Anywhere but Paradise (2 page)

SHE POPS OUT OF NOWHERE.

“Move it,
haole
,” says the girl wearing a bold red- and-white muumuu dress. And a big old scowl. Her long dark hair is almost to her waist.

My arm scrapes against the prickly bricks beside the counselor’s office.

I know that word. It was on the list Daddy made for me just before we moved. I’ve heard it plenty of times since we arrived.

The girl called me white.

She said it like it was dirty.

My face heats up and my mouth opens. But no words come out. I don’t understand. Why is she acting so ugly?

“I got places to go,” says the girl. But she just stands there and stares, hands on her hips. “Say you’re sorry.”

I clutch my binder and sack lunch. I don’t want
trouble. Not with her. Not with anyone. Today. Or any day. “I’m Peggy Sue Bennett and I apologize if I was standing in your way.”

The girl nods, so I guess I said it right.

“But you didn’t have to push,” I say under my breath.

The girl’s deep brown eyes fire up. She heard me? Read my mind?

“Something wrong with you, haole? You talk funny. You’re skinny tall.”

Not that tall. Same as her. But she’s sturdier.

“You wear funny clothes, too.”

I wasn’t dressed like anyone else at Hanu Intermediate, that’s for sure. Here, girls wear cotton dresses or short muumuus.

Before we came, I’d only seen one muumuu in real life. And that was years ago. The mayor’s wife showed off her billowy, egg-yolk-yellow-and-white muumuu at a school assembly after she and her husband took a Hawaiian vacation. It was long. Since arriving, I’ve already observed that these dresses come in other shapes, styles, and prints.

And that no one wears saddle shoes and bobby socks to this school. At least some have ponytails, like me.

The counselor’s door opens onto the outside walkway, and Mrs. Taniguchi, the woman in charge of
my class schedule, pokes her head out. Her soft pink manicured fingernails match her pencil skirt. “Kiki, I asked you to come fifteen minutes before the first bell. You’re late.”

“It’s her fault,” says the girl, tossing her head in my direction.

Kiki. What I wouldn’t give for a Texas twister to swoop her right up and carry her away. Far, far away. Or me.

Mrs. Taniguchi sighs. “Good morning, Peggy Sue. Let me get your paperwork.” She puts her arm around Kiki’s shoulders and leads her into her office.

Kiki whips around just before the door closes and mouths
Stupid haole
.

On second thought, how about a tidal wave instead of a twister? But there is no whoosh of wind. No crash of waves.

I blink hard.

What did I expect? That I’d be given a flower lei and a smile like when we arrived at the airport?

I look out onto the school courtyard surrounded by one- and two-story cinder-block buildings. Kids stand in groups under the few scrawny coconut trees, talking, laughing, kicking up the red dirt.

I count. Twice.

Eighteen haoles out of maybe one hundred.

One Chance

MRS. TANIGUCHI EMERGES
a few minutes later with my schedule. “Your homeroom is B-26,” she says, and gives me directions.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Have a good day and let me know if you need anything. And, Peggy Sue, we’re informal here; you don’t have to call me ma’am.”

I stifle my next thank-you and nod instead as she slips back into her office.

The opening bell rings loud and long. Kids holler see-ya-laters and set out for the classrooms. Some speed, juggling towers of books and poster boards lined with charts and diagrams. Some poke along, teasing out last bits of conversation. Some move halfway between zip and drag.

Back home, I was a pokey one. Gabfests with friends happened only outside of class. On Wednesday mornings, my best friend, Cindy, and I hoisted the flags at
the front of the school. Afterward, we’d configure the longest possible route to homeroom.

Today is Wednesday. And I’ll be pokey for a different reason. Here, I’m in no hurry to be the new kid.

After the crowd thins, I head down the covered sidewalk toward the cafeteria building and turn left. I look up. In the small gap between the cafeteria and the next buildings I see dark gray clouds pinch the corners of the green mountain range in the distance. I can’t see the ocean, but I feel its breeze pushing me forward.

I plod along. Four two-story rectangular buildings with outside walkways open onto patches of shared grass. As far as I can see, banks of tan metal lockers front the classrooms on either side of the buildings. A few stragglers click locks and spin dials one last time. At the very end, I find room 26.

The door is closed, but through the open louvered windows above the lockers, I can hear a pencil sharpener grind, and I catch the rise and fall of voices settling in. I take a deep breath, turn the knob, and step inside.

