Anywhere but Paradise

by Anne Bustard

  “That’s me.”

  “Thanks for nothing.”

  I stop pushing. “What? Why?”

  “My dad saw your signs and now I’m doing the work for free. Do me a favor. Let me and my friends know if you have any more great ideas, so we can destroy your signs.”

  I pick at the neck of my blouse to get some air. “Sorry,” I say. “I was just trying …”

  “Save it,” he says, and gives the desk one last push. It slams into another one and he disappears underneath.

  “Take your positions below,” yells Miss Liu.

  We kneel, tuck, and cover our necks with our arms.

  I’m squished between a boy and a girl.

  Someone forgot to shower after PE.

  Someone wears the same kind of cologne as Daddy, only four times as much.

  I smell bubble gum, too.

  It’s warm under here. Drippy warm.

  “I’m suffocating,” someone says.

  “I’m dying.”

  I’m mortified. I have even more people mad that I exist than I thought.

  “Quiet,” shouts Miss Liu.

  Someone fake-snores.

  My right foot is asleep. I hope Malina got a spot next to Kimo.

  “All clear,” says the teacher after way too long.

  Crawling out, I bonk my head.

  The whole drill takes twenty-five minutes. I don’t mind missing math.

  Except Miss Liu gives us extra homework.

  Civil Defense Meal

  APPARENTLY, AFTER THE SIREN, Mama hurried to the stores and stocked up.

  Which is why the coat closet is now full of cans of beans, spaghetti, corn, jugs of water, extra blankets, a new flashlight, and a first aid kit.

  For supper, Daddy and I heat up some emergency cans of spaghetti and green beans because Mama is in bed with a headache.

  “Your school phoned today,” he says. “The counselor called it your final-month checkup. It seems your grades aren’t what they should be. I know you are spending time with Malina, practicing hula, writing letters, and putting in a lot of effort finding a job.”

  “They called you at work?”

  “They tried the house, but your mama must have been shopping.”

  “I want to dance well at the recital, and Malina and I are saving for Paris.”

  “That’s wonderful, but your first job is schoolwork, okay?”

  “Sure, Daddy, sure.”

  Let’s Make a Deal

  “TAKE YOUR SEATS QUICKLY,” says Mrs. Barsdale at the start of class the next morning. “I’m coming by to check everyone’s progress.”

  Kiki and I watch as she inspects every inch of Kiki’s blue flowered dress, checking for straight seams, even stitches, offending bumps and puckers. “The facings are off-kilter here and here,” she says. “And the zipper is crooked.”

  Mrs. Barsdale doesn’t miss a stitch. On my lime-green print dress either. But I get a better report. “I’m expecting greatness, girls,” she says. “From both of you.”

  “Hear that?” Kiki says, and bumps my shoulder. “Greatness.”

  That sets my foot to jiggling. “I heard,” I say as Mrs. Barsdale and her beauty mark bustle away.

  Because of guest speakers, a film on Parisian couture, and a written test, we have only nine more class periods to complete our projects. I could just flat-out finish her dress. Then two out of the three of us would be happy. Or maybe, just maybe, there’s a way all three of us can be.

  “Kiki,” I say.

  “Extra-credit girl.”

  “You know what you said about me trying to trick you earlier?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I was.”

  “Typical,” says the girl next to us.

  I pretend I don’t hear. My foot jiggles faster.

  “And I want to say that I’m sorry about that.”

  Kiki looks like she doesn’t believe me.

  “So now I want to be completely honest. I want to make a deal. You were busy all last week with May Day, so you’re a little behind.”

  Actually, a lot. “I’ll make your dress if you won’t fight me.”

  “That’s an interesting proposal, Piggy Sue.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “It’s a maybe.”

  A maybe. Everyone knows a maybe is a hundred times better than a no. A maybe can turn into a yes.

  “I’ll take maybe,” I say.

  “Deal,” says Kiki, handing me her dress.

  My foot stills.

