by Anne Bustard
Easter
AFTER WE EAT the scrumptious hot cross buns Mama made for breakfast, she sets out the egg timer for a holiday call to Grams and Grandpa. “Long distance is expensive,” she says.
We’ll take turns until the sand runs through the glass. I’m up first.
“Dancing last weekend was a hoot and a holler,” says Grandpa. “Only stepped on your grandma’s toes twice.” Most Saturday nights, they swung to jazzy country music with their friends at the Gladiola Rec Center.
I thank Grams for my Easter dress and ask them to tell Cindy I said hi.
I know she’s missing me as much as I miss her.
Mama taps me on my shoulder. “Love you,” I say to my grandparents, with a big old lump in my throat, and pass along the phone.
Mama’s been cooking and baking since before sunup, even though I set our table for only three this year. The house smells like strawberry cake, scalloped potato casserole, and ham. “A feast,” says Daddy.
But all I can think about is home—a table full of relatives for Easter dinner, dessert-serving duty with my cousins, then Parcheesi and checkers and Password.
And my cat without a purr.
Not Native
DADDY AND I stand underneath the monkeypod tree and stare up at the night-blooming cereus that night after dark.
“It’s not native to the islands,” says Daddy. “But it’s learned to adapt.”
“It’s not blooming,” I say. “Are you sure it’s going to?”
“It’s changing on the inside, kitten.”
“Well, it sure is taking its sweet time.”
“You can’t rush it.”
“Is something wrong with it?”
“Not a thing. It’ll bloom.”
Maybe.
Thinking About Tomorrow
MUFFLED OCEAN SOUNDS seep through my bedroom windows as I ready for sleep.
Tomorrow is a school day. Tomorrow I’ll see her.
I’ve yet to find the needed directions on how to deal with Kiki.
Sassing her on day one, ignoring her on others, and withholding help last week hasn’t worked.
Maybe I should try the opposite.
Charm.
Like Grams. Like Cindy. Like David.
It couldn’t hurt to try.
Sweet-Talking Monday
IT’S APRIL 18, there are thirty more school days, and I’m smiling.
“Kiki, it’s so good to see you today,” I say as she sits next to me. Machines whir around us like bees, a box of straight pins skitter-scatters across the floor, and five girls swarm to the rescue. “I was hoping you’d be here,” I say.
Kiki stares at me.
“How can I help you?” I ask.
She’s speechless.
So I keep going. I hand Kiki the pattern instructions. “Please tell me what we need to do next?”
Two girls nearby exchange raised eyebrows. Kiki throws the paper down.
The girls shake their heads and get back to work.
“Well, let me see,” I say, picking up the directions. “I’d say the best thing is to pin in the zipper. Here, let me get it started for you and then, if you’d like, you can take over. Or not. Whatever you think is best.”
Still, no words.
“You have great taste in fabric, you know.” Turquoise daisylike flowers with white centers, and white ones with turquoise centers, spring from a solid navy background. “These colors will look really cool on you.”
“Leper girl, there’s a colony on Molokai for you.”
My skin is still pinky raw in places where I’ve peeled. I don’t need her to tell me that. I’m living in it. I got a little more sun at Hanauma Bay, but it was worth it. Anyway, I can’t let her throw me off track.
“Kiki, you are too funny.”
Her eyes narrow.
“I meant funny in a good way, of course. Truth be told, I had no idea you had such a good sense of humor. Now, you just enjoy the class and I’ll do all the work today. Really, I insist.”
I pour on the sweetness as thick as I can.
“Is this a trap?”
“Trap?”
“I know you. I know your kind. First you say nice things, buttering front and back because you want something in return. Next thing you know, you’ll want to be friends. Pheew! What a joke. You haoles stink inside and out. I couldn’t show my face if I were friends with you. I’m not taking your bait. Take, take, take. Jobs. Land. That’s all you do.”
Bait? Trap? Putting it that way sounds bad. Really bad. My insides turn tight and twisty.
Kiki’s right. I want something. I want her to leave me alone.
She may not be the best student in the class, but it’s not because she isn’t smart.
Like always, first thing, when I get back to the house, I check the mailbox.
Nothing for me.
I ask Mama if I’ve had any calls.
Zero.
Mama looks a little piqued. She doesn’t ask about my day. So I don’t say. I delay the window washing until later.
Instead, I conjure up a new business. It’s so green around here, surely weeds are in supply. I make HIRE-A-WEEDER flyers. It’s a desperate act. I hate to weed.
Holoku
MUUMUUS OF EVERY SHAPE and color hang on a clothesline across one of the mirrored hula studio walls Wednesday afternoon.
“These are samples of all the recital costumes,” says Malina. “Mom chose them to match the style of each particular dance.”
“Recital? Dancing? As in onstage? But today’s only my third lesson.”
“No worry, beef curry. You’ll be ready by June.”
“This one looks like my grandma’s nightgown.” It’s a long, loose-fitting dress with a high ruffled collar and ruffles at the wrists. The small cotton plaid is navy and white.
“That’s an old-style muumuu called a holoku,” says Malina. “Way back, the missionaries liked them because it covered women up. We’ll wear it for one of our dances.”
