by Anne Bustard
Her ugly words hit me, hit me hard. Like an unexpected wave.
“I wonder whose job he stole,” says the man.
“He works in ag,” she says as they stroll away. “At least this time his boss didn’t take away yours.”
The pair fades into the party, but their words still roar like pounding surf in my ears.
Mr. Halani was right. This’ll be a night I don’t forget. But I want to. I want to forget what they said. To pretend I didn’t hear them. Pretend everything is all right.
Malina returns with a fruit punch so sweet it makes my mouth pucker. “Lilikoi,” she says.
I push away the couple’s comments and breathe in the music. A Hawaiian trio—bass, ukulele, and steel guitar—play and sing. Strings of twinkling lights hang in the tent, and the delicious smells of flowers and food fill the air. Tutu sits at the head table and greets her guests. She is covered up to her chin with leis. It looks like May Day all over again. Gifts overflow the card table.
In a little while, Mr. Halani hollers for everyone to gather around. A minister gives a blessing in Hawaiian, which sounds as pretty as a song.
Tutu blows kisses to her guests. “Enjoy,” she says, and points the way to the food.
Malina and I get our plates and sit down at a table up front. “Isn’t this ono?” she asks, licking her fingers.
“Delicious,” I say as I begin taking another bite of the pineapple. My Hawaiian vocabulary is growing, though the only word I understood of the minister’s Hawaiian blessing earlier was amene.
Malina and I scooch over our chairs to make room for another guest. I sweep the crowd. It’s elbow to elbow at all the tables. Laughs float across the still air. Malina chatters with a lady next to her.
It seems like everyone knows everyone else. I move a piece of pork from one side of my plate to the other. Avoid the poi. And remember. Somewhere in the crowd is a couple who doesn’t want me on the island. I wish my parents would hurry up and get here.
Not too much later, Mr. Halani stands. “And now for more entertainment. First up, Tutu’s favorite grandson.”
Everyone laughs. “She only has one,” says Malina, rolling her eyes.
“Presenting my son, David the Magnificent, and his lovely assistant, Teresa.”
David does card tricks, pulls a stuffed pig out of a hat, and finds quarters behind the ears of people in the crowd.
“Malina and Peggy Sue, you’re next,” says Mr. Halani.
The trio begins to sing.
“No, not me,” I say.
“Come on,” Malina says, and pulls me out of my seat.
“Please, no.”
“ ‘Lovely Hula Hands,’ ” says Mr. Halani, and the crowd claps.
I stare at the crowd.
My mouth is dry.
I pretend-dance like a tourist at a hula show.
Someone laughs. Really loud.
I am not a dancer. I am a failure.
Cousins
“THANK YOU, GIRLS,” says Mr. Halani. “And now let’s give a warm welcome to Hanu’s Kamehameha Day Parade’s favorite dog, Kahuna, and her owner, my niece, Kiki.”
Kiki?
Kahuna races from behind the house and runs in circles before the head table as people stand and clap. I can’t see the dog through the people until everyone settles back down. Kahuna sits at attention on the grass. Beside him is a girl. A girl in a long pink satin muumuu.
“She’s your cousin?” I blurt out.
Malina puts a finger to her lips and nods.
Cousin? With the girl who might beat me up? Why didn’t she tell me? Is this a game and I’m the bet?
“Kahuna, speak,” says Kiki.
The dog barks and the audience claps. Kahuna spins around and around.
I lean over my half-eaten plate of food. “What else don’t I know?”
Malina wrinkles her brow.
The crowd quiets. “Kahuna, sing,” says Kiki. The dog howls.
“You could have told me. You should have told me.”
I don’t give Malina a chance to answer.
I leap up and race next door.
Calling Home
I DIAL THE OPERATOR.
I won’t talk long.
“Collect?” the operator asks when she comes on the line.
My grip tightens on the phone. “No, bill us station-to-station,” I say. I’ll use my own money.
“One moment, please,” she says and my hand on the receiver relaxes.