  Daddy would call this the path of least resistance. Like the mountain water that irrigates the sugarcane. Wooden flumes carry it down to the fields—gravity in motion.

  I’m leaving. Eventually. What do I care? This will make at least one problem go away. And I can make it happen.

  It’s win-win-win.

  Kiki gets to start summer vacation while she’s still in school. Mrs. Barsdale will be happy. I’ll get what I want—peace.

  Almost four more weeks of school. Surviving is important.

  At any cost.

  “Don’t just sit there,” says Kiki, “get busy.”

  I sew.

  Kiki socializes.

  We don’t switch seats at the machine halfway through class. I keep working on Kiki’s dress.

  Later, as Mrs. Barsdale winds her way toward our side of the room, Kiki threads a needle and holds it over a facing as if she’s going to stitch it down on my dress.

  Kiki should be an actress.

  Me, too.

  We are faking out Mrs. Barsdale.

  Best of all, I’m yards closer to a yes.

  We repeat our great performance the next day.

  With identical results.

  A Way Out

  A MOM TALKS with Mrs. Halani at the front of the studio before class Wednesday afternoon. A partially made granny-style holoku is draped over her arm. Her voice is growing louder and louder.

  “My mom hates to sew,” says a girl standing next to Malina and me.

  She looks familiar, but she’s not in our hula class. “She says the pattern is too hard and that I’ll have to wear something different instead.” The girl studies the assortment of footwear just inside the door. This is a no-shoes space. Malina and I exchange glances.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I say.

  “Paris?” asks Malina.

  “Paris,” I say. Only I mean the one in Texas.

  “I can sew,” I say. “I made what I’m wearing.” I spin, and my bluepinkwhite skirt blurs around me.

  The girl grabs my arm mid-twirl. “Mom, Mom,” she says, and pulls me over to her.

  “Name the price,” says the mom after eyeing my skirt and blouse.

  I look to Mrs. Halani. She says a number. Higher than what I am thinking.

  “It’ll be worth it,” the mom says, and quickly hands me the materials.

  The girl, Sylvia Okubo, turns to me. “Thanks, I owe you one.”

  “Believe me,” I say, “you’re doing me a huge favor.”

  “Peggy Sue,” says Mrs. Halani, “once the word gets out, you’re going to have more business than you know what to do with. Remember, you can always say no.”

  Never. I’ll never say that word.

  “In fact,” Mrs. Halani says, “my niece needs all of her costumes made. I’ll talk to my sister and set it up if that’s okay.”

  “One of her costumes is extra special,” says Malina. “Mom picks one student each year to dance the last dance with her.”

  Things are looking up everywhere. At school. Here. I’ve got a business—a sewing business!

  Class Time

  “EVERYONE FACE THE MIRROR to your right,” says Mrs. Halani. I noticed her necklace when we talked sewing. It’s a choker of polished black kukui nuts the size of walnuts and coordinates perfectly with her brown-and-black tapa print muumuu. “Spread out so you can see yourself,” she says. “No hiding.”
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  I curl my toes under. I don’t mind dancing in front of my dresser mirror with only my porcelain cat watching, but I dislike dancing in class, where these girls will see all of my mistakes. So I think about dancing for Grams and Grandpa and Cindy instead.

  “Make sure your elbows don’t sag,” says Mrs. Halani. “And most importantly, smile.”

  Malina is in the first row and gives me a big grin in the mirror.

  “Beginning positions,” says Mrs. Halani.

  I bend my knees, put my hands on my hips, and make sure my feet are slightly apart. Mrs. Halani taps a brown gourd. I bend my right elbow and raise it to chest height. My left arm goes straight out to the side at my shoulder.

  Mrs. Halani chants in Hawaiian about the beauty of the island of Kauai. I imagine the blooming ginger along the banks of the streams, the barking sand, and valleys green from rain.

  I peek in the mirror as I move my feet and smile at my class.

  Everyone smiles back.

  I keep going.

  And trip.

  Kimo + Malina?

