends. “But we know she’s chicken.”

  “Bawk. Bawk. Bawk,” sounds the girl in yellow. Kiki and the other girl join in. “Bawk. Bawk. Bawk,” they chant.

  Their words push me against the wall of metal. A lock jabs my right hip. I wince.

  “How long have you been here?” asks Kiki.

  “Five and a half days.”

  “Told you she’s a fresh-off-the-boat haole,” Kiki says, holding a hand out to her friends. “Pay up.”

  “Tomorrow,” they say. “Promise.”

  Kiki sneers, turns back to me, and smiles extra big. “I’ll go easy on you, FOB. We won’t fight today. There’s a special day for that. It’s the last day of school. Kill Haole Day. I’ll keep reminding you so you don’t forget.” Kiki narrows her eyes and moves closer. No smile. “Don’t even think about telling,” she says, “or I’ll introduce you to even more of my friends.”

  “You are, you are …” I try to think of the word—“mahalo.” I want to make sure she understands I know a thing or two. Understands what I think about her. Mahalo is on all the garbage cans at the airport—I am sure it means trash.

  “Mahalo?” Kiki cackles. “The new haole’s trying to talk Hawaiian? You heard her,” she says, and pokes her friend in yellow in the shoulder. “She said ‘thank you.’ She thanked me for inviting her to fight.”

  Thank you. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?

  “I hurt from too much laughing,” says Kiki. “Let’s hele.”

  I don’t know what that means yet, but I hope it means they are leaving.

  It must. They back away slowly. Pointing. Chanting. Then run off.

  I take in big gulps of air. Try to catch my breath. Like I am the one running. I slump down, hug my knees, and bury my face in my arms.

  My body is one big shiver.

  She hates me and she doesn’t even know me. She hates me so much she wants to fight? I can’t change the color of my skin.

  Kill Haole Day.

  I already feel dead.

  The Dog

  I CAN’T, I won’t stay at school another second.

  I snatch my mound of books and scurry toward our tiny house near the beach a few blocks away.

  The books chafe against my already sore arms. Only when I stop to shift the heaviness from one
arm to another do I take in front yards of green, chock-full of fragrant pink and yellow and white and red flowers. And kids racing their bikes down the middle of the curvy street. We forget to say hello.

  Up until this move, I’ve hardly had anything really bad ever happen to me.

  Except once.

  Last year right after Christmas, a stray dog started coming around Russell Weber’s house.

  The afternoon I rode by on my bike, it took chase. It surprised me more than anything, running alongside me, barking, baring its teeth. I sped up, but I hit a rock and fell off.

  It growled.

  I screamed.

  It knew I was afraid.

  It charged.

  And bit me. On my leg. Bit me good.

  Then it ran off. Nobody ever found it, which meant they couldn’t test it for rabies.

  They give you a passel of rabies shots, all in the stomach.

  They hurt bad. Real bad, no matter how hard I squeezed Mama’s hand.

  When the long needle plunged in, thousands of angry bees attacked.

  Stinging.

  Deep.

  Deeper.

  Fourteen shots in fourteen days.

  After each one, Mama always offered to take me for a Dr Pepper float at the soda fountain or fix me a special meal. But it didn’t begin to make up for it.

  For my sorrows, Grams and I made the pleated skirt I’m wearing now. Grandpa painted a picture of spring wildflowers just for me. Every day, Cindy bought me my favorite chewing gum with yellow wrappers. Howdy curled up even closer beside me each night.

  Kiki is like that dog.

  Knows I’m afraid.

  And she bites.

  Come September

  I CLOMP UP THE STEPS of our green-and-white wood-frame rental. It came furnished. Our belongings are on the way. On either side of the front door, red hibiscus flowers bloom the same color as the roof.

  “How was school?” Mama asks as soon as I walk in.

  She’s on the couch in the living-dining room wearing sunglasses. A surefire sign that one of her sick headaches is fixing to brew and she might take to her bed. She’s had more than her fair share of late.

  I plunk my books on the rattan coffee table in front of her and fake a smile. “School was”—I pause—“very educational.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Mama is good at asking questions. An expert, actually. Before she married, she taught high school English.

  But I don’t want to talk about my day. Not to her. Not now. I don’t want Mama to take to her bed because of me. Or march up to school and make a fuss. I may not like school, but I can make it until the end of the year. As of tomorrow, thirty-six more days. I can last thirty-six days.

  Because come September, I won’t be here. Not if I can help it.

  This morning Mrs. Taniguchi asked me what I needed.

  Now I know: a one-way ticket back home.

  And of course Howdy, who should be napping in the sunbeam on the braided rug on the floor beneath me right now.

  Sooner than soon, I’ll shuffle cards for canasta every afternoon with Grams, watch trains roll by the station with Grandpa, and play Ping-Pong with Cindy, just like we planned. Howdy and I will live at 127 Main Street, Gladiola, Texas. Not 808 Hanu Road, Hanu, Hawaii.

  I’ve had enough of paradise, thank you very much. I can’t wait to leave.

  “Mama, I need some fabric and a few sewing supplies for home ec,” I say before the next question comes.

  “Sewing ought to make you feel right at home,” she says, rubbing her temples. “Let’s go later, just before supper.”

  “Sure, Mama. That’d be fine.”

  “And maybe you could hose off the front window later, too.”

  It’s one of my daily chores. Living near the water, salt spray clouds the windows with a thin, sticky film. It makes it hard to see outside. Blasting the window with the hose would only make Mama’s head worse.

