Honey Girl

by Lisa Freeman

  Copyright © 2015 by Lisa Freeman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Sarah Brody

  Cover photo credit: Shutterstock

  A portion of all proceeds from this novel go to the Hawaii Community Foundation to help Hawaiian artists achieve their dreams.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63220-425-7

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63220-908-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Phranc

  CONTENTS

  I: Iune June 18–30, 1972, Cancer

  1.Rulers of the World

  2.The Law Giver

  3.Credo

  4.Contact

  5.The DMZ

  6.Baja Banquet

  7.Bad Cow

  8.33 Sage

  9.Uncle Mike

  II: Iulai July 1972, Leo

  10.Crossing Over

  11.Initiation I: Gargoyles

  12.Initiation II: Fish Empress

  13.Secrets

  14.t-surfers rule

  15.t-surfers In Retrograde

  16.Banzai t-surfers

  17.Sucked Over the Lip

  18.Sucked2

  19.Heart Attack

  20.Girl Gospel

  21.Second Chance

  III: ‘Awkake August 1972, Virgo

  22.Christmas in July

  23.Dancing Poodles

  24.Saved

  25.Ambushed

  26.Full-on

  27.Taller, Thinner, and Lighter

  28.Fiji

  29.Happy Face

  30.Bowie Bangs

  31.Sisters of Sand

  32.Adiós

  33.Six Forks

  34.Killer

  35.Ladies of Leisure

  36.Funny Kine Honey Girl

  37.Fire with Fire

  38.The Middle Ground

  I

  Iune

  June 18–30, 1972

  Cancer

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rulers of the World

  My sickest secret is about Dad. I stole his ashes and filled his internment box with sand, ground-up puka shells, and a mashed-up plastic necklace from a vintage shop in the Hawaiian Village. I gave it to my mom with the fake remains after she came back from the mainland with Uncle Mike. The freakiest part of the whole thing is that she sleeps with the box next to her bed. She thinks that someday her ashes and Dad’s will be buried together. Sorry about that. I loved my dad more than any other person on the planet. I just didn’t think about what the long-term karma would be.

  Here’s the thing: Hawaiian men like my dad don’t get buried. They get a paddle out. I knew exactly how Dad would have wanted his memorial to be. He’d have all his pals sitting on their boards in the water and family in canoes. We’d form a big circle and we’d sing songs and throw leis while his ashes were scattered in the ocean, the place he loved most. Simple. But my mom went Catholic after Dad’s heart attack. She got priests and an undertaker and a crypt. She put Dad on display after someone dressed him in a suit he didn’t own, combed his hair to the wrong side, and put make up on him so he didn’t look so dead. She even put a wooden cross in his hands. My dad hated all that Jesus voodoo. I wasn’t surprised when no one on Oahu came to the mortuary.

  Mom and I sat there along with Uncle Mike and his new girlfriend, watching little gnats buzz around Dad’s nostrils as the day heated up. We listened to Alfred Apaka albums while Uncle Mike made small talk.

  Thank God my mom decided to finally cremate him and ditch the whole grave thing. My plan was to give Dad a secret paddle out. I collected Dad from the mortuary, brought him home, switched the ashes, and put him in a shoebox. I was on my way to the beach when Mom walked through the front door three hours early. She was all excited about the new home we’d be moving to in Santa Monica, but all I could think about was where to hide Dad.

  The new plan was genius if I do say so myself. Like some cosmic pot dealer who sealed up bags of weed airtight, I poured Dad into a Ziploc baggie and made sure there were no air pockets so he wouldn’t get soggy. Then I took apart my talking Mrs. Beasley doll. She was from my favorite TV show Family Affair. I fit Dad into her torso, stuffed him up under her voice box, and carefully distributed the ashes evenly so Mrs. Beasley wouldn’t get lopsided. I was very proud of myself for pulling this off on the spur of the moment.