After some silence and a few clicks, a ring. I know it well. A second ring. I picture Grams’s cheery kitchen with a pitcher of tea and a plate of iced sugar cookies on the table. A third ring. A fourth. Where are they?
Finally, a groggy hello.
“Grandpa, it’s me, Peggy Sue.”
“Well, I’ll be. Is it really you?” I hear him say, “Melba, I think it’s Peggy Sue. The connection is a little scratchy.” Then back to me, “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. No. I wanted to hear your voice.” Which comes through loud and clear on my end.
“You gave us a scare. It’s nearing midnight.”
“I can’t believe I forgot all about the time difference.”
“Best wake-up call I’ve ever had,” says Grandpa. “Here, let me give you to your grandmother. But speak up now; there’s some static on the line.”
I launch with tonight’s disaster. “I thought, I thought Malina Halani was my friend. But she isn’t. Her cousin is a girl named Kiki. But no one told me. And Kiki, Kiki is a girl at school. She laughed when I danced at the party. No one wants me here, Grams. No one at all. I miss you.…”
“You’re wound up tight as thread on a bobbin,” says Grams when I take a breath. “Change can take time, sweet pea.”
“I’m running out of time, Grams.”
“Now, how’s your mama?”
“Still fighting headaches.”
“Give her our love. And of course your daddy, too.”
I forgot to set the egg timer, but we haven’t talked that long.
“Wait, Grams. Please. There’s more.”
“Oh, sweet pea, this connection is a fright. I didn’t hear everything you said before and I’m drowsy. You just be yourself and everything will work out.”
Being me is the problem.
“Your grandpa wants to say good-bye.”
“No, don’t go yet. Grams, I want to come home.”
“Take good care now. Love you,” she says. “Here’s your grandpa.”
“Tell your parents we’ll talk to them the next time,” he says, and hangs up.
I put the phone back in its cradle. Talking to them reminds me of what I left. How far away I am from getting back.
The front door opens and Mama and Daddy come in holding hands.
“There’s our girl,” says Daddy. “We saw you dash away just as we walked up to the party, so we only stayed a minute. Had enough fun for one night?”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “I’m tired.” And I cover up my pretend yawn.
Big Island
“THE OFFICE IS SENDING ME to the Big Island for a few days,” Daddy says as he sits in the easy chair next to the couch. “I’m taking your mama.”
I perk right up, wait for the next words. The ones that will fix everything. The ones that include me.
“I wish you could come with us, Peggy Sue,” Mama says.
“But I can,” I say, and sit on the edge of the couch. I’m jumpy excited inside.
“You’ve got school.”
“I can miss, Mama. And I thought you were going to do some volunteer work.”
“Peggy Sue,” says Mama. “We talked about this, Robert,” she says, turning to Daddy. “She needs to bring up her grades.”
“You are a little behind,” he says.
“Not in home ec,” I counter.
“Peggy Sue,” says Mama. “You’ve got hula lessons, an upcoming recital, and all that sewing to do, too.”
“But—” I begin.
&
nbsp; “While it’s a business trip for me,” says Daddy, “I hope it’ll be a little vacation for your mama. She’s worked so hard on the move and deserves a rest.”
I do, too!
“We’ve made arrangements for you to stay with the Halanis,” says Mama.
“What? No. Can’t Grams and Grandpa come?” I am not staying with the Halanis. Not now that I know Malina and I aren’t really friends.
“Oh, Peggy Sue,” Mama says.
“You know my parents don’t travel by air,” says Daddy.
“They’ll make an exception for me. Did you even ask?”
Daddy has taken Mama on other business trips. I’ve always stayed with Grams and Grandpa. There’s no set bedtime and I watch as much TV as I want. They take me out to the soda fountain. We go to the bowling alley and the picture show. If it’s Saturday night, we mosey over to the fish fry at the volunteer fire station. And later to the Gladiola Rec Center, where there’s a band and most everyone dances Western swing until we collapse.