  “I HAVE TO TELL YOU something important,” says Malina as we leave class. Her face is solemn.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I called Kimo last night.”

  “And?”

  “He answered.”

  “And?”

  “I hung up.”

  “Why?”

  “Nerves. But I called right back. Only then, his sister picked up, and before I could even ask for him, she said, ‘Charlene, stop calling my brother.’ ”

  “Who’s Charlene?”

  “A cute, popular girl in my PE class.”

  I look at her hand. The heart is empty. And I hadn’t noticed.

  “Don’t worry, Malina. He’ll come around.”

  I hope.

  I write another postcard to Cindy, who for some reason still hasn’t written. Surely she hasn’t broken her arm or hand. She did break a finger in fourth grade when she hit the tetherball with one finger instead of her whole hand.

  This postcard shows hula dancers wearing skirts made of green ti leaves and holding signs that spell out A-L-O-H-A.

  Satin

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, I learn that satin doesn’t cut the same as cotton and wool.

  It may be shiny and smooth, but that is just an illusion.

  Scissors slip on satin.

  Cutting places you don’t want cut.

  It frays.

  It is unforgiving.

  Sweat marks show on satin.

  Which is why I am fixing to go to the fabric department at Fujimoto’s Five-and-Dime. I need more. I need to try again.

  Sewing may give you second chances. But cutting does not.

  “It’s the price of doing business,” Mama says as I grab my purse.

  I’ll have to spend my own money. I can’t charge Mrs. Halani’s sister for my mistake. I have to pay for it. Which means no profit.

  I pray it’s like the first pancake—the test pancake: it tastes the same as all the others, but it never looks as pretty. And now that I’ve made the mistake, it won’t happen again—the next time will be better.

  Like hula, sewing a holoku is harder than it looks.

  Holdout

  HOWDY JUMPS UP right beside me as soon as I sit on the bench on Saturday.

  “This is day thirty-seven, Howdy. Eighty-three more to go.”

  Or less, I pray.

  I check out Howdy’s food bowl. Almost empty!

  I swing a toy mouse in front of Howdy’s eyes. “I bought this just for you.”

  Howdy rubs his face against my hand. First one side, then the other.

  “You’re welcome,” I say, and twirl the mouse before his nose.

  But Howdy doesn’t pay that toy any mind. At all. He kneads his front paws into my lap. I put aside the mouse and hug my soft, warm kitty. But not too tight.

  And then, and then … Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

  “Why, you big old holdout, you,” I say.

  “He sounds great to me,” says Daddy.

  “The best,” I say. “Thank you, Howdy.”

  Clothesline

  AS I RETURN to my room Sunday night after supper, I pause at the doorway.

  Four muumuus in various states hang by clothespins on twine stretching across the front of my bedroom window. A small slip of paper with a name is attached by a safety pin to each one.

  Two more mothers have already dropped off patterns and materials. Two others promised they would come by before the end of next week, which means eight muumuus so far.

  The recital is in four weeks.

  Solid pinks, bright oranges, turquoises, yellows. Hawaiian prints—blue and white hibiscus, brown and white and black tapa prints with tikis, red and yellow and navy and green bird of paradise.

  My room is as colorful as a coral reef.

  Counting Maybes

  TODAY IS MONDAY, May 16. Ten days left of school. Five classes until our sewing projects are due. And only three periods left to get them done.

  Every day since our agreement, I’ve asked Kiki for her answer. So far, she’s said:

  Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

  Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

  “Hold still, please,” I ask her toward the end of class. I’m measuring and pinning the hem of her daisy dress. Everything about it suits her—the color, the style, the fit.

  She peers into the full-length mirror, turns, fusses with her hair.

  “Looking good, girls,” Mrs. Barsdale says as she dashes by.

  “I’d swear it’s store-bought,” says a girl waiting her turn.

  “Wanna trade?” asks another.

  “No,” says Kiki, trying her best to look nonchalant. But her high-beam bright eyes give her away.

  We’ve got a deal. I just know it.