The room silences.

My eyes glom on to my black-and-white saddle shoes. One lace is undone.

“Welcome, Miss Bennett,” says a man’s voice.

I look up at the teacher stepping toward me. His flattop haircut glistens like Daddy’s. His crisp,
short-sleeved white shirt looks store-bought new. “I’m Mr. Nakamoto.”

I try to smile, but my upper lip sticks to my teeth. Papers shuffle, whispers rise.

I glance around the room. B-26 doesn’t look much different from the classrooms back home. Same kind of desks. Same blackboard. Bulletin boards with maps and facts. Even the same framed photo of President Eisenhower. But there are also portraits of other folks I don’t know. I take a closer look. They are royalty: I count seven kings and a queen.

“You’ll need this after a few classes,” says Mr. Nakamoto, handing me a lock with a number on the back and a combination tag attached. “You’re in my last period for Hawaiian history. I’ll give you your materials then.”

“Thank you,” I say.

Mr. Nakamoto turns to the class. “Attention.” Kids sit up straighter than straight, eyes forward, mouths closed. “Meet Miss Peggy Sue Bennett, from Gladiola, Texas.”

A sea of questioning faces study me. They’re probably asking: Why would anyone transfer at the end of the year, and in the middle of the week, no less? Does she have a tremor or something, because that paper in her hand is quivering something fierce? Will this outsider make it? Will she last?

“Miss Bennett, would you like to say hello?” asks Mr. Nakamoto.

Mama’s parting words after breakfast swirl in my head—“You only have one chance to make a first impression, so do good.”

“Hi, y’all.” I wave.

The class erupts into laughter and my face heats up for the second time this morning. Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken. Maybe I shouldn’t have waved.

“There’s a seat in the back,” says Mr. Nakamoto.

I hurry down the row by the windows, focused on the floor.

“For those of you just waking up,” Mr. Nakamoto says as chalk marks punctuate the blackboard, “it is April sixth. Including today, that makes thirty-seven school days left.”

The class whoops and hollers.

“And it would behoove you to remember the change in the bus schedule.…”

I slink into an empty chair, stack my belongings on the desk, and retie my shoe.

The boy on my left, with a wavy strand of black hair in the middle of his forehead, watches me.

I sit up and clasp my lock.

“Rehearsals for the May Day ceremony …” continues Mr. Nakamoto.

“Hey, Texas,” whispers my new neighbor. “Do you have a horse?”

“I have a cat. A cat named Howdy.”

The boy shrugs, looking disappointed. His eyes brighten. “How about an oil well?”

I shake my head and the boy snaps his fingers. “Oooh, junk.”

Seems like I can’t please anyone today.

Two girls up ahead pass notes and stifle giggles as Mr. Nakamoto’s announcements march on.

Without looking at the numbers on my lock, I spin the dial this way and that, listening to the whir. It’s the closest sound to a purr I’ve heard in days, so I keep spinning.

In Gladiola, it’s lunchtime now. In Gladiola, one table in the junior high cafeteria is chatting and laughing as they fold gum wrappers for the chain whose length will surely grow to
Guinness Book of Records
status. In Gladiola, there’s an empty seat beside Cindy at that table.

Out the window, the mountain range with its various shades of green is in shadow, with just a thread of light. Two thin lines of white water stream down the folds in its face.

Second Chances

“I HOPE YOU’RE
a good seamstress. Or a quick learner,” says Mrs. Barsdale, the first-period home ec teacher. She must use a can of hair spray on her helmetshaped blond bob. It doesn’t move as she searches for her roll book under stacks of fabric samples and whatnots on her desk. “We’re already two weeks into our sewing module,” she explains while I stand next to her desk.

Grams helped me make my skirt and blouse, but I don’t tell her that.

“Mrs. Barsdale,” a girl calls, and waves from the front row. “I need help.”

“As you can see,” Mrs. Barsdale says, not looking up, “I am busy.”

“You always are,” mumbles the girl. She keeps her arm raised, props her other elbow on the edge of the sewing machine table, and rests her head in her hand.

Two others already have their hands up. One group visits next to the supply cabinets while another chats around a sewing machine. Some girls unfold pattern directions and read; a few thread needles. One machine
zzztZzzzztZzzzts
away.

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