The phone rings and Mama gets up.
“Hi, Malina. We’re in the middle of a family discussion.… Yes, we’ve just told Peggy Sue, too. Can she call you back?… Okay, good. Thank you. Bye now.”
“How long?” I ask.
“A week,” says Mama.
“A week? You’re leaving me with strangers for a week?” With a girl who hasn’t told me the truth? Whose cousin hates me? “When are you leaving?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Wait one more week. Please. Then I’ll be out of school and I can go, too. I want to see the volcano that’s erupting. Don’t deprive me of a once-in-a-lifetime real live educational experience.”
“Robert,” says Mama, rubbing her temples.
“We’re booked at a hotel next to the bay in Hilo,” says Daddy. “The volcano’s miles away. We may not get to it this trip. Don’t worry, kitten. There’ll be a next time.”
No, there won’t. There won’t be a next time. Because I won’t be here.
“Go!” I shout. “Go, and I hope you never come back!”
Blooming?
LATER, DADDY comes to my room with the flashlight and asks me to check on the night-blooming cereus with him.
“No,” I say.
“I’m here when you want to talk, kitten,” he says.
I answer with silence. Daddy stands there a while and then leaves. I hear the back door open and his footfalls on the steps. He stays outside for a really long time.
The party next door winds down. Good-byes and thank yous and best wishes carry across the night. Car doors open and close. Engines start. Lights flash against my bedroom walls. And then there is darkness.
After a time, I go outside and stand silent beneath the scraggly plant rooted to the tree. A dog barks on and on. The trade winds whip the palm fronds nearby. Someone smashes note after note on a drum set.
My insides still churn. Rolling over and over like waves that surge onto the beach.
I stare at the sturdy tree trunk, noticing a deep gash near its base.
Tha-wamp! The ground quivers, zinging reverberations to the top of my head. I gasp and jump back. A coconut rolls within inches of me.
Another gust of wind hits, sending the palm fronds into panicky, jerky movements. It’s dangerous out here.
But I have to know.
I flick on the flashlight and shine it up the tree. The flower still isn’t blooming.
And I flee to the house.
Tangled
SATURDAY MORNING is blustery. If this house had shutters like our house in Gladiola, one would surely come unhinged. Here, the curtains in my bedroom won’t settle. They keep puffing up.
I press the foot pedal on the sewing machine and feed the orange cotton fabric beneath the bobbling needle.
At breakfast I thought about talking to Daddy. Until he told me I wouldn’t see Howdy today. He has to work with the out-of-town person from the office. Mama has to pack.
Two whole weeks between Howdy visits? And no drop-bys from Daddy this week either. Howdy will surely think we’ve abandoned him. That no one loves him. Maybe he’ll lose his purr again.
I speed up the machine and it jams. I yank out the material and check the underside. It is a tangled mess of thread.
The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. “Peggy Sue, it’s Malina,” says Mama.
“I’ll call her back.”
I don’t want to talk to her.
Talking to Daddy
“TIME TO CALL it a night, kitten,” says Daddy over the zzzzZzzzzZzzzt of the sewing machine.
I let up on the pedal, and the machine stops. “Daddy,” I say, turning, “I think Mama and me have rock fever. I should go home.”
There. I’ve spilled it.
“What kind of nonsense …?” Daddy asks. He puts his hands gently on my shoulders.
“I feel it, Daddy. Right here.” I point to my heart.
Daddy’s shoulders sag. “I’m sorry, Peggy Sue. You know I want you to love it here.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can last.”
I twist an end of fabric into a long, tight, skinny roll.
“I know moving hasn’t been easy for you. But you should try and focus on the good.”
“You don’t get it, Daddy! I don’t want to stay. I have a plan. I want to go back to Texas and live with Grams and Grandpa. I’m earning good money from sewing. If you buy me a ticket now, I’ll pay you back the rest someday.”
“We’d be lost without you, kitten,” says Daddy, his voice soft and low. “You are our daughter and we want you with us. Please, don’t talk this way again.”