  After the bell, I ask for an answer.

  “Maybe,” she says.

  Again? She can’t say maybe forever.

  Due Date

  ON FRIDAY, home ec buzzes from the get-go. Kiki’s dress is done, but I inspect it one more time just in case. Kiki is at my shoulder, inspecting, too. “Stray thread,” she says, pointing to a side seam.

  I clip it. “Anything else?”

  She keeps looking, but says no more.

  “It’s all yours, then,” I say, much relieved.

  A clothes rack for our projects is parked beside the teacher’s desk. Kiki waltzes over to the rack, grabs a hanger, and turns in her finished dress. “I did it, Mrs. Barsdale,” she says.

  “I had no doubt,” says the teacher.

  Could have fooled me.

  I jump up as soon as Kiki comes back.

  “So what do you think now?” I ask. My stomach flutters. I am sure her answer will be yes. Sure we have a deal. Sure there will be no fight.

  “I’m still thinking,” she says.

  And I’m scowling. No. That is not the right answer. “I thought—”

  “You thought wrong, haole. I have another week to decide.”

  She’s playing me. Like Howdy with a toy mouse. He tears out the eyes. Rips off the tail. Bites off the felt ears. Extracts the bell with claws and teeth. Until the toy mouse is stripped of all its senses, and its insides are on the outside.

  I had a win-win-win plan.

  But now I’m the only one with something left to lose.

  I’m caught in the maybe-middle. For five more school days.

  I’ve got to be positive. Keep up the hope. Her answer can’t be “no deal.”

  It just can’t.

  Luau Prep

  I WASN’T EXPECTING to see a whole pig in the Halanis’ backyard pit after school.

  Especially one with an apple in its mouth.

  But I’ve got to say, he smells smoky sweet delicious.

  “Tutu will have the best retirement luau on the island, haole girl,” David says. Sweat trickles down his dimpled cheeks.

  His father squints at him.

  “I mean the whole s
tate,” David says.

  “That’s better,” Mr. Halani says, and laughs. “Peggy Sue, it’ll be a night to remember.”

  And a good night for me to forget. Forget about school for a few hours.

  The Halanis rented long tables and folding chairs for Tutu’s party and set them up in their front yard. Malina and I are in charge of decorations. For the past two days, we’ve strung rows and rows of plumeria blossoms that we collected from all over the neighborhood. Now we lay them down the center of each table covered with white butcher paper.

  Malina hasn’t mentioned Kimo in a couple of days, and the heart on her hand hasn’t been filled in. So I ask.

  “I’m so down I can’t talk about it,” she says. “He ate lunch with Charlene yesterday and today.”

  “Maybe they’re working on a school project together.”

  “I would know,” says Malina.

  She’s right. She would.

  “Come on,” she says. “Only two more tables to fix up.”

  Countdown. One hour to go.

  Dog

  AS SOON AS the party starts, a brown medium-size dog with a red ribbon tied around its neck bounds over to us. I scoot behind Malina. “It’s okay,” she says. “This is Kahuna. He’s an honored guest,” and she pets him on top of his head.

  “Kahuna, sit,” says Malina, and the dog obeys. “Meet Peggy Sue.” Kahuna holds up a paw. “You’ll hurt his feelings if you don’t shake it.”

  So I do. The dog seems friendly. “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  “Kahuuuuuuna,” someone calls. And with that the dog takes off.

  I wish I could call for Howdy and he’d come running. Leaving Howdy last weekend was as hard as ever. Especially because he was purring.

  “Don’t move,” says Malina. “I’ll go get us some punch.”

  I watch. And wait.

  I’m almost on my own at this party, which is kind of fun. Daddy had to pick up a man flying in from the mainland for work and take him to his hotel. Of course Mama went, too. They said that they’d drop in when they got home.

  A woman in a tapa print muumuu talks to a man about Tutu’s trip and who’s who at the party. “I hear new tenants moved in,” she says, and points to where I live. “A shame they’re haoles.”