“Good. Maybe it’ll cover up some of my mistakes.”
Malina laughs and turns serious. “Did you know missionaries helped ban hula?”
“No, that’s awful.”
“Yep. They thought dancing was sinful.”
“Oh,” I say. “A few folks back home still think like that.”
“Last century, our ancestors kept hula alive for over fifty years until King Kalakaua brought it back.”
“Thank goodness.”
Tammy and her bracelet jingle up. “If I was going to be here, I’d want to wear this holoku,” she says.
The long orange satin fitted muumuu she points to is gorgeous. How could it have the same name?
It looks like the one the soloist wore at the hula show for a regal slow dance.
That dancer was the best of the best. She did not trip or tangle in the smooth fabric. She was extra graceful. When she danced, her muumuu with the train in the back swished ever so softly, like the gentle trade winds.
I will not be wearing that kind of holoku for this recital. Maybe ever.
“Only ten more days on the island for me,” says Tammy. She’s beaming.
No recital, no school, no Kill Haole Day.
Some people are just luckier than others, I guess. But Grams always says we need to make our own luck. I’m trying, that’s for sure.
Mrs. Halani lets me add my HIRE-A-WEEDER flyer to my WINDOW-WASHING SERVICE notice by the door. Still, no calls.
Rock fever
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Mrs. Halani invites my parents and me for supper.
I think Mama will say no since it’s a school night, but she surprises me.
Mrs. Halani makes teriyaki chicken and rice.
Mama brings an apple-spice cake, the recipe courtesy of her newcomers group.
Everyone talks at once.
“I reserved tables and chairs today for Tutu’s retirement luau in a few weeks,” says Mr. Halani.
“My grandmother,” Malina explains. “
She manages a doctors’ office.”
“The food will be ono,” says David, rubbing his stomach.
“We’re counting on you and your assistant to perform your best magic tricks,” says Mrs. Halani. “But promise you won’t saw anyone in half.”
David grins. “Okay, okay.”
I hear Mr. Halani ask, “Remember that party we all went to on the North Shore back in ’44, Robert?”
“I remember the fire dancers,” Daddy says.
“It was my first date with Alfred,” says Mrs. Halani, taking Mr. Halani’s hand. “You two talked those dancers into handing over their torches and paddled out on surfboards with them.”
My dad the daredevil? Picturing fiery torches reminds me of the newspaper photos of lava spewing from the volcano on the Big Island. The volcano makes me think of Madame Pele. Madame Pele … “I heard you shouldn’t take pork over the Pali,” I add to the mix.
“I wouldn’t cross Madame Pele,” says David.
“Do you hear that, Mama?” I ask, but she is talking with Mrs. Halani.
“Taking rocks from her volcanoes will bring you bad luck, too,” says David.
“I’m listening,” I say, and inch my chair closer.
“After a friend’s friend brought some back from the Big Island, his girlfriend broke up with him, his camera busted, and he flunked two tests. But as soon as he sent the rocks back, his luck changed.”
“No kidding?” I ask.
“I don’t joke about Pele,” David says. “The post office over there gets loads of returned rocks. Anyway, Pele isn’t always mean, especially if you do something nice for her.”
“Like what?”
“Around the volcano area, sometimes she appears at people’s houses as an old woman with a white dog. If she asks you for food or drink, give her something and nothing bad will happen. I’ve also heard if you give her a ride, good luck can come your way.”
“I’ll remember that,” I say, and turn to Mama.
“I hear you’re going to volunteer at the school, Virginia,” says Mrs. Halani.
That’s the first I’ve heard of it.
“I’m thinking about it,” says Mama. “I’m trying to fill up my time.”
I hadn’t really thought about what Mama does when Daddy and I aren’t around. In Gladiola, she never lacked for things to do.
“You can do my homework,” I say.
“And mine,” say Malina and David at the same time.
“Think again, kids,” says Mr. Halani.
Afterward, Malina and I clear the dishes. “I hope Kimo and I go to a party as fun as my parents’ someday,” she says.
“I hope so, too.”
The dads move into the kitchen to do the washing. Scrape. Stack. Rinse. Wash. Dry.
As I carry in the salt- and pepper shakers, I hear Mr. Halani ask my dad, “Does Virginia have rock fever?”
I freeze. What’s rock fever? Whatever it is, it sounds bad.
I tiptoe back into the family room before they spot me, and listen behind the door.
Something metal-like clatters to the floor, and I squeak. “No harm done,” hollers Daddy.
“Anyone can get it,” Mr. Halani continues. “But remember, it’s known to hit some malihini wives particularly hard. Guys have transferred their families back to the mainland because of it.”
I know he’s talking about folks new to the islands. Daddy says, “I’m hopeful Virginia will pull through. I don’t want to alarm Peggy Sue, so I’d appreciate if you’d keep it on the QT.”
“Will do.”
“And thanks for asking Malina to befriend Peggy Sue. They seem to have hit it off.”
I’m a project?
“Peggy Sue?”
I turn and find Mama. Give her a big hug.
