Anywhere but Paradise

by Anne Bustard

  Inch by inch, I move the glow. There it is. Not a flower. But a bump. A bump the size of a small egg. A bump that will grow until it bursts through the skin and blossoms.

  Man o’ War

  ON THE FIRST MORNING of our summer vacation, I wash the sticky sea salt off the windows of our house until they’re perfectly clear.

  Then, before we sew, Malina and I walk over to the beach park with a transistor radio. We don’t want to miss the countdown of this week’s biggest hits.

  I stare at the jelly-looking sea thingy with a lopsided iridescent blue bubble and a long skinny tail while Elvis sings about being stuck like glue in love. The bubble shimmers in the sunlight.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say to Malina, reaching down to touch the tail.

  “Don’t!” she hollers. “It’s a man o’ war.”

  I pull back my hand as the tide swirls at my feet.

  The tail wraps around my ankle. “Ow. Ow. Ow.” It’s a bee sting times ten and I can’t fling it off.

  “Go deeper,” says Malina.

  Okay! Next time I’ll know.

  I hop forward and swish my foot like a whirligig. Finally, the tendril unwraps.

  But the sting remains.

  “Quick, rub sand on it,” Malina says as I emerge from the water.

  A squiggly red welt marks my ankle and leg.

  I spot another man o’ war a few yards away. I pick up a stick and jab it. Pop. “There,” I say. “One less meanie in the world.”

  “I don’t think it’s dead,” says Malina.

  I reach down and rub sand on my leg.

  “Come on,” she says.

  A few minutes later, my leg hangs over her bathtub as she shakes a bottle of whitish granules from the spice cabinet over my skin. “What is this?”

  “Ajinomoto. It’ll make the pain go away.”

  “But what is it?”

  “Meat tenderizer.”

  “Yep. That’s me all right. White meat.”

  We crack up.

  Hanai family

  MALINA AND I sew the rest of the morning, break for lunch, and sew a little more. Mama helps, too. We’ve got a deadline. Mrs. Halani asked all my remaining customers to come to the studio for fittings Tuesday afternoon. The recital is next Saturday.

  Later, Daddy, Malina, and I drop Mama off for her hair appointment and make our way to the quarantine station. Day fifty-eight, Howdy. Almost halfway.

  “Mr. Santos,” says Daddy as we sign the registration book. “I don’t believe you’ve met my other daughter, Malina.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” says Mr. Santos. “Where have you been keeping her, Robert? All this time I could have sworn Peggy Sue was an only child.”

  “Malina had the chicken pox,” I say, which is true.

  “Real bad,” says Malina, scratching her arm.

  “Is that right?” says Mr. Santos. “Now, girls, stand back and let me take a good look at the both of you.”

  “Y’all look like you’ve lined up for a firing squad,” says Daddy. “Smile.”

  So we do.

  “I can tell you aren’t twins,” Mr. Santos says. “But I can see a family resemblance. You both have mischievous smiles.”

  Daddy reaches out to shake Mr. Santos’s hand. “Thanks, Clifford.”

  “I have a hanai brother myself,” he says. “Now you folks hurry up. Howdy’s waiting.”

  Fittings

  AS GIRLS TRY on their muumuus Tuesday afternoon, Mrs. Halani, Malina, Mama, and I circulate. We determine the best length and pin up each hem. It’s the fitted holokus I’m most concerned about. All the others hang loose.

  Kiki stands in the corner, wearing the turquoise satin holoku for her dance with Mrs. Halani. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since the last day of school. Since the fight. She swishes back her hair. “It’s too big here and here,” she says. She tugs at her shoulders and points to her waist.

  Kiki likes giving orders to me. Bossing me around.

  I don’t talk. I just do. And then she leaves. And I start to breathe again.

  The little girls are the squirmiest.

  “I look like the royal princess of Oahu,” says one girl in yellow, beginning a twirl in front of the mirror.

  “Ouch!” I say as a pin pricks me for the umpteenth time. “Hold still, please.”

  The scene reminds me of snorkeling in Hanauma Bay. One fish, two, three, more are this close. And then they are gone.

  Last Practice

  THE SONG BEGINS.

