Anywhere but Paradise (24 page)

MALINA AND I
head to my front door. From her mom’s studio comes a song I know, about the town of Lahaina on the island of Maui. I hum to cover up the silence.

I need a mid-course correction. That’s a term Daddy learned in the military. When something is cockeyed, it’s time for an adjustment. Malina’s right. I can’t let a few bad things—okay, a lot of bad things—get to me. I should rise above them. I should make the best of my present situation. I should focus on the good.

My parents are home. Malina is my friend, even if she is put out with me right now. The girls in my hula class are nice. I love to dance even though I’m not that great at it. I’m earning good money sewing. Howdy is almost halfway through his quarantine. And now it’s officially summer vacation. I’ll be leaving sooner than later. I almost have enough for a third of a ticket.

I should try.

I should enjoy Hawaii while I’m still here.

It’s true. Nothing’s perfect.

Not people.

Not Hawaii.

Not me.

“Malina, I’m sorry,” I say as we reach the steps to my house. “I haven’t been fair to you or to Hawaii. Thank you for sticking up for me after school. It means a lot. And for saying what you just said about giving this place a chance. I’m going to try. Really try.”

We climb the steps, I open the door, and we walk through.

“Can I see what everyone wrote in your autograph book?” I ask as we grab a snack.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she says, and opens to the last page: “ ‘Stay sweet, Malina. Hope to c u this summer! Kimo.’ ” A cool drawing fills up the rest of the space.

“See,” I say, giving her a pen for her hand heart, “no worry, beef curry.”

Bump

THAT NIGHT
I scoot out back with a flashlight. I haven’t checked on the night-blooming cereus since my parents left. I click on the light and shine it on the base of the monkeypod tree. Up, up, up goes the light, until it touches the bottom tip of the plant.

Inch by inch, I move the glow. There it is. Not a flower. But a bump. A bump the size of a small egg. A bump that will grow until it bursts through the skin and blossoms.

Man o’ War

ON THE FIRST MORNING
of our summer vacation, I wash the sticky sea salt off the windows of our house until they’re perfectly clear.

Then, before we sew, Malina and I walk over to the beach park with a transistor radio. We don’t want to miss the countdown of this week’s biggest hits.

I stare at the jelly-looking sea thingy with a lopsided iridescent blue bubble and a long skinny tail while Elvis sings about being stuck like glue in love. The bubble shimmers in the sunlight.

“It’s beautiful,” I say to Malina, reaching down to touch the tail.

“Don’t!” she hollers. “It’s a man o’ war.”

I pull back my hand as the tide swirls at my feet.

The tail wraps around my ankle.
“Ow. Ow. Ow.”
It’s a bee sting times ten and I can’t fling it off.

“Go deeper,” says Malina.

Okay! Next time I’ll know.

I hop forward and swish my foot like a whirligig. Finally, the tendril unwraps.

But the sting remains.

“Quick, rub sand on it,” Malina says as I emerge from the water.

A squiggly red welt marks my ankle and leg.

I spot another man o’ war a few yards away. I pick up a stick and jab it.
Pop
. “There,” I say. “One less meanie in the world.”

“I don’t think it’s dead,” says Malina.

I reach down and rub sand on my leg.

“Come on,” she says.

A few minutes later, my leg hangs over her bathtub as she shakes a bottle of whitish granules from the spice cabinet over my skin. “What is this?”

“Ajinomoto. It’ll make the pain go away.”

“But what is it?”

“Meat tenderizer.”

“Yep. That’s me all right. White meat.”

We crack up.

Hanai family

MALINA AND I
sew the rest of the morning, break for lunch, and sew a little more. Mama helps, too. We’ve got a deadline. Mrs. Halani asked all my remaining customers to come to the studio for fittings Tuesday afternoon. The recital is next Saturday.

Later, Daddy, Malina, and I drop Mama off for her hair appointment and make our way to the quarantine station. Day fifty-eight, Howdy. Almost halfway.

“Mr. Santos,” says Daddy as we sign the registration book. “I don’t believe you’ve met my other daughter, Malina.”

“Pleased to meet you,” says Mr. Santos. “Where have you been keeping her, Robert? All this time I could have sworn Peggy Sue was an only child.”

“Malina had the chicken pox,” I say, which is true.

“Real bad,” says Malina, scratching her arm.

“Is that right?” says Mr. Santos. “Now, girls, stand
back and let me take a good look at the both of you.”

“Y’all look like you’ve lined up for a firing squad,” says Daddy. “Smile.”

So we do.

“I can tell you aren’t twins,” Mr. Santos says. “But I can see a family resemblance. You both have mischievous smiles.”

Daddy reaches out to shake Mr. Santos’s hand. “Thanks, Clifford.”

“I have a hanai brother myself,” he says. “Now you folks hurry up. Howdy’s waiting.”

Fittings

AS GIRLS TRY
on their muumuus Tuesday afternoon, Mrs. Halani, Malina, Mama, and I circulate. We determine the best length and pin up each hem. It’s the fitted holokus I’m most concerned about. All the others hang loose.

Kiki stands in the corner, wearing the turquoise satin holoku for her dance with Mrs. Halani. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since the last day of school. Since the fight. She swishes back her hair. “It’s too big here and here,” she says. She tugs at her shoulders and points to her waist.

Kiki likes giving orders to me. Bossing me around.

I don’t talk. I just do. And then she leaves. And I start to breathe again.

The little girls are the squirmiest.

“I look like the royal princess of Oahu,” says one girl in yellow, beginning a twirl in front of the mirror.

“Ouch!” I say as a pin pricks me for the umpteenth time. “Hold still, please.”

The scene reminds me of snorkeling in Hanauma Bay. One fish, two, three, more are this close. And then they are gone.

Last Practice

THE SONG BEGINS.

I smile.

My eyes follow my arms and hands as they wave gently to the left. My feet travel unhurriedly to the right.

And my knees bend ever so slightly as my hips sway in time with the music.

I’m dancing!

“That’s the way,” says Mrs. Halani. “That’s exactly the way I want you to dance at the recital.”

Keep Smiling

IT SMELLS LIKE LEI DAY.
All of the dancers wear flowers and many in the audience do, too.

Every chair in the Hanu Intermediate cafeteria is filled. Folks stand against the cinder-block walls on one side and sit in the windowsills on the other. Most fan their faces with their programs. With all these people in here, it’s warm. Real warm.

Thanks to Mama and Malina and Mrs. Halani, I finished all the costumes on time.

All of us dancers are grouped according to class on the walkway. My class wears green-and-white hibiscus-print muumuus. Bracelets of fragrant yellow plumeria blossoms encircle our wrists.

“You know these dances,” Mrs. Halani tells us. “You’ve practiced and practiced. Your steps don’t have to be perfect. Or your arms and hands. Folks are here to cheer for you—cheer you on. Listen to the
music inside you. Don’t think too much. Just dance. Have fun.”

Malina and I nod.

“If you lose your place, don’t panic. Smile, no matter what. Honor the music. Honor Hawaii. Honor yourself. This is not a contest. No one is keeping score. Folks come to watch because they love hula.”

I know what she’s saying. But I don’t want to mess up.

The last time I performed in front of people, someone laughed. Really loudly.

“Lovely Hula Hands”