by Lisa Freeman
After we were dry, we sat in the bathroom and Q-tipped the sand out of our ears. Rox went through Jean’s drawers until she found what she was looking for. She sat me down on the bathroom counter and said, “Don’t move.”
Rox stood over me on her tippy-toes. “This won’t hurt, I promise,” she combed out the jagged parts of my hair, and then, using Jean’s tiny cuticle scissors, began to even out the entire mess, trimming small sections at a time. When I was finally given permission to look in the mirror, I was blown away by what she had done. I had ultra-short, half-inch bangs across my forehead. Rox blended the rest of my hair into layers like fish scales, one overlapping the other. It made me look taller, thinner, and lighter. It was a new look to go with the whole new me. No one on the mainland or Hawaii had long hair like mine now. It made me look boss, one of a kind, totally glam surf, and better than before.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Fiji
We walked into my room. Rox turned on the red lava lamp. She picked up my favorite elephant necklace with one hand and the picture of Dad and me with the other.
“Do you miss him?” she asked.
“Yeah, I do. He gave me that necklace on my last birthday.” That was the most I had talked about my dad to Rox.
Rox waited for me to say more, but I didn’t. I wouldn’t. She told me she didn’t miss her dad at all. I found that hard to believe, but then Rox told me the whole story. She said, “My dad used to practice CPR on me. He gave me regular ‘check-ups’ when I started getting boobs.”
“Why?” I asked.
Rox ignored my question and continued. “CPR hurts,” she said, poking the middle of my chest, then my arms, trying to get me to laugh.
Maybe if I knew CPR, I could have saved my dad. I had never thought that before. What if he didn’t have to die? What if it was my fault?
Rox put two fingers on my wrist and then on my neck.
“No pulse,” she said. “Lie down.”
I lay flat on my back. She pinched my nose and put her lips to mine. I tried to pull away, but she shoved me down.
“Do you want to learn CPR or not?”
When I lay down again, she blew into my mouth. My cheeks filled with air and bloated out like a pufferfish. Rox pretended to check my pulse again, but I was laughing so hard I couldn’t lie still.
“Look,” she said. “Do you want to save lives or not?”
I nodded, yes. I really did want to.
This time, Rox didn’t pinch my nose at all. She rested her lips on top of mine and pressed them down into what felt like a kiss. She lifted my chin and tilted my head back, pushed her lips against mine, and then rested her head on my chest.
“Now, you practice on me.”
I had forgotten where to start, but Rox patiently showed me step by step. Then she lay down and held her breath. I mean, really stopped breathing.
Not even those pearl divers in Japan could hold their breath as long as Rox. I was pushing on her chest like she showed me, counting to fifteen and everything. But she wouldn’t breathe. Her face went from pink to kind of purplish blue and when her lips started to change colors, I got worried. I said her name over and over, but she didn’t move.
I tilted her head back, lifted her chin, and opened her mouth. Then I pressed my lips hard onto hers. I was just about to pinch her nose and blow into her mouth when she wrapped her arms around my shoulders and pulled me in close.
“Claire taught me how to hold my breath.” Then she smiled and pushed her tongue into my mouth and we kissed. I accidentally touched the side of her breast but pulled away fast. I did not want her to think I was weird.
“How’d you learn to kiss like that?” Rox asked.
“Marshmallows,” I answered.
Rox looked puzzled and amused at the same time.
The records on my turntable were stacked starting with Joni Mitchell’s Ladies of the Canyon. When Rox flipped the switch, she listened and said, “I love Joni,” like she was her best friend or something.
It was the first time I had ever seen Rox without her waterproof mascara. She looked younger. Also, wearing my flannel nightgown and slippers, she looked downright sweet.
“Would you like to go to Fiji with me?” she asked, tickling the inside of my hand.
I rolled onto my side and thought before I answered. I imagined us running away together. Maybe we could find an apartment, work as stewardesses, and get fake IDs. It would be great to go to Fiji with Rox. We could kiss all the time, get a cat, name it Jerry, and be best friends forever.
