Anywhere but Paradise (8 page)

LIKE ALWAYS,
I sit by myself at lunch the next day and eat my baloney sandwich. Only now, I’m in the cafeteria, smushed between a wall and a girl who is talking to everyone else. I don’t listen in. I think about Gladiola. I wonder how long that gum-wrapper chain is now. I wonder if Grams made fresh tomato sandwiches for lunch. I wonder what colors Grandpa is mixing today for his next oil painting—sapphire, mint, tangerine—and who will clean his brushes?

The house is silent and all the curtains are drawn when I trudge in from school. I find a note on the dining room table under a new bottle of lotion:

I guess the new doctor didn’t help.

I know the drill—do not disturb.

I reach for the lotion and pour gobs into my hands. I smear the cool goodness onto my skin until I look like a ghost.

Then, I retreat to my room and study a little for Mr. Nakamoto’s test tomorrow.

But it’s harder to concentrate without a cat on my lap. So I slip into the kitchen, grab a banana and the extra house key, and head next door for hula.

But I’m back in two seconds. I write a note and stick it under Mama’s door:

Hula

I TAKE A SEAT
on the bench lining the back wall of Mrs. Halani’s studio and rock my feet on the woven mat.

Pairs of girls enter, their voices filled with laughter. Tammy, the girl from my homeroom, bounces in, donning another pink hair ribbon. A girl I don’t know, at least I don’t think I do, prances beside her. “Snow,” Tammy says, and throws her arms in the air. Her charm bracelet jingles happiness. “I can’t wait.”

“I’ve never seen snow,” says the other.

I stand and move closer, but still hang back. Tammy turns around.

“We’re moving next month,” she tells me. “My parents are taking my brother and me out of school early and we won’t even have to finish on the mainland.”

“I can tell you’re excited,” I say. Tammy hasn’t just hit the double jackpot—leaving and no school to make
up—she’s hit the triple: no Kill Haole Day either.

Other girls crowd around her. “Tammy, we’re going to miss you sooooo much.”

“You guys can visit anytime. Our house will have a guest bedroom.…”

I fade back onto the bench. Her still-ringing bracelet reminds me of Cindy’s. I gave her a four-leaf clover charm before I left.

A few minutes later, a girl with short brown hair and a big smile rushes in, says hello to everyone, and plops beside me. Her dark eyes twinkle.

“Hi, I’m Malina, Mrs. Halani’s daughter.”

“Peggy Sue,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

Malina’s a younger, smaller version of her mom, with an inked outline of an empty heart on the back of her right hand.

She shows me her arms. No chicken pox.

“Glad you’re not cooped up anymore,” I say.

“Glad you’re the new neighbor,” she says. “The last ones didn’t have any kids.” She studies my arms. “Your sunburn looks terrible, by the way.”

“I’ll survive,” I say, though it still doesn’t feel like it.

“Time to begin,” says Mrs. Halani. Her muumuu is powder blue and white. “We have a new dance to learn.”

“You may not want to stand next to me,” I tell
Malina as we take our positions on the woven mat. “Last week was kind of a disaster.”

“No worry, beef curry.”

Just in case, even when Mrs. Halani tells us to add arm movements, I still dance only with my feet.

During a break, Malina points to my old flyer next to the door. “Trying to earn extra money?”

“As much as possible,” I say.

“Me, too. I’m thinking about starting a dog-walking service.”

“That’s a great idea.” But one I’ll shy away from for sure. The memory of that bite is still too fresh. And, besides, I don’t really know dogs.

“I want to go to Paris someday,” says Malina. “Want to come?”

“How about right after class?”

She laughs.

It turns out Malina is in Mr. Nakamoto’s homeroom and history class, but for some reason, we have different lunch schedules.

“Transferring in late is hard,” she says. “We’re all stuck in our ways like cement.”

I nod.

“But you’ll be okay,” says Malina. “There’s always a crack.”

I want to believe her.

Where There’s Smoke

THE NEXT AFTERNOON,
the bulletin boards in Mr. Nakamoto’s class are shrouded in black. Class hasn’t started, but it’s before-a-church-service quiet. Pages flip, flip, flip in textbooks like program bulletins; lips whisper names and dates like prayers.

