by Anne Bustard
The phone finally rings. A job, I just know I have a job.
Wrong number.
Before I turn in, Daddy and I walk out back and look at the night-blooming cereus.
It doesn’t look like anything has changed.
Something wet and heavy plops on my foot. “Eee-www!” I scream and flick my ankle.
Daddy’s flashlight catches a bufo hopping away.
“Leave me alone,” I say, and scurry back inside.
Visiting Howdy
SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Howdy bathes himself on top of the wooden bench.
“Daddy,” I say. “He looks different.”
“Do you think?” Daddy asks as I lift the handle and open the cage door.
Howdy stops licking and looks at me. Slowly, I walk to the bench and sit, placing a small paper bag beside me. “How’s my favorite cat?” I ask, and scooch toward him. I reach under his white chin and rub my finger back and forth. He shakes his head, but doesn’t run. “It’s good to see you,” I say, and pet him from head to tail. Like last time, hair sticks to my fingers. Not a little. A lot. “You okay?”
He meows.
I don’t know if he means yes or no.
I wrap my arms around him and lift him onto my lap.
“Daddy,” I say, hugging my cat. “He’s lighter.”
I look at his food bowl. Almost full.
I remember what one quarantine officer said.
I remember Tinkerbell.
“Snack time, Howdy,” I say, and reach for the bag with two last bites of my tuna and potato chip sandwich inside.
Howdy sniffs and turns his nose away.
“Please, Howdy,” I say.
“Everyone has off days,” says Daddy, rubbing the top of Howdy’s head. “Even cats. He’s going to be okay.”
“I don’t know what I’d do if …” I say, and kiss my purr-less friend.
I pull a piece of string out of my pocket and wave it in front of Howdy’s face. He’s always loved to bat and chase string.
But not today.
Just before we leave, Mr. Santos, a quarantine officer, stands at the door. “May I come in, folks?” he asks. His bald head is shiny and his smile bright.
“Sure,” I say.
“How’s the big boy today?” Mr. Santos asks.
Howdy doesn’t answer. But Daddy does. “Doing great.”
I know he says that to make me feel better. I press my lips together.
“Howdy and I are buddies,” Mr. Santos says, and reaches over to scratch behind my cat’s ears. Howdy leans in. “He listens to all my stories. Laughs in all the right places.”
“Laughs?”
“With his eyes.”
Now Daddy and I are the ones laughing.
“Thanks for coming by,” Daddy says, and shakes Mr. Santos’s hand.
“Yes,” I say. “Most of all, thanks for being his friend.”
“Catch you later,” Mr. Santos says, and steps out of the cage.
“Love you, Howdy,” I say as I give him one last pet. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Then there’ll be ninety-seven days to go. I’m trying my best,” I say into his fur. “But I know it’s not good enough. Please be okay. Please.”
Daddy and I walk out to overcast skies. Whitecaps top the water nearby.
The sun wants to shine, but somehow it just can’t break through. We’ve had showers on and off for days. Rain makes weeds grow. Why don’t folks call?
First Real Job
I KNOW EXACTLY what Grams is up to right now. It’s past noon on Wednesday in Gladiola, and twelve ladies will have gathered with their sewing baskets and stitchery at someone’s house. Grams calls it her lunchtime sewing circle. Grandpa calls it information central. The ladies talk and eat more than they sew or needlepoint.
Here in home ec, I have the sewing machine to myself. This is the third day Kiki hasn’t shown up. I figured she had the chicken pox, but before school, I could have sworn I saw her in the courtyard. So I keep one eye on the door.
She never comes.
During Hawaiian history, Malina invites me to babysit with her right after hula today. Which goes to show that life can change for the better in an instant.
The Silva family lives five doors down from Malina and she’s sat with the boys before. We arrive on time. And after quick introductions, the parents take off.
In the living room, dozens of little army soldiers line up on either side of the masking-tape border.
“Cross it and you’re dead,” hollers Kevin as he and his older brother, Kenneth, stare down their two younger siblings.