I look down at my mangled fabric and blink real hard.
Talking with Malina
MAMA AND DADDY load their suitcases into the car Sunday morning. “Have fun,” I say, slam the trunk, and turn my back to them.
I glare at the mountains in the distance, capped with clouds of gray. Daddy starts the car, honks twice, and pulls away.
Without a wave I stomp across the grass to the Halanis’ with my own suitcase. Their car hesitates at the end of the drive as I plow through the hedge. I beat back the branches, but they win. I’ve got scratches now.
“Brownies in twenty minutes,” says Mrs. Halani when she meets me at the door.
The chocolatey goodness smells divine, but I’m in no mood. “Thanks,” I say, and trudge up the stairs. I recognize the peppy song that Malina’s singing to—it’s an Elvis oldie about a hound dog.
I hesitate outside her open door. “I’m here,” I say as the song ends. It’s a statement, not a greeting.
“Oh, hi,” says Malina. She’s propped up on her bed with a pillow, surrounded by her stuffed dog collection. A Top Teen magazine rests in her lap. “I’ve made space in the closet and emptied out my top dresser drawer.”
Neither of us looks the other in the eyes.
“Thanks,” I say, and cross the room. I open up my suitcase on her extra bed and start to unpack my few belongings. Malina reads.
The DJ on the radio spins another Elvis favorite and the song fills up the uncomfortable space.
I perch on the edge of the twin bed across from Malina a few minutes later. “I should have called you,” I say.
She reaches to turn down the volume on the radio on her nightstand.
“I tried twice,” she says. “I wanted to apologize.”
“I know. But I was too hurt to talk. I just,” I say and look right at her, “I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell me about Kiki in the first place. It feels like I’m always the last to know around here.”
Malina twists her mouth. “I’m really sorry. You deserve an explanation.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“We were. I mean we are. If you still want to be.” Malina reaches for a stuffed Dalmatian and gives it a hug. “I wanted you to like me. So I didn’t tell you I was related to her.”
“Oh,” I say, tipping back. “So you two weren’t se
cretly plotting against me?”
“Of course not,” she says, and tosses the dog at me. I catch it with one hand. “You really do go to the worst-case scenario first, don’t you? I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to think Kiki and I were the same.”
I lean toward her. “Well, you both are good dancers and like dogs.”
“Very funny. Seriously, I was trying to protect you when I told you to stay away from her, just like I protect myself. We’re not close at all.”
“We shouldn’t let her ruin our friendship.”
“Not another second,” says Malina, and we shake on it.
Big Wave
I’M WINNING.
“Park Place!” says Malina as I land on the ritzy Monopoly property that night. “Lucky you.”
The Halanis’ phone rings. “Kimo?” Malina squeals and leaps right up. Maybe it is.
“Dad, telephone,” she says, then plops back down with a sigh.
“Uh-huh … Okay … Got it …” Mr. Halani says, and hangs up without a good-bye. He calls Mrs. Halani into the kitchen and they talk so low we can’t make out the words.
Malina shrugs. “Parents, always a mystery.”
How true.
When they finally return to the living room, Mr. Halani wears his police uniform, and Mrs. Halani has her car keys in her hand.
“What’s up?” asks Malina.
But before they can answer, the loud wail begins.
It’s the siren.
And this I know—it’s the wrong time of day for an emergency test. This is real.
“Tidal wave alert,” says Mr. Halani.
My throat tightens and I dive toward Tutu’s blue afghan on the couch. We’ll have to leave.
“Let’s turn on the radio,” says Malina. She hops up and I follow her into the kitchen.
This morning, at approximately nine a.m. Hawaiian Standard Time, a major earthquake happened off the coast of Chile. Reports indicate a tidal wave is heading across the Pacific. All persons in low-lying areas must evacuate. The first wave is estimated to reach Oahu at twelve thirty a.m. Hawaiian Standard Time, the island of Hawaii, at midnight …