“What did I do to deserve this?” she asks.
There are two kinds of families—huggers and non-huggers.
We’re non.
At least Mama.
“I just want you to feel better.”
“I feel fine.”
I don’t believe her.
The Halanis are all huggers.
We leave a few minutes later. They all hug us when we say our good-nights. Except when I say good-bye to Malina, I don’t hug back or look her in the eyes.
Consumed
IT’S HARD TO SLEEP when all you can think about is rock fever. And about someone who is forced to be your friend.
I dream about rocks.
I stand at the edge of an enormous crater.
Heat, and steam as dense as felt, rises from the burbling floor.
Below, the only remaining shelf of blackened lava collapses, consumed by the cauldron.
Whoosh-WHOOSH! Molten lava spews skyward, flinging fire higher than the rim.
The pit swallows the fountain of thick red liquid.
Beside me, Mama picks up a sharp black rock.
She opens her palm to show it to me.
It turns red-hot, like lava.
“I have a fever,” she says.
“I know,” I say. “I know.”
Information, Please
DADDY HAD AN EARLY MEETING, too early to drop me at school, so I’m walking. Wispy clouds hover above the mountains as if they can’t decide if they’re going to band together or disappear.
“Peggy Sue,” someone hollers.
My body tightens, remembering what I overheard. I turn around in slow motion.
“Hey,” says Malina, catching up.
“Hi, you’re walking, too?” I say as normal as possible.
“David’s old junker wouldn’t start, so he got a ride with friends and there wasn’t room. I’m so glad you’re here. I need your advice.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can you slow down just a bit?”
“Sorry. Sure, I’ll try.”
My eyes are fixed on the clouds. The one in the middle is joining the two on either side.
“Should I sit next to Kimo at lunch today? Or is it too soon? What if there’s no space?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you always this quiet in the morning?”
“I guess.”
“Peggy Sue, is everything okay?”
“Last night,” I say, slowing to a stop. I tap my knuckles above my upper lip.
“Go on,” Malina says, and stops, too.
I dig my fist into my chin and blink at the red dirt. “How bad can it be?” asks Malina.
I drop my hand and look up. “Last night I heard my dad thank your dad for making you be my friend,” I say in one long rushed breath.
Malina’s eyes widen. “Okay, wait. You’re thinking the worst here. My parents asked me to make you feel welcome, that’s all. It took me two seconds to realize I wanted to be your friend.”
My hand unclenches. “Oh.”
“You’re not my extra credit.”
Seeing her, hearing her, I know she’s telling the truth. “I do tend to think the worst first.”
“My dad’s a worrier, too,” she says. “Mom says that’s what makes him a good policeman. He can think really far ahead in an emergency, and because of that, he’s prevented terrible things from happening.”
“You’re trying to make me feel better.”
“So we’re okay, right?”
“Yes, but there’s one more thing.” The wisps above the mountains have melded together, forming one continuous line. I ask her about rock fever.
“Sometimes new people get it,” Malina says. “It’s like the island’s too small for them or something, and they want to go back to the mainland.”
“Oh,” I say.
It’s not just Mama. I have it, too.
The Sign
TEN MINUTES BEFORE the end of home ec class, Mrs. Barsdale hollers, “Clean up.” Her hair is shorter and orangey at the roots.
We crowd around the closet to stuff our projects into the already full shelves.
“Avalanche,” yells Tammy up front.
We stumble bac
k, dodging each other and the fabric pieces, patterns, and sewing baskets that spill across the floor.
Then we stream forward to the rescue.
I pick up an errant pincushion that looks like a tomato that met a porcupine. “See you around, haole,” says Kiki, and pats my back.
But not until Monday.
Twenty-six school days until the end of school. Twenty-six.
As I leave, a girl says, “Haole.”
Then another.
On my way to my next class, a boy passes me. “Haole,” he says.
Two more. Kids snicker.
My face is burning hot. I speed up and don’t stop until I flop into my seat in science. Paper crinkles behind me. I twist around and tear the sign from my back.
Haole.
I crumple it into the tiniest ball I can make it into.
Twenty-six days. Twenty-six too many.
54
THAT AFTERNOON, Mr. Nakamoto passes back our tests facedown. “Some of you studied more than others,” he says.
So we spend the whole class time reviewing the answers.
Queen Liliuokalani was overthrown by haoles who wanted to control the Hawaii sugar trade.
President Cleveland told the overthrowers they broke the law. But they didn’t listen.
To date, no one has ever apologized.
The queen tried unsuccessfully to restore her kingdom.
The overthrowers imprisoned her for eight months.
The queen wrote the famous song “Aloha ‘Oe.”
Her brother was King Kalakaua.
She married a haole.
I didn’t remember most of this from the study guide. Or a bunch of other stuff, including how to spell the Hawaiian names.
Which is why I got a 54 on my quiz.
“You’ve always been a strong student,” Mama says after school.
“This just proves I shouldn’t be here.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge.” Mama takes off her sunglasses. Her eyes are puffy.
“Allergies,” she says. No, I think, rock fever.
Mama fixes TV dinners for supper.