I don’t have a good feeling about this.
“Ready. Aim. Fire,” Kevin hollers. “Attack. Attack.”
Sounds of gunfire and explosions fill the air. The war is on full volume.
Malina sits in a recliner reading a National Geographic article about Paris. I back up and take a seat on the couch. Basically, the older boys are clobbering the younger.
“I think the first thing we have to do when we get to Paris is go to the top of this,” says Malina, holding up the magazine page with a photo of the Eiffel Tower.
“But of course,” I say with a fakey French accent, and quickly cross my fingers behind my back.
“Whoa, take it easy, y’all,” I say as the older boys topple the younger ones.
No response.
“It’s getting a little loud in here,” I say.
It gets louder.
I wave my arms.
Nothing happens.
Malina looks up from her magazine, raises a whistle to her mouth, and blows.
The war goes silent.
“Attention,” she commands just like Mr. Nakamoto, and the boys salute.
“Troops need sustenance,” she says, opens her straw bag, and hands each boy a chocolate bar.
I am watching a pro. And I am way out of my league.
The boys inhale their snack and start again. When the battle gets loud enough to be heard in Honolulu, Malina blows her whistle again. She sends the troops around the room four times. Once, they are told to do twenty-five jumping jacks. Once, they have to be silent for a whole minute. And last, they have inspection before chow time.
After supper, sponge baths instead of regular baths commence since water is rationed on the frontlines, and then we do a competition to see who can build the sturdiest fort.
“We want a spooky story,” they chant as we tuck them into bed.
“Not until you’re older,” says Malina. “Remember what happened last time?”
She turns to me, mouths Madame Pele, and pantomimes screaming and crying and not sleeping.
“But we’re older now,” says Kermit. “That was last week.”
“I’m exhausted,” I say, collapsing on the couch after Malina’s not scary story. “And all I did was watch.”
“It just takes practice,” says Malina.
“Like years,” I say. I don’t have that much time.
Malina plunks down beside me, her hands on her knees. “Ask me,” she says.
“Ask you what?”
“About Kimo.”
“Have you been withholding information? Tell me, hurry.”
“Well,” says Malina, leaning in, “Tammy said Phyllis said Melissa said Lani said she heard Kimo say my name at lunch.”
“There you go. Just wait. He’s sure to make a move soon.”
“I know. I’m so excited. I just don’t know how much longer I can wait.”
“Waiting for what you want is hard.”
When Malina gets paid, she hands me some of her money. I finger it, and think about Howdy, about going home to Texas. “This belongs to you,” I say, returning the bills. “I wasn’t a babysitter or even an assistant.”
“Don’t be silly,” she says, giving it back. “It was so much better having you there. If you don’t want to use it for Paris, you could buy Howdy some toys.”
“Thank you, Malina.” I smile. “Maybe I’ll do both.”
Lei
Making
ONCE MALINA FINISHES HELPING her mom with laundry after school the next day, she bounces over. “Ready?”
“Ready,” I say. “Malina’s going to teach me how to make a lei,” I tell Mama.
“Have fun, girls.”
We pick and soak dozens and dozens of plumeria blossoms from our yards and the neighbors’. Then, it’s time for the next step. Malina hands me the longest needle I’ve ever seen and a strand of dental floss. “Stronger than thread,” she says.
Sitting here side by side reminds me of sitting next to Kiki. Only Malina doesn’t care that I’m haole.
She shows me how to make a double lei. “It’ll be fuller and fancier,” she says.
When we finish, I inspect mine. Since making it was kind of like sewing, I thought mine would look perfect, like Malina’s. A stem shows here and there. A few petals are bruised, a few missing.
Well, at least it smells good.
Bud
WHEN THE STARS APPEAR, I dance outside to check on the night-blooming cereus. Even though the plant is way, way up there, I think I see a bud. It is wrapped in green and about the size of an egg, only flatter. I’ve been here almost one whole month. Something is starting to grow.