  I smile.

  My eyes follow my arms and hands as they wave gently to the left. My feet travel unhurriedly to the right.

  And my knees bend ever so slightly as my hips sway in time with the music.

  I’m dancing!

  “That’s the way,” says Mrs. Halani. “That’s exactly the way I want you to dance at the recital.”

  Keep Smiling

  IT SMELLS LIKE LEI DAY. All of the dancers wear flowers and many in the audience do, too.

  Every chair in the Hanu Intermediate cafeteria is filled. Folks stand against the cinder-block walls on one side and sit in the windowsills on the other. Most fan their faces with their programs. With all these people in here, it’s warm. Real warm.

  Thanks to Mama and Malina and Mrs. Halani, I finished all the costumes on time.

  All of us dancers are grouped according to class on the walkway. My class wears green-and-white hibiscus-print muumuus. Bracelets of fragrant yellow plumeria blossoms encircle our wrists.

  “You know these dances,” Mrs. Halani tells us. “You’ve practiced and practiced. Your steps don’t have to be perfect. Or your arms and hands. Folks are here to cheer for you—cheer you on. Listen to the music inside you. Don’t think too much. Just dance. Have fun.”

  Malina and I nod.

  “If you lose your place, don’t panic. Smile, no matter what. Honor the music. Honor Hawaii. Honor yourself. This is not a contest. No one is keeping score. Folks come to watch because they love hula.”

  I know what she’s saying. But I don’t want to mess up.

  The last time I performed in front of people, someone laughed. Really loudly.

  “Lovely Hula Hands”

  “AND NOW,” says Mrs. Halani into the mike, “my Wednesday afternoon seventh-grade class will dance a hula standard, the first hula I teach to every new student, ‘Lovely Hula Hands.’ ”

  I didn’t know that. She taught it to the class again just for me, then.

  The thick green velvet curtain, with folds as deep and lush as the Koolau Mountain Range, opens. We stand in three straight rows onstage, just like in class.

  Though now I am not in the back row. Mrs. Halani asked me to dance up front.

  We’re in our starting positions, arms stretched out front, hands overlapping. I look to my left and suddenly realize that I made four of the twelve costumes, including mine.

  The trio, men on ukulele, guitar, and bass, strum an intro to our song. They begin to sing. And we dance.

  I don’t think. I just feel.

  I am the song.

  Falling

  RUNNING UP AND DOWN stairs sounds one way.

  But falling?

  Falling sounds like a thud. Or a clunk. Or an ummphf.

  I’m heading down the backstage stairs after the dance, just as Kiki shoves up them. She tips to one side and tumbles backward.

  I reach out. But it’s too late.

  Kiki lands on the bottom step and bounces to the concrete floor.

  “My foot,” she says, clutching her ankle beneath her purple-and-white muumuu.

  It’s at a weird angle and already puffing up like a blowfish.

  “Someone get some ice,” I holler.

  Girls swarm around her.

  Kiki flinches.

  “She needs some space,” I say, and wave my arms for them to back away.

  Her face twists.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I say, sitting beside her.

  “How do
you know?”

  “You know how to fight.”

  “Is there a doctor in the audience?” Mrs. Halani asks from the stage.

  “I saw you dance,” says Kiki.

  I wait for what will come next. I wait for the insult.

  “Not so bad for a haole.”

  “You know you just gave me a compliment.”

  “Maybe.”

  A mom with a clipboard brings a towel with ice. Two men follow. One is the doctor from the emergency room.

  “We’ll take it from here,” they say, and I find my class.

  “What will Mrs. Halani do now?” we whisper.

  Last Dance

  AT THE END of the program, my hula class tiptoes back into the cafeteria and settles on the floor between the stage and the first row of folding chairs.

  “As you know,” Mrs. Halani says to the audience from the stage, “it is customary for me to choose one of my students to dance the last dance with me.” Her eyes sweep the corners of the room and the floor where we sit. “This year, I asked my niece Kiki Kahana.”

  The audience murmurs.

  “You’ve all heard of the show business expression ‘break a leg.’ It means ‘good luck.’ Well, this year, my niece took that saying literally.”