“When you finish,” says Mr. Nakamoto as he hands out the tests one by one, “open a book and read.”

It’s fill-in-the-blanks and short-answer essays. I pray for real that Mr. Nakamoto doesn’t take off points for wrong spelling of names and places, pray that I remember enough.

Before class is over, I turn in my answers and ask to be excused.

At the end of the hall, I push on the girls’ bathroom door, but it barely moves. I push again. Harder. This time, it swings open and I stumble in. The lights are off and the only light comes filtered from a frosted bank of louvers just below the ceiling that are closed tight.

I stand still until my eyes adjust. The small space, hazy with smoke, is lined with girls. Some lean against the stall doors, some against the sinks.

“Well, look who’s here,” says Kiki.

“Is this the haole we’re going to fight with you?” asks a girl beside her.

“If she squeals,” Kiki says.

I hold my breath. My eyes water like crazy.
Cough
. Breathe.
Cough. Cough
. “Is this a private meeting?” I finally ask.

“This is a public school, haole. So this is a public restroom.”

Kiki grins wide and long.

I should do something. I should say something, I should. But what? What will stop her?

If I ever even think about thinking about telling anyone about Kiki and Kill Haole Day, all I have to do is remember this.

I cross my legs.

“You gotta go, haole, or what?” someone says.

“I can wait,” I say, and back out into the light.

“Could’ve fooled me,” someone shouts after the door closes.

Thirty-one more days. That was the number on the blackboard this morning. Thirty-one.

I find another bathroom. Barely in time.

Walking with Malina

FORGET HOW I DID
on the test; all I can think about is Kiki.

But it creeps me out to even say her name as I pour out my home ec trials to Malina after school. So I don’t.

“Mrs. Barsdale is so unfair,” Malina says as we stroll toward our houses. “You should be in my class with Mrs. Leong. She’s nice.”

I hoped she might understand. But it won’t make the bigger problem disappear. If Malina were Cindy, I’d say more. Ask advice. But I’d best handle Kill Haole Day myself. I can’t afford for it to get worse. And I don’t want Malina to know I’m scared.

“What’s the girl’s name?” says Malina, picking up a pinkish-red plumeria flower from the ground.

“Kiki. She’s an eighth grader,” I say as I stop under the shade of the tree.

“Are you sure?” she says, and takes in the scent of the flower.

“I’m positive.”

Malina’s lips form an O and she goes silent. She shakes her head. “Stay away from her.”

If only I could.

Boyfriends

“DO YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND?”
Malina asks, changing the topic. She puts the flower behind her right ear and we take up walking again.

“I just got here, remember?” The sun hits my eyes, and I raise my hand to block the glare.

“I take that as a no. Did you have one in Texas?”

“A boy named Jake asked me to the homecoming dance, but we’re just friends. I had a crush on my lab partner, Harry. I think he liked me, too, but once he heard about my move, he backed off. How about you?”

“I’m unattached for the moment.” She points to the outline of an empty heart on her hand. “Ronald Lee and I just broke up. My former best friend stole him away.”

“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too. Before him, there was Douglas and
before him Keoke. No one lasts long, so I keep moving on. I might go with Sam or Kimo next. What do you think?”

“I should know how to advise you about boys,” I say. “My Grams used to be a matchmaker. A cousin of mine inherited her skills, but I don’t think I did.”

“Neat-o. Maybe they’ll come out for a visit.”

“Maybe,” I say.

By the time we get to Malina’s house, I know everything about her former boyfriends, future boyfriends, and for that matter, the majority of the boys in our homeroom. She makes all of them sound pretty keen. I just wish more of them were as tall as or taller than me like most of the boys back home.

Music from her mom’s studio fills the courtyard, where we sit down. Purple bougainvillea blossoms cascade over clay pots on either side of the doorway into the house. Malina pulls out the
Top Teen
magazine and lays it on the wrought iron tabletop. Elvis Presley is on the cover.