Anywhere but Paradise (22 page)

AT HOME,
I watch Mama unpack. “I brought you a gift,” she says. “Something you can’t find just anywhere.”

Mama opens her hand. Four small black lava rocks lay in her palm. “They’re from the volcano.”

“Oh, Mama. You made it there after all. Thank you.”

She looks pleased.

It’s best not to hurt her feelings, so I don’t explain.

“I also picked up a few other things,” she says, handing me a bag. “And a stuffed dog for Malina as a thank-you gift for having you.”

“She’ll like that.”

Afterward, I sit at the dining room table, write a letter, and set the lumpy envelope out for tomorrow’s mail. Thanks to David, I know what to do.

Being Safe

MY PARENTS ARE SAFE.
Howdy is safe. Maybe Kahuna is, too. I’ve tried to talk to Kiki. The doctor says my head is okay. I feel better. Really. I can’t live like this forever. This is the last week of school.

I’m tired of being scared. Tired of worrying. In fact, I don’t think I have any more worry left in me. I’m tired of always thinking the worst. I’m going to be positive. Think the best.

I’m going to school tomorrow.

Hana Hou!

“I’M SO GLAD
your parents are okay,” kids say in homeroom the following morning.

“Did you really see Pele?”

I look at Malina. She shrugs.

In home ec, Kiki is absent. I imagine she’s still looking for her dog. I wish her the best.

Instead of my afternoon PE class, I’m in the library shelving a slew of biographies and books about the solar system and World War II. A piano concerto plays on the radio as the librarian and her volunteer tussle with overdue notices.

“WaaaaAAHHHH.”
The alert sirens wail.

“No!” I cry as my heart races. “Not again.”

“Let’s not panic,” says the librarian, turning up the volume on the radio. I rush to her desk so I won’t miss a word.

An announcer breaks in. Another earthquake shook Chile. We must evacuate.

I sink to my knees. Mama and Daddy will find higher ground. But Howdy? He’s trapped in his cage. Alone. And what about everyone else? So many have already died.

Malina barrels in. “She’s with me,” she tells the librarian in an official-sounding voice. The two move away and speak in hushed tones.

Then Malina joins me on the floor. “It’s probably a dud. But we need to leave now.”

I know.

“Hana hou!” she says. “One more time.”

We catch up to her math class plodding single file toward the hill.

She talk, talk, talks about everything. Nothing. Some teachers tell her to hush.

“Special case,” she says, and ignores them.

I don’t really listen. I can’t stop remembering the last time the sirens sounded.

The all-clear comes about two and a half hours later.

Howdy’s safe. We’re all safe.

As soon as I get home, I hug Mama. Hug her hard. For the second day in a row.

I skip hula so we can be together.

“You’ve done a great job sewing, Peggy Sue,” she says when I show her my work. “But I know the recital is coming up and you may be behind. I’m not as good a seamstress as your grandmother, but my handwork isn’t bad.”

“This one’s ready to hem,” I say, and give her a purple-and-white shorty muumuu. “And don’t worry, Grams always says quilters make mistakes on purpose. Nothing is ever perfect.”

Telling

KIKI WAS A NO-SHOW
for home ec Thursday morning as well. As far as I know, Kahuna is still MIA. Which means there’s a chance she won’t be at school tomorrow either. Of course I want her dog back. But I would be so relieved if she didn’t show up.

“One more day,” sings Malina after school. We’re in her bedroom to practice hula.

“Um, can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” she says, sorting through her records to find the right ones.

I pick at a cuticle. I know that Kiki had told me not to say anything. Or else. Now I’m sure that Kiki won’t find out about Malina. Malina’s true blue. And I want to know more.

“I’ve been wondering about Kill Haole Day.”

“Who told you?”

“Guess.”

“It’s a dumb tradition at our school. Some eighth-grade locals beat up kids for fun. They think they’re so tough.”

“Why?”

“I’m not saying they’re right or anything, but from the beginning, haoles have changed Hawaii, our aina—our land, our lives.”

“And not always for the good.”

“It makes me sad sometimes.”

“So I guess some kids are so mad that on the last day of school, they pick a fight.”

“Yep,” she says, waving a record. “No worry, beef curry. We’ll stick together.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Of course. Now, come on, let’s practice.”

She starts the music and we dance.

“Any chance you’ll help me sew later?” I ask after one hula. Even with Mama’s assistance, I’m way behind. “I’ll donate to your Paris fund.”

“You’re on.”

Malina comes over to my house. We sew. Malina stays for supper. And we sew some more.

“Time for me to go,” Malina says. It’s almost eight thirty. “You need to come, too. My mom says that she has a little something for us.”

“Autograph books,” we say, as Mrs. Halani hands each of us one. “Thank you.”

Mine is light pink with
Autographs
written in loopy cursive in dark pink across the cover.
Autograph Hound
is written inside a dachshund on Malina’s.

“I’m going to ask all of my old boyfriends to sign,” she says.

“That’s very magnanimous of you,” I say.

“I know,” she says.

Last Day of School

IT’S A HALANI TRADITION
for Malina to be driven to school by her dad on the last day, and I’m her lucky guest. No siren. Instead, the radio blasts songs from Malina’s favorite station.

We’re surrounded as soon as we step out of the car. “Peggy Sue, sign my autograph book. Peggy Sue, over here. Please sign.”

I don’t know most of the kids, but I sign anyway. And ask for their signatures, too. I don’t see Kiki.

Mrs. Taniguchi catches me on my way to homeroom. “I wanted to thank you for something,” she says. Her skirt and shoes are the same shade of fern green.

“Me?” I have no idea what that could be.

“I understand that you helped Kiki Kahana with a sewing project. That was very kind of you.”

Kind? Not really. “About that,” I say.

“Coming,” she says, signaling to someone behind me. “I’m sorry, Peggy Sue, Mr. Kam is sending an SOS. I’ve got to go.” She flits away before I can tell her more.

There’s an awards assembly first period.

No home ec.

This is my lucky day.

After lunch, one of Kiki’s friends bumps me in the walkway and keeps going. No big deal. Everyone is in a hurry to get out of here.

So am I. Just two more periods to go. The outside corridor is jammed.

When I leave the library, I turn the corner and head for Hawaiian history, my last class of the year.

Boom!

I collide with … I look down … Kiki. On the ground.

“Oh, no,” I say. “I’m so sorry.” She scowls back at me, and my shoulders stiffen. I have to make sure she got my message. That she knows how I feel about Kahuna. “I hope,” I say, “that your mom told you. I’m sorry about Kahuna, too.”

Kiki bounds up, her eyes boring into mine. “Today is my day,” she says.
“Bwak. Bwak.”

No more maybes.

That is her answer.

No deal.

My luck just ran out.