“Yeah, definitely,” I told her.
Rox turned off the lava lamp next to my bed. Her silhouette moved closer, and her teeth glowed white in the dark. I hoped we were going to practice-kiss some more, but she tugged at my robe and said, “Let’s cuddle.”
Rox nuzzled against my ear and nestled her body into me real close.
“I love to cuddle,” she said, twisting the nightgown around her thigh. I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. She just wrapped her arms around my midsection and pressed her nose into my neck. I guessed we were going to sleep. Lying all tucked in was the best feeling I ever had.
I tried to breathe at the same time Rox did. It was like Double Dutch jump rope, trying to step in at the right time. Matching Rox’s rhythm was nearly impossible with my heart beating fast until she softly hummed off key with Joni Mitchell’s song “The Circle Game.” Then I relaxed into her.
Rox etched her name into my arm with her fingertips.
“Are we going to play the tickle game?” I asked.
The tickle game felt so good. I closed my eyes and let Rox swirl the tip of her finger slowly up the inside of my arm. When she got to the middle part, just on the other side of my elbow, I was supposed to stop her. That was the point of the game. But I let her keep going all the way to my shoulder because I didn’t want her to ever stop. She said, “I’m too hot in this.”
She took off the nightgown. Naked on her side in the dark, she looked better than Miss December. She was flawless. The curve of her waist was just an inch from my hand. If I moved even a tiny bit I could touch her. But that inch might as well have been a million miles.
“You wanna go to Fiji?” Rox asked again.
I thought to myself, How great would that be—living on an island, in the middle of nowhere, with Rox? “I’m packed and ready.” I tried to look casual without moving any closer to her and kept an eye on that inch between us.
She smiled so I smiled. She pulled at the tie of my robe.
“It’s hot in Fiji. You better take this off,” she said.
I didn’t want to look like a prude, so I did what she said and laid back down. The distance between us didn’t last long. Rox rolled over me to the other side of the bed.
“Now, pretend you’re Jerry.”
We clutched each other tightly. It was like we were one person, hair tangled, bodies glued together until the third Joni Mitchell record flopped down and was halfway over. She pushed and squeezed herself tightly before letting go of the grip she had around my shoulders.
“Now, pretend I’m Nigel,” she told me.
When we were done, I was on the other side of reality.
Rox and I sat at the kitchen table eating Koo Koo Supremes. We pulled the candy apart, letting the marshmallow and caramel fall into our hands. Then we chewed the pecans one at a time. When we were stuffed, we smoked my last Lark 100, which I had hidden away for a special occasion.
“Was that your first trip to Fiji?” Rox asked.
“Yeah,” I said, pulling some chewy cream from between her fingers. “Did you ever go to Fiji with Claire?” I asked.
Rox belted out a giant, very un-Rox-like laugh. It looked like candy was going to squirt out her nose. She gave me a little kick and said, “Claire doesn’t even know Fiji exists. It’s too far away for her.”
“So I was the first expedition?” I asked.
“No,” Rox said. Then she took my hand and assured me, “Bu
t you were the best trip ever.”
I wanted to kiss Rox but knew a smile would do. After all, we weren’t in Fiji any more.
It was 4:00 a.m. Most of the colors had stopped swirling around, but I still felt speedy and wired. The ground did not feel firm under my feet so I held onto the walls as I walked back to my room with Rox. We took aspirin and brushed our teeth before we got back into bed.
Rox lay next to me and touched my hand. I think she thought I was asleep already, but I wasn’t. She turned off the record player and turned the lava lamp back on.
She said, “I hate the dark.” And then she turned to me. “You probably won’t remember this, but I’m going to watch over you now.”
I kept my eyes shut and listened as Rox settled herself next to me. She kissed me on the cheek, turned onto her side, and flipped her hair over my pillow. Then she pushed her butt next to mine and pulled my feet around hers. It was quiet for a moment.
“I know you’re awake,” she said.