  Everything was cool until I came home from school the next day. Mom had packed and shipped all my stuff to California, including Mrs. Beasley. I got totally tweaked out and wrapped my hair around my arm so it looked like a snake, then pulled it tight to cut off circulation. After an hour of watching my skin turn colors, I came up with a final plan that would start as soon as we got to Santa Monica.

  Imagining State Beach and actually being here were two different things. Before today, I’d never been on a beach where I didn’t know anyone. Dad’s been gone sixty-four days. I’ve put some of his ashes in a Band-Aid box and, once I’ve got the place checked out, I’ll sprinkle them in the ocean bit by bit. The box isn’t big, but it’s made of metal, which keeps Dad safe and dry until I let him go. When I find the right times to let him fly, I’ll do a little Hawaiian ritual in my mind and remind myself that I’m standing in the Pacific Ocean. The good news is that all currents lead home to Oahu. The bad news is that with this tiny Band-Aid box, I’ll probably be like twenty-five by the time Mrs. Beasley is empty.

  Right now I’m almost sixteen, five-foot-six without an ounce of baby fat. I look like a model or something. No way could you tell that I used to be a kind of ugly smarty-pants kid who skipped first grade. Something happened to me when we moved. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have to be that hapa haole, a half-half girl with my mother’s hazel eyes and a lighter version of my father’s brown skin. Now I would be the most Hawaiian looking person on the beach, especially with my puka shell earrings and Waialua mismatched bikini. It made me feel exotic and grown up. I was determined to leave behind my previous identity and create a new mystique around me.

  On Sundays, hot surf spots like State are jam-packed. I had to weave around tight lines of towels slowly so as to not step on anyone’s head. Naturally, there were volleyball courts. That’s where guys too old to surf sat in faded blue canvas chairs, smoking Pall Malls, joking about Nixon’s reelection campaign and how George McGovern didn’t have a chance. You see, I’m a supernova Virgo. That means I’m observant and good at figuring stuff out. Nothing gets past me.

  State was not like the beaches back home, but it did have some cool four-to six-footers. There were lots of guys on boards waiting for the next set, but I knew better than to look at them. If the local girls saw me as a predator moving in on their boyfriends, I’d be eaten alive. That meant I’d also be alone, and there’s nothing worse in the world than to be alone. I had to get right with State or else it would be just me and my mom—and that would be totally terrible.

  I could see the surfers in the takeoff zone
watching me. I kept walking. I had to be careful not to look like I was rushing or stopping. Look normal, I told myself. My pulse pounded in my head. All I could really focus on was left foot first and then right. That’s when I saw them.

  The coolest girls sat like goddesses at the shoreline. There were eight of them perched on a mound of sand that separated them from everyone else. No one dared sit in front of them or block their view of the waves, their boyfriends, or anything else they were scoping out. They were perfect in their titty-fantastic bikinis with spaghetti strap ties and low-cut legs. Looking at them made me dizzy. They were total foxes. I’d never seen so many blondes with long hair before. I wanted to scream and swim home to Oahu. I could barely breathe.

  The only way I could keep walking was to imagine the lineup as cookies cooling on a rack. Some were baked brown with crispy edges. Others were topped with a crystallized glaze. They all were enticing, but in the middle of the lineup were two beastly beautiful creatures. The ultra-blonde looked like a lemon verbena cookie, bittersweet with a marshmallow center. The brunette with sun-soaked highlights next to her had huge buttercream breasts. Her hair was the color of macadamia nuts mixed with brown sugar and orange peels. She looked smooth and easy to roll, the kind of cookie that spreads out when you bake it. Miss Macadamia was blended with enough flour to have skin like mine, but what really scored was her mean peppermint smirk, which melted away when she saw me. It looked like she got socked in the stomach. I turned around to see if someone was behind me. No one was there except a bunch of hippie girls sewing patches on their jeans.