Lei Day
SCHOOL SMELLS LIKE HEAVEN.
According to Malina, today is like a holiday. We’re celebrating May Day, even if technically it isn’t until Sunday.
Plumeria, orchid, carnation, and I don’t know what else are draped around shoulders, circle heads, or both. Kids stream by in Hawaiian print muumuus and aloha shirts.
“Close your eyes,” says Malina as we walk up to the entrance.
“But I want to see everything.”
“Here, hang on to my arm,” she says. “We’ll be there in a sec.”
It’s better not to argue.
“Coming through,” says Malina as I shuffle beside her. “Now look.”
Across the courtyard, a wooden stage, draped in white, yellow, red, and pink plumeria, fronts the bank of classroom windows. Two wicker chairs with backs shaped like fans sit in the center with wooden classroom chairs lined up on either side. Poles topped with red and yellow papier-mâché cylinders stand at either end of the stage. Strings of yellow plumeria hang from the ceilings of the walkways that encircle the courtyard. Pink plumeria blossoms wrap around the trunks of the coconut trees.
“It’s like a movie,” I say.
“Just wait for the assembly.”
After homeroom, the whole school crowds into the courtyard. We spill over the walkways and onto the basketball court to the far left of the stage. Malina and I wiggle our way toward the right side and sit on the grass. “This’ll give us the best view,” she says.
I spot Tammy a few kids over. This is her last day. She and her friends are trading addresses, promising to write, and dreaming of visiting snow. Will that ever be me?
Mr. Kam, the principal, welcomes us to Lei Day.
“As is our custom,” he says, “let us sing our former national anthem.”
Everyone stands. A soft breeze stirs. The warm sun rises behind us. Some place a hand over their heart.
I send Malina a questioning look. “ ‘Hawaii Pono‘i,’ ” she says. “In Hawaiian.”
Mr. Kam lowers the mike to his side and begins. All around me, voices join his. Harmonious, strong, proud. Faces tender, earnest, resilient. Chill bumps cover my arms. The last note fades. No one speaks. We listen to the song’s memory—to the echo—as the birds reply.
Mr. Kam turns the program over to Steven Hamakua, the eighth-grade class president and MC. “Representing the Big Island of Hawaii,” says Steven, “we welcome Princess Sylvia Okubo and Prince Kimo Nahoa.”
We all clap. Sylvia wears a long red satin holoku. Kimo, in black pants, a white shirt, and a red sash around his waist, walks barefoot across the stage, arm in arm with Sylvia. They stand in front of the last chairs on the left and wave.
I wave back.
“I read,” says Malina, “that if you feel a little spark when you see someone you like, it’s a good sign. And I just felt one.” She strokes the K+M written on her hand.
“Y’all would make a cute couple,” I say.
“And now, representing the island of Maui, we welcome a princess who is continuing a family tradition of being in the Lei Day court: Kiki Kahana and …”
Is that the Kiki I know? Her hair is up in a twist. Her holoku of pink satin has an extra-long train. She wears a nervous smile, like she doesn’t believe she is onstage. It makes her look softer. Instead of waving like the others, she holds up her thumb and pinkie on her right hand and shakes it back and forth.
The crowd hollers and does the hand sign right back.
It is Kiki. She must have been at rehearsals all week. “Who chose her?” I ask.
“We voted by grade before you came. It’s a popularity contest.” Malina wrinkles her nose. “I heard a rumor that the girls running against her dropped out.”
“Do you think she had something to do with that?”
“I think she wanted it really bad.”
“Look, it’s Connie from hula,” I say as the next couple appears.
Island after island, pairs parade across the stage. After the last representatives, those of Niihau, are presented, the royal court sits and the entertainment begins.
I recognize a hula song. It’s on the flip side of one of my records.
Kiki dances it as beautifully as Mrs. Halani. She sings to the music. Her eyes follow her hands. Her knees are soft. She smiles.
I wish this Kiki would come to school every day.
