Anywhere but Paradise (25 page)

“AND NOW,”
says Mrs. Halani into the mike, “my Wednesday afternoon seventh-grade class will dance a hula standard, the first hula I teach to every new student, ‘Lovely Hula Hands.’ ”

I didn’t know that. She taught it to the class again just for me, then.

The thick green velvet curtain, with folds as deep and lush as the Koolau Mountain Range, opens. We stand in three straight rows onstage, just like in class.

Though now I am not in the back row. Mrs. Halani asked me to dance up front.

We’re in our starting positions, arms stretched out front, hands overlapping. I look to my left and suddenly realize that I made four of the twelve costumes, including mine.

The trio, men on ukulele, guitar, and bass, strum
an intro to our song. They begin to sing. And we dance.

I don’t think. I just feel.

I am the song.

Falling

RUNNING UP AND DOWN
stairs sounds one way.

But falling?

Falling sounds like a thud. Or a clunk. Or an
ummphf
.

I’m heading down the backstage stairs after the dance, just as Kiki shoves up them. She tips to one side and tumbles backward.

I reach out. But it’s too late.

Kiki lands on the bottom step and bounces to the concrete floor.

“My foot,” she says, clutching her ankle beneath her purple-and-white muumuu.

It’s at a weird angle and already puffing up like a blowfish.

“Someone get some ice,” I holler.

Girls swarm around her.

Kiki flinches.

“She needs some space,” I say, and wave my arms for them to back away.

Her face twists.

“You’re going to be okay,” I say, sitting beside her.

“How do you know?”

“You know how to fight.”

“Is there a doctor in the audience?” Mrs. Halani asks from the stage.

“I saw you dance,” says Kiki.

I wait for what will come next. I wait for the insult.

“Not so bad for a haole.”

“You know you just gave me a compliment.”

“Maybe.”

A mom with a clipboard brings a towel with ice. Two men follow. One is the doctor from the emergency room.

“We’ll take it from here,” they say, and I find my class.

“What will Mrs. Halani do now?” we whisper.

Last Dance

AT THE END
of the program, my hula class tiptoes back into the cafeteria and settles on the floor between the stage and the first row of folding chairs.

“As you know,” Mrs. Halani says to the audience from the stage, “it is customary for me to choose one of my students to dance the last dance with me.” Her eyes sweep the corners of the room and the floor where we sit. “This year, I asked my niece Kiki Kahana.”

The audience murmurs.

“You’ve all heard of the show business expression ‘break a leg.’ It means ‘good luck.’ Well, this year, my niece took that saying literally.”

Folks turn to one another and say: “Oh, no.” “Too bad.” “What a shame.”

“Yet she insisted on staying for the last dance,” says Mrs. Halani. “She even went so far as to suggest her replacement.”

Kiki waves from her chair not too far away. Her leg is propped up on a bench. We clap and cheer.

“So I have chosen another student to take her place.”

I hope, hope, hope it is Malina.

“This girl doesn’t know I’m about to call her name. I’m sure she will be surprised. But she shouldn’t. She is a beautiful dancer, but even more important, a beautiful person. She has reached out in friendship, in the spirit of aloha, and I couldn’t be prouder.”

My eyes feel wet.

“Malina Rose Halani, will you please join me onstage. It would be my honor to dance with you.”

“Go,” I say, pushing her forward.

People in the audience rise up, clapping.

Malina hesitates and shakes her head. “For real?” she asks.

“Of course,” says Mrs. Halani as she reaches out her hand.

And so they dance.

Response

BEFORE THE LAST NOTE ENDS,
everyone is on their feet. Clapping. Well, except Kiki. But I catch her eye because I am so tall. She picks up her towel of melting ice and says, “Mahalo.”

“Mahalo,” I say right back.

This, I think, is what aloha looks like.

Folks storm the stage as well as all of us dancers in the audience. A lei pops over my head. Another. And another. A kiss on the cheek. Two. More. From Mr. Halani. David. All the girls in my hula class.

Fragrant flowers stack up to my nose.

I’m going to hang each and every one of them on my clothesline in my bedroom.

“I’m so proud of you,” says Mama.

