Summer Bird Blue

by Akemi Dawn Bowman

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Mr. Watanabe sets a bowl of lightly salted edamame on the coffee table, and we eat them while we listen to one of his records.

  “What’s a good word that rhymes with ‘breakable’?” I ask, tapping my pen against the lined page.

  “Unbreakable,” Mr. Watanabe replies.

  “No—that—what?” I make a face.

  He laughs through his teeth and it comes out like a whistle. Poi looks up from the floor, her ears perked up like she’s listening for a secret language.

  “Dis song take long time, eh? When you goin’ be all pau?” he muses from his chair.

  “You can’t rush creativity. It’s like the rain. You wait and wait and wait, and when it finally comes, it soaks the earth and revives all the plants,” I say.

  “Whatchu talkin’ about? I wait fo’ how many weeks fo’ you to learn how fo’ water da plants. Dey all goin’ stay dead if I wait fo’ da rain,” he grumbles.

  I laugh, my pen still constantly tapping. When the vinyl crackles to a stop. I stand up to flip the record, but Mr. Watanabe waves me off.

  “I get ’em. I get ’em. Finish your sistah’s song,” he says.

  Finish the song. That’s all she wanted to do, and I wouldn’t let her. The memory feels like a sucker punch when it comes back to me, and I close my arms around myself like I’m bracing for impact.

  A memory

  “Stop it!” Lea shouts at me. Her guitar, half covered in stickers, is wedged in her lap.

  She strums a few chords again, singing the lyrics of one of her favorite songs, and I start playing my own completely different song on the piano at the bottom of my bed.

  “Seriously, stop!” Lea yells. “Just let me finish this song.”

  “You’re not the only one who wants to practice,” I snap.

  “Put on headphones.”

  “Go to a different room.”

  “I was playing first.”

  “You’re just playing—I’m trying to write something important.”

  Back and forth and back and forth we go like Ping-Pong balls, neither of us wanting to give in. Eventually we’re both standing, fighting with each other like two siblings who’ve been living in the same room for far too long.

  I know I should’ve let her finish the song. She was here first, playing first, and now I’m trying to drown her out so she’ll be forced to stop practicing.

  I could say it’s because she’s been playing for hours and it’s my turn. I could say it’s because I need to write a song before it leaves my head, which is more important than what she’s doing. I could even blame it on wanting control, because I’m older and because there should be perks to being a backup sort-of parent.

  But they’d all be lies.

  I started playing the piano because Lea is starting to sound really, really good.

  And I want her to be good, but maybe not that good. Not better than me.

  It’s not fair—music was always my thing. And I didn’t mind sharing it for a while, when Lea was still learning and she needed to come to me every time she wanted to learn a new chord or get help with a new melody. But I can hear the way she strums like it’s second nature, like her guitar is merely an extension of her hands. Her soul.

  She doesn’t need me to teach her anything anymore. And pretty soon she’s going to realize it, and she won’t look up to me anymore either.

  Music is my identity. If it becomes hers, will it stop being mine?

  It’s confusing. I feel so many ugly, crawling emotions inside me—I don’t like it at all.

  But instead of fighting the feelings, I’m fighting with Lea.

  She marches across the room and swipes my sheet music off the stand. I rip one of her posters off the wall. She cries and tells me she hates me. I’m screaming that I wish I had my own room.

  Mom isn’t home to separate us or intervene or defuse the situation. It’s just the two of us, like it is most days. And it’s unfortunate, because the fight goes on.

  And on.

  And on.

  “I wasn’t always nice to her,” I say quietly. It’s an admission I didn’t realize I was ready to make.

  Mr. Watanabe looks up, a record between his hands.