  I stood still. How had she spotted me walking on a crowded beach? Maybe she could smell my hanawai blood. There was no way I could check my tampon string. It had to be still tucked up where it belonged. At least I hoped it was.

  My mother’s voice sounded in my mind.

  “You can only make a first impression once,” she’d say.

  I stood up straight. I tilted my head so the cigarette behind my ear would drop all cool and casual into the palm of my hand. I tried to keep a mellow, unfazed look on my face. I zigzagged around the maze of towels ’til I made it to the water.

  A minute seemed like an hour. I had to be on guard, like a soldier in Vietnam, with the enemy all around me. My mission was to make contact and pull back. But now I was in the danger zone. My feet were in the water, surfers were in front of me, the lineup was behind me. The only way out was through the locals’ turf. I had to walk right in front of the lineup, let them check me out, and split. My stomach was doing somersaults, but there was one talisman I could always count on—my hair. It fell to the right and shielded my face from the lineup. It was like a magic cloak that covered me from the top of my head to my hips. The trick was I could see out, and they couldn’t see in.

  One-by-one, Miss Macadamia and her crew rolled over and gave me the stink eye. I didn’t expect a warm welcome. Any halfwit from Hawaii knew that an intimidating greeting was beach protocol. But what caught me off guard was how these haole mainland girls looked me up and down. They didn’t miss anything. Especially Miss Macadamia; she was hard-core. She looked like Raquel Welch, but younger. She examined me from my peace bead anklets to shaved bikini line. I felt naked in my crocheted bathing suit top. It fit tight and opened over my skin like tiny spiderwebs; it was from the North Shore and had lots of mojo sewn into it. I knew that because Annie Iopa, the akua wahine, had worn it before me. Without my friend Annie, I wouldn’t have made it this far. She told me, “You are a daughter of Pele—no one can mess with you as long as she breathes fire.”

  I dropped my Don Ho wraparound shades over my eyes. He was a famous singer in Hawaii and I knew him. These were actually his sunglasses. They were a little too big for me but that didn’t matter. I felt cool.

  Miss Macadamia gave a tiny nod and all her girls sat up in unison. Frowns covered their faces as they watched my feet touch their beach. It felt like I was walking on the rim of an active volcano. I had to move slowly or else they would know I was panicking. Up close, these girls could not be dismissed as cookies. Blonde hair, scarves, and barrettes aside, they were full-on “locals” just like the ones at home. Feeling their bad vibes, I quickly reviewed Annie’s rules on how to deal with mainland locals.

  THE RULES:

  1. Let locals get a good look at you.

  2. Show no fear and walk slowly.

  3. Sit off their beach but where locals can see you.

  4. Treat everyone on a new beach with respect.

  5. Locals make contact first. Locals rule.

  I knew that these girls were only cocky sixteen-year-olds who probably just got their braces taken off. But whether they liked me or not was a matter of life and death. Only losers like my mom end up alone. When I finally got the courage to look in their direction, they were looking at someone else. Was I dismissed? Was it over? That wasn’t fair. Crimson heat streaked down my cheeks. I had to do something quick. Back home, the girls in this lineup would have been painting their noses with zinc and kissing my semi-brown ass.

  They had no idea who they were screwing with. I knew girls on the island with hair so long it touched the ground and others who were so tough, titas, they’d kick the crap out of them just for being blonde. What could these haoles do to me? I’ve seen Gerry Lopez in person. He’s the best surfer in the world, even though he’s a goofy foot. And now he’s a movie star, too. Just wait until these haole dumbos see Five Summer Stories. They won’t know what hit them. Gerry Lopez, Mr. Pipeline, surfing twenty-footers.

  I’ve seen bigger waves at Makaha. Of course, I was ten at the time and my dad made me sit in the car, but they didn’t need to know the details. Bottom line, I knew beach craft. I was as good as or better than any of them. To prove it, I stopped right in front of them and splashed my feet. That got their attention. In the wind, I lit another cigarette and did a full hair flip before turning my back to them and blowing out the match. It was major. If I were in the Munich Olympics, I would have just gotten the gold for cool.