That made me smile. I could have twisted back into her arms, snuggled that not-so-tan spot under her chin, and started another trip to Fiji, but instead I lay still and listened to her hum a little tune. It sounded like a Beach Boys song. I’m not sure which one. Her voice was even more off-key than before. Then she started counting backward softly from one hundred. My heart felt too big for my chest as I closed my eyes and silently counted along.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Happy Face
I woke up still butt to butt with Rox. I pressed my body against hers. It felt good to have her next to me. We were friends; finally it was real. Something great had happened. Actually, it was beyond great. All the stars and planets were aligned; nothing was in retrograde or eclipsed by uncertainty anymore. I wanted to kiss Rox good morning, but instead I said, “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Jean said.
My eyes sprung open. I went bananas when Jean rolled over with smelly wino breath and put her arms around me. I covered my head with a pillow and froze.
“Let’s not fight anymore,” she said.
Where had Rox gone? The flannel nightgown was folded neatly on the chair, my albums were stacked and put away. I noticed that my entire room was clean. That was weird.
I gave Jean the shaka sign. I spread my pinky and thumb wide then twisted my wrist side to side like locals in Hawaii do. But inside I was dying.
Jean said, “Let’s be honest with each other, okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “You drink too much.”
She immediately pushed herself away and stomped out of my room, slamming the door behind her. Within seconds, she pushed it open again and tossed a letter at me like it was a Frisbee. Then asked, “Are those bangs?”
I shoved the pillow tighter over my face and yelled, “Go away!”
“Why didn’t you just shave your whole head? And clean your sheets. There’s sand everywhere.”
Jean slammed the door and marched down the hall.
I pulled the covers over my head and curled into a little ball, wondering how so much sand got in my bed. I felt around under my pillow and realized it wasn’t sand; it was my dad!
Mrs. Beasley had split open. The seam of her belly was torn just enough for a clump of powdery ash to spill onto the sheets. I jumped out of bed and quickly got two album covers to scoop him up with. Then I emptied his pot stash out of the glass pickle jar into a shoebox and poured his loose ashes from Mrs. Beasley’s belly into it. I screwed the lid on tight and put him next to my bed. My cuticles were outlined in white powder.
That’s when it dawned on me like a big strobe light going off in my face. I was turning into Jean. My dad was next to my bed. Not in a pretty box but in an old jar. It was time. I had to let him go or else I’d be no better than her.
I looked down at the tips of my hair. It was like they had been coated in dry cement. My father’s ashes were firmly embedded in the wet strands. I grabbed a fistful of hair and tried to shake him out, flailing my head side to side. I panicked. It made me feel as if I had fallen into a spider nest and thousands of baby spiders were crawling on my head and face. I ran to the bathroom, turned on the hot water, and soaked the bottom of my hair in the sink until it steamed so much I could barely see myself in the mirror. My weird eyes seemed greener. How could that be? Maybe it was from the acid or from messing around with a guy and a girl in one night. Something about me was not the same.
The room spun a little, and my forehead felt like someone slammed a board across it. But there were no sparks, and nothing was dancing off my walls. I sprayed some disinfectant on my hair and twisted it up into a knot, sticking a pencil through it to make a bun. Then I picked up the letter Jean had tossed. Finally, something from Annie. I cracked open the shutters for some light and read.
Dear Haunani,
Better you be with some banana buddahead squid than a keke face haole like Nigel McBride. Whssamatta you? Goin mainland? Nevah suck face with shahkbait. Don’t care how cute or rich he is. White skin is for white skin. Finda poi dog hapa like yourself.
Annie made Lord Ricky and Claire look like lightweight racists from the way she trashed people. She went off on Japanese, whites, and everyone between like me. What was her problem? I didn’t understand until I finished reading:
Howzit with Jerry? Get rid of his double-eyed girl, the one who wears mascara to the beach. And tell your moddah she’s snapped selling that brahla Mike Kei the Jones. Your moddah waha is maxed out and you will be too if you don’t go back to smoking Kools and acting mo’ bettah. Eh Haunani?