  “I know it seems like I’m a good sister for being so upset she’s gone and for trying to finish this song, but I wasn’t always a good sister. Sometimes I was a horrible sister.” I don’t know why I’m telling Mr. Watanabe this, but I can’t stop. I’ve opened the floodgates and now there’s nothing to do but let the words escape. “I never let her win. I was always trying to be in charge. I never told her how much I appreciated her, even though she was always there for me, even though I’ve said some of the most horrible things to her. She forgave me when she shouldn’t have, when I spent my whole life being jealous of her. Isn’t that weird? That I could love someone so much and still be so impossibly jealous of them? I don’t know how to make sense of that. I think it just makes me a shitty person. And I want you to know that—that I’m not that nice a person.”

  Mr. Watanabe places the record in the player but doesn’t start it. He twists his mouth and thinks. “I t’ink maybe when we lose somebody we love, we remember da best and da worst. An’ we fo’get all da in between—and dea’s a lot of in between—dat make up for da extremes. An’ you know what, you no can be all dat bad, uddahwise you wouldn’t be here fo’ keep me company all da time.”

  I frown. “But . . . I didn’t start coming here to keep you company. I started coming here because of the music. Because of the escape. And because—I don’t know—maybe I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I think that makes me kind of selfish.”

  He shrugs. “You came ovah here cuz Poi got outta da house and you knew she mean somet’ing to me.”

  I don’t know why I keep arguing with him, but I do. Maybe because I need him to know I’m not good. Or, maybe I want him to convince me I am. “I went after her because it’s what Lea would have done.”

  “Eh, if you like do, do. If you no like do, no do.” He shrugs. “You talk too much and you look like one Smurf wen’ cut your hair, but you a much bettah person dan you t’ink.”

  I spend a long time hearing his words on a loop in my head. Long enough to decide maybe it’s worth considering. “Thanks,” I say after a while.

  He nods. “Now stop talking—I like dis song.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Kai invites me on a camping trip over the weekend. Aunty Ani seems thrilled with the idea. She doesn’t stop talking about it all week. She lets me borrow her old sleeping bag and makes enough Spam musubi for our whole group. I think she’s mostly excited I’m starting to act like a normal, well-adjusted teenager again. I think it makes her feel like she’s doing something right.

  I take Mr. Watanabe’s ukulele with me, because guitars and ukuleles are practically a campfire requirement.

  When we reach the Malaekahana Beach Campground, Gareth, Hannah, and Jerrod are already waiting for us. They’re sitting around a small fire crackling within a metal enclosure, and three blue tents are set up behind them.

  Hannah sees me and flashes a smile, her hand raised to block the sun from her eyes. “Hey, Rumi. Want a s’more?” She holds up a stick with a dripping, gooey, near-black marshmallow on the end.

  I sit next to her and smile. “Yeah. Okay.”

  She smashes the melting white and brown bubble into a sandwich of chocolate and graham crackers and hands it to me. “Jerrod keeps setting his on fire, and Gareth can’t seem to stop dropping his, so I’m the designated marshmallow roaster.”

  Kai sits down next to her and presses his hands together. “You like make me one too?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Seriously, you guys are useless.”

  “Oh God,” I say, “who set up that tent?” Everyone turns to look at the uneven row of tents behind them. The one in the center is large, but half of it has already collapsed like it’s slowly deflating. The carcass of an air mattress is hanging out
of the front.

  “Jerrod,” Hannah and Gareth say in unison.

  Jerrod looks up from his phone and holds a hand up in retaliation. “Seriously? Why was I left all on my own to do that? I don’t know how to set up a tent.”

  “You could’ve googled it,” Hannah says.

  “No cell service,” Jerrod snaps back.

  “Den whatchu been doing fo’ da last half an hour?” Gareth stares.

  “I’m taking pictures. Stop interrogating me,” Jerrod says, shuffling away from them with a scoff.

  I finish my s’more, play some ukulele, and watch Kai and Hannah try to put the last tent together while Gareth keeps an eye on the fire and Jerrod wanders off to take pictures of the beach.

  “I’s good you and Kai are still friends. You mo’ bettah dan one iPod,” Gareth says, nodding toward the ukulele against my chest.

  I grin. “Glad to be of service.”

  His laugh comes out in short bursts, and he scratches the back of his neck. The width of his arm is practically the entire width of his head.