  I took a long drag off my Lark 100 and looked up. That’s when Miss Macadamia busted me. She rested a few fingers against her cheek and, without the others noticing, stuck her tongue out at me. Not like “nah-nah-nah,” but pointed and curled up. She moved it real slow, like the Great Tyrant did in my favorite movie Barbarella. I continued walking as though nothing happened. I recorded every little detail in my mind to review later.

  Miss Macadamia sat up slowly. Her silky bikini was smaller than mine and she sat cross-legged with almost everything showing. Unreal. She was beyond skewed, but I didn’t react. I kept walking. Miss Macadamia stared, shredding me with invisible daggers, tearing through layers of skin. She was super pretty looking on the surface but definitely nasty inside, the perfect combo to rule a beach like State. This was way too intense. I hadn’t been so freaked out since Sam Mishima showed me his mother’s Ben Wa balls.

  I trudged through the scalding sand. The California sun was so bright I was forced to squint even with my shades on. Then it occurred to me that I had passed their test. I had survived. In my strained peripheral vision, I could see the last and least important girl in the lineup. Why was she smiling at me? What a dork. She looked my age or maybe a little younger. I picked up my pace. I was almost at the storm drain when I heard her.

  “Hey, Five-O,” she shouted.

  The sarcastic tone made me realize exactly who she was. She was the one with nothing to lose, the wild card in the lineup trying to prove herself. I turned because I had to. I couldn’t believe someone my age could hold such a gangster stance. She was standing with one hand on her hip and the other waving a cigarette. Her long ringlets were freakish white and hung loosely down her back. She looked like Shirley Temple on acid. She stood there like a dancer in first position, but there was no way this chick was a ballerina. She was probably just a volleyball jock.

  The lineup snickered. Each girl leaned forward on one elbow to watch. My legs felt like lead weights. I instantly unders
tood how animals got run over on highways.

  “Give her a light,” Miss Macadamia demanded.

  Her voice was soft but firm. My heart sank when the Wild Card Girl waved her cigarette around like a sword. There was no time to lose. I had to do something. I thought about two other things my mother always told me.

  “A girl can catch more flies with honey” and “When in doubt, smile.”

  So I smiled. I raised my shades up and forced a pleasant look onto my face. So what if they saw my weird green eyes and the space between my front teeth? I had to totally go for it.

  I thought of the ladies who sold sweet corn from roadside stands in Hilo. I imitated the way they lifted their heads and looked up with their eyes. These women could squeeze kindness out of anybody by using the breath prayer. They had a kala aloha power: steadfast, loyal, and faithful, which mainland girls had no clue about. I didn’t have it. But the killers in this lineup didn’t know that. If I was really going to recreate myself, this was the perfect opportunity to introduce the new me.

  I walked toward Miss Wild Card. I felt my face turn into warm glowing sunlight that filled the space between us. The girl who had been so brave and sassy stepped back. I kept moving toward her, she kept backing away. Miss Macadamia was pissed and stood up fast. She had to protect her territory. Now that she was on her feet, I could see she was a real centerfold type. Her boobs were really, really big, her waist was tiny, and her stomach was flat as a board. I tossed the book of matches in my hand over the chicken girl’s head and into Miss Macadamia’s hands. Naturally, she caught them easily. According to Annie’s rules, now that one of them had talked to me, I could talk back.

  “Keep ’em,” I said in my sweetest aloha voice.

  Miss Macadamia gave the matches to Miss Lemon Verbena after she lit up their smokes. Then she picked up the joint that fell out of the flying matchbook.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  The ultra-cool local goddess had my matchbook from Kammie’s on the North Shore and a killer joint of Maui Wowie from my dad’s stash. This meant the lineup had their introduction and I had mine. All I had to do was wait. They’d make the next move.