Anywhere but Paradise (15 page)

A MOM TALKS
with Mrs. Halani at the front of the studio before class Wednesday afternoon. A partially made granny-style holoku is draped over her arm. Her voice is growing louder and louder.

“My mom hates to sew,” says a girl standing next to Malina and me.

She looks familiar, but she’s not in our hula class. “She says the pattern is too hard and that I’ll have to wear something different instead.” The girl studies the assortment of footwear just inside the door. This is a no-shoes space. Malina and I exchange glances.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I say.

“Paris?” asks Malina.

“Paris,” I say. Only I mean the one in Texas.

“I can sew,” I say. “I made what I’m wearing.” I spin, and my bluepinkwhite skirt blurs around me.

The girl grabs my arm mid-twirl. “Mom, Mom,”
she says, and pulls me over to her.

“Name the price,” says the mom after eyeing my skirt and blouse.

I look to Mrs. Halani. She says a number. Higher than what I am thinking.

“It’ll be worth it,” the mom says, and quickly hands me the materials.

The girl, Sylvia Okubo, turns to me. “Thanks, I owe you one.”

“Believe me,” I say, “you’re doing me a huge favor.”

“Peggy Sue,” says Mrs. Halani, “once the word gets out, you’re going to have more business than you know what to do with. Remember, you can always say no.”

Never. I’ll never say that word.

“In fact,” Mrs. Halani says, “my niece needs all of her costumes made. I’ll talk to my sister and set it up if that’s okay.”

“One of her costumes is extra special,” says Malina. “Mom picks one student each year to dance the last dance with her.”

Things are looking up everywhere. At school. Here. I’ve got a business—a sewing business!

Class Time

“EVERYONE FACE THE MIRROR
to your right,” says Mrs. Halani. I noticed her necklace when we talked sewing. It’s a choker of polished black kukui nuts the size of walnuts and coordinates perfectly with her brown-and-black tapa print muumuu. “Spread out so you can see yourself,” she says. “No hiding.”

I curl my toes under. I don’t mind dancing in front of my dresser mirror with only my porcelain cat watching, but I dislike dancing in class, where these girls will see all of my mistakes. So I think about dancing for Grams and Grandpa and Cindy instead.

“Make sure your elbows don’t sag,” says Mrs. Halani. “And most importantly, smile.”

Malina is in the first row and gives me a big grin in the mirror.

“Beginning positions,” says Mrs. Halani.

I bend my knees, put my hands on my hips, and
make sure my feet are slightly apart. Mrs. Halani taps a brown gourd. I bend my right elbow and raise it to chest height. My left arm goes straight out to the side at my shoulder.

Mrs. Halani chants in Hawaiian about the beauty of the island of Kauai. I imagine the blooming ginger along the banks of the streams, the barking sand, and valleys green from rain.

I peek in the mirror as I move my feet and smile at my class.

Everyone smiles back.

I keep going.

And trip.

Kimo
+
Malina?

“I HAVE TO TELL YOU
something important,” says Malina as we leave class. Her face is solemn.

“I’m listening.”

“I called Kimo last night.”

“And?”

“He answered.”

“And?”

“I hung up.”

“Why?”

“Nerves. But I called right back. Only then, his sister picked up, and before I could even ask for him, she said, ‘Charlene, stop calling my brother.’ ”

“Who’s Charlene?”

“A cute, popular girl in my PE class.”

I look at her hand. The heart is empty. And I hadn’t noticed.

“Don’t worry, Malina. He’ll come around.”

I hope.

I write another postcard to Cindy, who for some reason still hasn’t written. Surely she hasn’t broken her arm or hand. She did break a finger in fourth grade when she hit the tetherball with one finger instead of her whole hand.

This postcard shows hula dancers wearing skirts made of green ti leaves and holding signs that spell out
A-L-O-H-A
.

Satin

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON,
I learn that satin doesn’t cut the same as cotton and wool.

It may be shiny and smooth, but that is just an illusion.

Scissors slip on satin.

Cutting places you don’t want cut.

It frays.

It is unforgiving.

Sweat marks show on satin.

Which is why I am fixing to go to the fabric department at Fujimoto’s Five-and-Dime. I need more. I need to try again.

Sewing may give you second chances. But cutting does not.

“It’s the price of doing business,” Mama says as I grab my purse.

I’ll have to spend my own money. I can’t charge
Mrs. Halani’s sister for my mistake. I have to pay for it. Which means no profit.

I pray it’s like the first pancake—the test pancake: it tastes the same as all the others, but it never looks as pretty. And now that I’ve made the mistake, it won’t happen again—the next time will be better.

Like hula, sewing a holoku is harder than it looks.

Holdout

HOWDY JUMPS UP
right beside me as soon as I sit on the bench on Saturday.

“This is day thirty-seven, Howdy. Eighty-three more to go.”

Or less, I pray.

I check out Howdy’s food bowl. Almost empty!

I swing a toy mouse in front of Howdy’s eyes. “I bought this just for you.”

Howdy rubs his face against my hand. First one side, then the other.

“You’re welcome,” I say, and twirl the mouse before his nose.

But Howdy doesn’t pay that toy any mind. At all. He kneads his front paws into my lap. I put aside the mouse and hug my soft, warm kitty. But not too tight.

And then, and then … 
Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

“Why, you big old holdout, you,” I say.

“He sounds great to me,” says Daddy.

“The best,” I say. “Thank you, Howdy.”

Clothesline

AS I RETURN
to my room Sunday night after supper, I pause at the doorway.

Four muumuus in various states hang by clothespins on twine stretching across the front of my bedroom window. A small slip of paper with a name is attached by a safety pin to each one.

Two more mothers have already dropped off patterns and materials. Two others promised they would come by before the end of next week, which means eight muumuus so far.

The recital is in four weeks.

Solid pinks, bright oranges, turquoises, yellows. Hawaiian prints—blue and white hibiscus, brown and white and black tapa prints with tikis, red and yellow and navy and green bird of paradise.

My room is as colorful as a coral reef.

Counting Maybes

TODAY IS MONDAY,
May 16. Ten days left of school. Five classes until our sewing projects are due. And only three periods left to get them done.

Every day since our agreement, I’ve asked Kiki for her answer. So far, she’s said:

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.