  I look over my shoulder at Kai and Hannah, strumming absentmindedly. They’re laughing at each other while trying to get the air mattress to inflate.

  “I t’ought you were into girls, to be honest,” he offers out of nowhere. “Until Kai said he doesn’t t’ink you’re interested in romantic relationships at all.”

  I freeze, my fingers forgetting to change chords for a moment. “Kai said that?”

  He nods like it’s not a big deal, and I guess maybe it’s not. Maybe it doesn’t have to be.

  “Wait, but why did you think I was into girls?”

  He shrugs. “Because you weren’t into Kai. I mean, Kai is kind of beautiful.”

  “Well, I don’t like girls like that.” I pause. “I don’t think I like boys like that either. Is that weird?”

  He doesn’t hesitate. “No, not at all. Lots of people identify da same way as you.”

  “But I don’t know how I identify, exactly. I know about the labels, and I guess if I was basing it off what the Internet says, I’d identify as asexual. And maybe somewhere on the aromantic spectrum, too. But I feel like I don’t fully relate to any of the labels that exist. Some of them are mostly right, but not exactly right. And the asexual and aromantic labels—they’re about attraction. They don’t explain why I’m not sure if I like kissing, or how I’m not interested in sex right now. It’s so confusing to me.”

  “Izzy’s taught me a lot about understanding how everybody is different. I guess—and not to get weird—but sexuality is fluid fo’ a lot of people. I’s different fo’ everybody, and dea’s not really a right or wrong way to be. We fall into different places on a spectrum, I guess, like different colors in a rainbow.”

  “But, like, how are people supposed to know what they like for sure? And what if they change their mind?”

  “Den dey change dea’ mind. I don’t t’ink you have fo’ know right dis second. Whatchu, sixteen? Seventeen? I’m eighteen, and I no have all da answers fo’ everything. But dat’s da fun part—figuring everyt’ing out. I don’t want all da answers right now. I like try living instead.”

  “Yes!” I practically shout. “That’s what I want. But I feel like I’m supposed to know everything right now. Everyone else always seems so put together.”

  “Dat’s because some people are liars.” Gareth laughs. “Dey as clueless as us; dey only bettah at pretending.”

  I grip the ukulele and tilt my head back like I’m groaning. “I knew it.”

  “An’ you know what I t’ink? I’s okay fo’ be confused, an’ i’s okay fo’ not be confused. One isn’t mo’ bettah dan da uddah, yeah? Dey both normal. Dey both okay.”

  I smile. It’s okay to be confused. It’s normal.

  I’m normal.

  And part of me knew it all along. Because feeling the way I feel always felt normal to me, until I realized it wasn’t what other people were doing—when I realized how sure everybody else seemed to be about their likes and dislikes.

  But maybe it really is okay to be unsure, and to change my mind, or to never change my mind.

  Maybe it’s okay to be exactly the way I am.

  Gareth pulls a marshmallow out of the bag and wedges it onto the end of a stick. “Okay, eighth time’s da charm.”

  We talk about Izzy’s band and Gareth’s plans for college and his tabby cat named Mele Kalikimaka, which means “Merry Christmas” in Hawaiian. Three more marshmallows fall into the fire.

  I take the stick from him. “I can’t watch this anymore. It’s too sad. Pass me a marshmallow.”

  He flashes his teeth and hands me the bag. “T’anks, sistah.”

  “I don’t know why we haven’t been talking more this summer. You and I have a lot in common,” I say, spinning the marshmallow slowly over the fire.

  “You were too busy trying fo’ make up your mind about Kai,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “And writing dat song of yours. You eva finish dat one yet?”

  I kick my toes into the sand. “I’m still working on it. It changes a lot, depending on how I’m feeling. I don’t know—I guess this summer has hit me in stages. Feeling lost, trying to escape, and finding a way to live again.” I shrug. “And the lyrics change whenever I do. I guess I’m still trying to figure out what to write about.”

  “Why no write about dat?” Gareth offers.

  I frown. “About being confused?”