  Folks turn to one another and say: “Oh, no.” “Too bad.” “What a shame.”

  “Yet she insisted on staying for the last dance,” says Mrs. Halani. “She even went so far as to suggest her replacement.”

  Kiki waves from her chair not too far away. Her leg is propped up on a bench. We clap and cheer.

  “So I have chosen another student to take her place.”

  I hope, hope, hope it is Malina.

  “This girl doesn’t know I’m about to call her name. I’m sure she will be surprised. But she shouldn’t. She is a beautiful dancer, but even more important, a beautiful person. She has reached out in friendship, in the spirit of aloha, and I couldn’t be prouder.”

  My eyes feel wet.

  “Malina Rose Halani, will you please join me onstage. It would be my honor to dance with you.”

  “Go,” I say, pushing her forward.

  People in the audience rise up, clapping.

  Malina hesitates and shakes her head. “For real?” she asks.

  “Of course,” says Mrs. Halani as she reaches out her hand.

  And so they dance.

  Response

  BEFORE THE LAST NOTE ENDS, everyone is on their feet. Clapping. Well, except Kiki. But I catch her eye because I am so tall. She picks up her towel of melting ice and says, “Mahalo.”

  “Mahalo,” I say right back.

  This, I think, is what aloha looks like.

  Folks storm the stage as well as all of us dancers in the audience. A lei pops over my head. Another. And another. A kiss on the cheek. Two. More. From Mr. Halani. David. All the girls in my hula class.

  Fragrant flowers stack up to my nose.

  I’m going to hang each and every one of them on my clothesline in my bedroom.

  “I’m so proud of you,” says Mama.

  “You are?”

  “This move … well, you’re all grown up.” She gives me a hug. “We got you a lei, too.”

  A tuberose and pink carnation lei hangs across her wrist. “But it looks like you already have enough.”

  “Watch this,” I say. I take off all of my leis and thread them onto my forearm.

  Mama smiles, puts the flowers around my neck, and gives me a kiss.

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  “Great job, kitten,” says Daddy.

  I look at the cafeteria filled with people. Smiling people. Even Kiki. Her arms drape around two big shoulders as she hops out of the building.

  “Wait up,” I holler, and race toward her.

  Kiki stops and I give her a flower lei. “I hope you feel better real soon.”

  “Thanks,” she says, and hobbles away.

  I’ve been here sixty-five days, and tonight, tonight, it feels just right. Like I belong. Maybe I’ll always stumble over who-moo-who-moo-new-coo-new-coo-ah-poo-ah-ah, but when I hear others say it, when I get close, it sounds like music. I could give poi another try. Someday. I wouldn’t mind meeting Madame Pele again, given different circumstances. I have a friend, more than one. And so does Howdy. Most days, over the ocean, the wide-open sky is ever so blue.

  Bloom

  LIKE ALWAYS, when we get home, I check on the night-blooming cereus. And there it is. Blooming. And it is magnificent. I know it’s open as soon as I walk under the tree. I can smell its soft, sweet scent. The large white-petaled flower is as wide as my hand. It has a yellow center cupped by small, light greenish-yellow fingerlike petals.

  Weeks ago, Daddy told me these flowers aren’t native to Hawaii. They have adapted. They have found a home here.

  Just like me.

  Home

  THERE HAVE BEEN Kahuna sightings. People say they’ve seen him skateboarding down Hanu Road in the middle of the night like he did in the Kamehameha Day Parade. They say they’ve seen a dog paddling offshore, holding a coconut in his mouth just after sunset. They say they’ve spotted him at the beach, spinning around and around in the moonlight.

  I’ve seen him, too. In my dreams, dancing at Tutu’s party.

  No one has taken down the last two flyers about his disappearance. Even though they’ve been tattered by the wind, and the rain has washed away the words. They are still tacked to the telephone poles at the corner of Hanu Road and Holokai Avenue.

  Malina and Kimo and I went to a picture show last weekend.

  I haven’t seen Kiki since the recital in June. But I’ve heard her cast is coming off in another week. And that she is doing volunteer work at a veterinarian’s office.

  Dried leis hang on the clothesline in my room. As do the beginnings of dresses and muumuus. I’ve got orders to sew clothes for the start of school.