  “Okay, I better start my homework, then. My first hula lesson is in an hour.”

  “I like your initiative,” says Mama.

  “Oh, and how about a raise in my allowance?” I ask it casual-like so as not to create suspicion. It’ll take a heap of money to fund my trip. I know without asking that my parents won’t just hand it over. Mama’s already said our grocery and gas money doesn’t stretch as far here, and that I had to choose between surfing lessons and hula. “Mama, you always up the amount when I start school,” I say. “And this is a new start.”

  “Nice try, Peggy Sue. But next year isn’t that far away.”

  Exactly.

  Just because Mama won’t fund me doesn’t mean others won’t. Hanu’s small, but surely some folks will pay good money for my help. Pay for something they need. Pay for something so routine I’ll have a steady income. Something like … I skedaddle into my room to make flyers for my first new business venture: Peggy Sue’s Window-Washing Service.

  Hula, Here i Come

  I SETTLE ONTO my temporary army surplus bed with squeaky springs. With my binder paper and crayons, I compose my window-washing business advertisement.

  Hawaiian music floats through my window from next door. A steel guitar and ukulele pluck and strum the sunny melody. A bass joins in. I can’t catch all the words, but I hear aloha. The voices echo, mirroring a bright, cloudless day. I lift my chin, slow my breathing, and picture the light.

  Sometimes a song sounds like a question, sometimes it sounds like an exclamation point, sometimes like a dot-dot-dot-to-be-continued story. This one sounds like an answer or at least the beginning of one.

  The song takes me back to Saturday. We saw the Kodak Hula Show, just steps from the sand on Waikiki Beach. We perched on the top row of the bleachers in the squinty sunshine. The grassy area below was roped off for the performance, and just beyond, surfers navigated the sparkling blue the best they could. The breeze stirred the salty air with suntan lotion and flowers. I wore my still-fresh flower lei. Tourists clicked cameras all around. It was our second day here. And I sat inside a perfect-picture postcard.

  Dancers in green leaf skirts, red tops, and yellow plumeria leis shook matching feather gourds in unison to a quick-moving song. Then, wearing long muumuus, they swayed ever so gracefully to more stories. I could have watched for hours.

  Right then and there, I decided hula was for me. I wanted to dance just like them.

  Turns out, it was meant to be.

  Mrs. Halani lives next door and she gives lessons. Daddy knew her and Mr. Halani from when he was stationed here during World War II. They have a son in high school and a daughter my age. But I haven’t met the girl yet on account of her chicken pox. It seemed like it took forever for my own itchy red spots to go away last year.

  On Sunday, Mrs. Halani told me she’s been teaching for more than fifteen years. She said her students are as young as four and as old as seventy-two. She said she could teach anyone to hula.

  I figure that includes me. For as long as I’m here.

  My First Lesson

  THE CLASS LINES UP in three straight rows. I choose a spot in the back and curl my toes into the woven mat.

  We face Mrs. Halani at the front of her garage-turned-studio. Red and yellow feather gourds, bamboo sticks, and smooth black stones fill the shelves behind her. To my left and right are floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

  Our willowy, tall teacher wears her dark hair stylishly short. A pink plumeria blossom is bobby-pinned behind her left ear, and a gold bracelet with black letters decorates one wrist.

  I stand beside a girl whose hair flows below her waist. She smiles.

  There might be a girl from my homeroom in the front row, but I’m not sure. There’s a pink ribbon in her hair, but she’s not in school clothes.

  Mrs. Halani begins to sing about lovely hula hands. Thank goodness it’s in English with just a smidgen of Hawaiian, so I can mostly understand. Her voice is high and soft and sweet. Her body dips and sways as her arms and hands tell a story a
bout aloha, love. But it’s different from the one I heard a little while ago. When she sings the mushy part, we try to act nonchalant, but a few laughs spurt out.

  “Now repeat after me,” Mrs. Halani says, and begins again.

  I take in the song, raise my arms, and move my feet. I am a bird.

  I bump into the girl next to me. “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “Remember to smile,” says Mrs. Halani.

  I picture myself onstage at the Gladiola Rec Center. I am the wind.

  My elbow pokes the girl’s ear. “Sorry, again.”

  The song ends and the girl rubs her shoulder. “Make that sorry times three,” I say.

  “You’ll catch on,” she says.

  “Peggy Sue,” says Mrs. Halani. “Let’s focus on your footwork the next time through. We’ll get to the hands later.”

  Practice. All I need to do is practice.

  All day every day.

  Like an Olympian.

  After class, Mrs. Halani lets me post one of my flyers in her studio. “Saving for something special?” she asks.

  “Just summer extras,” I say. I keep it short, hoping she won’t ask me anything else.

  “You’re very smart,” she says. “It’s always good to put a little aside.”

  Older girls prance in for the next class and I scoot out. I plaster the neighborhood with a dozen ads. The sky is still dark up by the mountain range, but here by the water, it’s only partly cloudy.

  Washed Out

  “I MIGHT NOT BE UP for a trip to the store for your sewing supplies after all,” says Mama when I return from posting my window-washing ads. She’s still on the couch. Her sunglasses perch atop her head and her eyes read tired.

  “I can go by myself,” I say. The store is a fifteen-minute walk away. “Mrs. Barsdale recommended Fujimoto’s Five-and-Dime, and I know exactly where it is.”

  “That might be for the best,” says Mama. “Take my wallet and an umbrella. It’s been threatening all day.”