Don’t ever come home with a haole like McBride or I will kick your ass.
Love, Annie
Annie had gotten all tita on me. I should have never written about my new friends to her, but I thought she’d be stoked. True, Mike Kei was a good-for-nothing jerk. But she had no right to trash my friends or call my mom a haole bitch. As if using pidgin would code her warnings.
That’s when I wrote my first official rule:
Never go off on somebody’s mother unless it’s your own.
This rule went beyond “the rules.” Annie no longer had both oars in the water, if she ever did. She liked pointing the finger at everyone but herself. It seemed for Annie writing rules was easier than following them. As if I would snag Jerry, dump Nigel, and stab my Rox in the back because she told me to. I turned her letter over and wrote: New Rule #2:
Treat people the way you want to be treated.
Jean banged stuff around the kitchen then everything went quiet until my alarm clock went off. It startled me. KHJ was blasting the morning Top Ten. It was 9:00 a.m.
“Honey, would you come into the kitchen now?”
It was time for the big punishment. I was going to have to come up with some answers as to why I didn’t call, why I was late, why this, and why that. I tied my robe tight, pulled the sleeves down as far as they would go, and lifted the collar high around my neck. Then I shuffled down the hallway, saying a little prayer. Please Jesus, if you get me out of this one, I promise to do something seriously Christian. Just please, get me out of this one. Amen.
The kitchen was abnormally clean, too. All the counters had been cleared; the dishes were washed and put away. The pots and pans were washed. There were even flowers in a vase on the table. When I opened the refrigerator to avoid eye contact with Jean, not only was it clean, but everything inside was totally organized. All the sauces, like Tabasco and Worcester, were lined up next to one another, and an open can of corn had foil wrapped tightly around its top. Even the cabinets had been set up so the big bags of flour were in the back and little boxes of raisins, cereal, and bouillon cubes were up front.
“Sit down,” Jean instructed me.
Here it comes, I thought.
Jean was still in her nursing uniform. She was looking at me, doing the silent stare thing.
I rested my chin on the inside of my hand and stared back at her.
“Thank you for cleaning the house,” she said.
> I shrugged my shoulders and acted like I knew what she was talking about. It was a total Twilight Zone. The whole house shined, and I mean everywhere; even the living room ashtrays were empty. If Jean didn’t do it, and I didn’t do it, who did?
We sat in silence. Jean took a dramatic breath in and out. No doubt Jean would try and ground me for life. Or take something away, but what? Most likely, it would be the shopping spree she promised when the big bucks from the Java Jones came in. I guess going to Judy’s and Vin Baker’s for shoes were treats I could kiss goodbye. There’s probably no way I’d get the big birthday bash at Trader Vic’s after this bust either.
I watched her light a cigarette and hoped she’d blow some smoke my way. She had a serious look on her face.
Finally she said, “Mrs. McBride called me early this morning at St. John’s. I know the whole story.”
I dropped my throbbing forehead on the table. I was up a creek without a paddle. There was nothing to say so I waited.
“Mrs. McBride explained that supper was late because her fundraiser in Santa Barbara ran over and she told me all about the unfortunate incident with that drug-crazed girl from the valley. Are you all right?” Jean looked concerned.
I looked up with just my eyes. What was going on?
Jean wrapped her fingers around my bruised forearm. She took my scrunched-up face as a signal to start acting all motherly. She put her hand on mine. I looked at her white skin on my tan and thought about how weird it must have been for her to live in Hawaii all those years, so very pink, and so very disliked. I put my other hand on hers.
“I was so worried,” she said, “until Agnes explained everything to me.”
Why wasn’t I in trouble? Then, talk about being saved by the bell, the phone rang.
“Maybe it’s Uncle Mike,” I said.
“That’ll be the day.” Jean put out her cigarette.
I wanted a smoke so badly. Maybe once I figured out what was going on, I’d treat myself to a powdered donut and a carton of Larks, not those lame-ass, mentholated Kools Annie toked on.