  I have money now. I’m going to use it for my someday ticket to Paris. Daddy says we’ll vacation in Texas next summer. I’ve spent some of my money on fabric. Even though it’s mostly what tourists do, I’m making matching aloha wear for my family. I want folks to know we belong together. Grams and Grandpa are coming for a visit before the end of the summer. They said their fear of flying isn’t going to separate us. Mama has had only one headache this month.

  On July Fourth, my family joined the Halanis in the crowd outside Iolani Palace. Malina and I took turns counting every one of the fifty-gun salutes.

  It made me think of another number—sixty-seven—the number of years ago that the Kingdom of Hawaii was overthrown. They imprisoned the queen in the palace. No one has ever said sorry. To her or the Hawaiian people. I hope President Eisenhower will at least try.

  I told Malina about the gum-wrapper chain, and we’re going to make one together. And ask everyone in the eighth grade to join us, maybe even the whole island. It may take forever, but we want it to be part of a paper chain, a lei of aloha, that stretches around the world.

  This is what I’m thinking as Mama, Daddy, Malina, and me stand outside the quarantine station, waiting for the doors to open.

  “Mr. Santos,” says Mama, waving.

  He waves back and unlocks the doors.

  “Go,” everyone shouts.

  I run, run as fast as I can.

  “Howdy,” I say a few moments later. “Today is the day! The one hundred twentieth day!”

  I pick up my cat, hold him to the sky, and twirl. Then I take him to my heart. He curls into me and purrs.

  “Come on, Howdy,” I say as I walk out of his cage. “Let’s go home.”

  GLOSSARY OF HAWAIIAN WORDS

  akamai (ah-kah-MY)—smart

  Hana hou! (HAH-nah-HO)—one more time

  hanai (hah-NIGH)—adopted child

  Hanu (HAH-new)—fictional town on windward Oahu; to breathe

  haole (HOW-lay)—a Caucasian or white person; foreigner

  “Hawaii Pono‘ī” (hah-WHY-ee-PO-no-EE) national anth
em of the Kingdom of Hawaii

  hele (HEL-lay)—to move

  holoku (HO-lo-kOO)—a style of Hawaiian dress

  huhu (who-WHO)—angry, upset

  humuhumunukunukuapuaa (who-moo-who-moo-new-coo-new-coo-AH-poo-AH-ah)—a small reef fish

  Iolani (EE-oh-LAH-nee)—Iolani Palace was once used as the residence of the reigning Hawaiian royalty

  Kalakaua (kah-LAH-KAH-wah)—Hawaiian monarch who reigned from 1874 to 1891

  Kalanianaole (kah-LAH-nee-AH-nah-OH-lay)—a prince in the Hawaiian Kingdom

  Kamehameha (kah-MAY-hah-MAY-hah)—the name of five Hawaiian kings

  kapakahi (kah-pah-KAH-hee)—crooked

  Koolau (KOO-oh-lou) (lou rhymes with ow)—a mountain range on Oahu

  lehua (lay-WHO-ah)—vivid red flower

  lilikoi (LEE-lee-koh-ee)—passionfruit

  mahalo (ma-HAH-lo)—thank you

  malihini (mah-lee-HEE-nee)—newcomer, tourist

  Oahu (oh-AH-who)—the most populated Hawaiian island; home to Peggy Sue

  Pali Highway (PAH-lee)—Oahu road windward to leeward side, cliffs

  pau (pow)—finished, done

  Pele (PEL-eh)—volcano goddess

  pikake (pea-KAH-kay)—fragrant, delicate white flower

  Diacritical marks were used sparingly to reflect Peggy Sue’s experience in 1960. Mahalo to Dr. Puakea Nogelmeier for his guidance.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  My grandfather emigrated to Honolulu, Hawaii, from Liverpool, England, in 1908. My father was born in Hawaii, and so was I. Most of my growing-up years were spent on Oahu. While I no longer reside in the islands, Hawaii is as much my home, my paradise, as Texas.

  This novel is a work of fiction, complete with characters and communities that live only in my imagination. But Anywhere but Paradise is grounded in history and events from 1960.