Half-Full or Half-Empty?
IT’S SUNDAY AFTERNOON and Howdy lies in a thin beam of sunlight on the floor next to his door.
“Hi, sweet boy,” I say, and reach my fingers through the wire to scratch the top of his head.
Howdy stands, stretches, and rubs his whiskers against his cage.
“Back up just a smidgen,” I say as I lift the handle and open his door. I pick Howdy right up, sit on the bench, and set him on my lap. There’s less cat hair in my hands, less on my clothes.
“See that,” says Daddy. “A half-empty bowl.”
I lean back against the cage. “Why, compared to last week, Howdy, you’re almost a member of the clean-plate club. When you wake up tomorrow, you’ll have eighty-nine days left. You can do this. Keep up the good work.”
Daddy settles in beside us with a book about positive thinking.
Except for petting Howdy, I don’t move for two whole hours.
It almost doesn’t matter that he doesn’t purr.
When I get home, I send a postcard to Cindy with a photo of a lei stand. I recognize plumeria, orchid, carnation, tuberose, and pikake flowers. Only two I don’t know.
Civil Defense Announcement
“CLASS,” says Mr. Nakamoto, “it would behoove you to listen.”
On Monday morning, May 2, the number twenty is on the board. Mr. Nakamoto shakes the announcement paper in his hand and raps the empty desk at the front of the room. I wonder if it snows in Colorado in May. I hope for Tammy’s sake it does.
Malina stretches her arms up and wiggles three fingers. Before I can stop, a laugh spurts out. It is the third time in ten minutes that Mr. Nakamoto has said “behoove.” His record in homeroom is four. Today it might be broken.
“Miss Bennett, a comment?”
“No,” I say, and cover my eyes so I won’t look at Malina and laugh again.
“The civil defense will conduct a test today, Miss Bennett. I mention this for your benefit.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
We’d hear the siren loud and clear. That I know for sure. An enormous two-headed megaphone perches on top of a tall, skinny pole near the street in front of the school. It looks just like the one in Gladiola.
“Thank you,” I say. “I know about the duck-and-cover drill.”
“Excellent. But if it is a tidal wave?”
“Swim?” I say.
> The class cracks up.
Mr. Nakamoto clears his throat extra loud and everyone snaps to.
“In the event of a tidal wave,” he says, “we will move to higher ground.”
I turn to Malina for an explanation after class. “We march up to the hillside until the all-clear. It’s like a big party, only we have to stand in straight lines.”
“Got it,” I say.
“I don’t care what drill we do,” says Malina, “I just hope I’ll end up near Kimo.”
“I hope so, too.”
Kiki ignores me in home ec.
Everyone, and I mean everyone, keeps coming up to her and telling her how boss she looked on the May Day stage. They say her hand sign was the coolest. They say she was the best dancer in the whole program.
Maybe this is what the last day of school will look like. Maybe everyone will crowd around her to say good-bye. Maybe Kiki will forget I’m even here.
Kiki really was the best dancer. If I tell her, will she think it’s a trap?
In the Event of an Emergency
“TEN, NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN …” the boy next to me in math counts down the seconds on the clock.
“WaaaaAAAHHHHH,” wails the siren.
I cover my ears and wish I were with Howdy. He doesn’t cotton to loud noises. I’m sure all the dogs around him are howling, which will only make things worse. If I were there, I’d tell him the commotion would end soon.
“Duck and cover,” hollers Miss Liu. For a teeny woman, she sure has a giant voice.
In Gladiola, we’d move to an interior hallway, crouch with our backs to the wall, and cover our necks with our arms. Here, we’ll stay put, but protected.
The desks in this room are older, wooden, heavier. Each sits two people. My desk partner and three other boys get dibs on the teacher’s weighty desk. Another boy and I push mine toward the windows. “You’re Peggy Sue, right?”
“Uh-huh,” I say over the squeaks and grunts around us.
“The one with the window-washing and weeding businesses?”