“You are?”

“This move … well, you’re all grown up.” She gives me a hug. “We got you a lei, too.”

A tuberose and pink carnation lei hangs across her wrist. “But it looks like you already have enough.”

“Watch this,” I say. I take off all of my leis and thread them onto my forearm.

Mama smiles, puts the flowers around my neck, and gives me a kiss.

“Thank you, Mama.”

“Great job, kitten,” says Daddy.

I look at the cafeteria filled with people. Smiling people. Even Kiki. Her arms drape around two big shoulders as she hops out of the building.

“Wait up,” I holler, and race toward her.

Kiki stops and I give her a flower lei. “I hope you feel better real soon.”

“Thanks,” she says, and hobbles away.

I’ve been here sixty-five days, and tonight, tonight, it feels just right. Like I belong. Maybe I’ll always stumble over who-moo-who-moo-new-coo-new-coo-ah-poo-ah-ah, but when I hear others say it, when I get close, it sounds like music. I could give poi another try. Someday. I wouldn’t mind meeting Madame Pele again, given different circumstances. I have a friend, more than one. And so does Howdy. Most days, over the ocean, the wide-open sky is ever so blue.

Bloom

LIKE ALWAYS,
when we get home, I check on the night-blooming cereus. And there it is. Blooming. And it is magnificent. I know it’s open as soon as I walk under the tree. I can smell its soft, sweet scent. The large white-petaled flower is as wide as my hand. It has a yellow center cupped by small, light greenish-yellow fingerlike petals.

Weeks ago, Daddy told me these flowers aren’t native to Hawaii. They have adapted. They have found a home here.

Just like me.

Home

THERE HAVE BEEN
Kahuna sightings. People say they’ve seen him skateboarding down Hanu Road in the middle of the night like he did in the Kamehameha Day Parade. They say they’ve seen a dog paddling offshore, holding a coconut in his mouth just after sunset. They say they’ve spotted him at the beach, spinning around and around in the moonlight.

I’ve seen him, too. In my dreams, dancing at Tutu’s party.

No one has taken down the last two flyers about his disappearance. Even though they’ve been tattered by the wind, and the rain has washed away the words. They are still tacked to the telephone poles at the corner of Hanu Road and Holokai Avenue.

Malina and Kimo and I went to a picture show last weekend.

I haven’t seen Kiki since the recital in June. But I’ve
heard her cast is coming off in another week. And that she is doing volunteer work at a veterinarian’s office.

Dried leis hang on the clothesline in my room. As do the beginnings of dresses and muumuus. I’ve got orders to sew clothes for the start of school.

I have money now. I’m going to use it for my someday ticket to Paris. Daddy says we’ll vacation in Texas next summer. I’ve spent some of my money on fabric. Even though it’s mostly what tourists do, I’m making matching aloha wear for my family. I want folks to know we belong together. Grams and Grandpa are coming for a visit before the end of the summer. They said their fear of flying isn’t going to separate us. Mama has had only one headache this month.

On July Fourth, my family joined the Halanis in the crowd outside Iolani Palace. Malina and I took turns counting every one of the fifty-gun salutes.

It made me think of another number—sixty-seven—the number of years ago that the Kingdom of Hawaii was overthrown. They imprisoned the queen in the palace. No one has ever said sorry. To her or the Hawaiian people. I hope President Eisenhower will at least try.

I told Malina about the gum-wrapper chain, and we’re going to make one together. And ask everyone
in the eighth grade to join us, maybe even the whole island. It may take forever, but we want it to be part of a paper chain, a lei of aloha, that stretches around the world.

This is what I’m thinking as Mama, Daddy, Malina, and me stand outside the quarantine station, waiting for the doors to open.

“Mr. Santos,” says Mama, waving.

He waves back and unlocks the doors.

“Go,” everyone shouts.

I run, run as fast as I can.

“Howdy,” I say a few moments later. “Today is the day! The one hundred twentieth day!”

I pick up my cat, hold him to the sky, and twirl. Then I take him to my heart. He curls into me and purrs.

“Come on, Howdy,” I say as I walk out of his cage. “Let’s go home.”