  “No. About da summer. About how you changed.”

  “I—I don’t know. I guess I need to make sure I’m still done changing before I write a song like that.”

  I finish making Gareth a s’more and go back to strumming random melodies on the ukulele until it’s time to cook the food. I get up to help Kai barbecue pineapple cubes and chicken legs. We talk like we’re childhood friends and it feels so natural. I feel happy. Comfortable. Maybe even a little excited, because I feel more relaxed in my skin than I have in a long time.

  Maybe my blue hair is more magic than I realized. Or maybe I’m just ready to grow. To change.

  After we all eat, we play card games, share funny stories about each other, and spend a lot of time making fun of Jerrod now that his battery is dead and his phone has been forced out of his hands.

  Eventually, when the stars are out and the air smells crisp with salt, we all cram ourselves into the tents and fall asleep.

  If it weren’t for the hundred roosters that wake me up at all hours of the night, I would have made it all the way until morning before remembering Lea is dead. It would have been the first time since the accident.

  But in the darkness, in a tent on my own, I see her lying beside me, her nose inches from mine. Smiling. Telling me it’s okay, that everything is okay, and to go back to sleep. And looking at her—seeing her right here next to me—doesn’t hurt the same as it did before.

  Maybe I’m going to be okay after all.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  When Sunday morning rolls around and it’s time to leave the campsite, we all decide the weekend has been too much fun and we’re not ready for it to end.

  So instead of going home, we stop by Laniakea Beach, otherwise known as Turtle Beach. Kai shows me the sea turtles that come to shore to eat seaweed near the rocks. They’re strangely docile, and Jerrod gets close enough that—if his phone had any battery left—he could’ve easily taken one of his beloved selfies with them.

  Afterward we visit Chun’s Reef and throw a Frisbee around near the water. Gareth tells me it’s a good place for longboard surfing, if you stay away from the shallow end, which is filled with sea urchins. I help Hannah look for pieces of sea glass. She tells me she’s been collecting them since her dad was first stationed here and that most of the ones she finds are teal, white, and turquoise. I find one that’s a deep cobalt blue and she tells me I’m her lucky charm.

  After that we stop off at a taco stand for a late lunch, and nobody seems to mind that we haven’t had a working cell phone since yesterday.


  And then we say good-bye. Hannah gives me a hug and says she hopes we can hang out again soon. Gareth throws me a high-five and offers to teach me how to surf, if I’m interested. And Jerrod tells me he’s going to post all the photos from the weekend on Instagram and that he’ll tag me in everything.

  I get in the car with Kai, but he doesn’t start the engine right away. He looks at me instead, with his half smirk and happy eyes.

  I wrinkle my face at him and laugh. I don’t need to say anything; this is the first weekend I’ve felt like myself in a long time. And knowing Kai, he probably wants to take some credit for it.

  When he pulls the car back into our cul-de-sac, his dad practically throws himself out of the house and onto the sidewalk. By the time we’re in the driveway, he’s already at Kai’s door.

  “Why didn’t you answer your phone?” he shouts.

  Kai’s face recoils. “We were camping—my battery died.”

  I expect him to yell—about the military, about surfing, about hanging out with me—but Mr. Yamada doesn’t keep yelling. He looks straight at me.

  I look back and forth between Kai and Mr. Yamada. “What?”

  And then I hear Aunty Ani’s door fall shut. I look up—she’s making her way down the steps shakily.

  Oh God. It’s Mom. Something happened to Mom.

  My stomach feels heavy and desperate. I shove the door open and take a hurried few steps toward my aunt, who is gripping her sides like she’s aching.

  “Is she okay? What happened to her?” My voice is panicked. All I’m thinking is that Mom is dead and I was awful to her.

  “What happened to—” Aunty Ani looks confused and shakes her head. “No, it’s—” Her voice breaks away. She looks toward Mr. Watanabe’s house like her heart is breaking.

  She calls after me when I start running to his house, but I can’t hear her. I can only hear my footsteps thudding against the pavement and up the steps. I tear the screen open and pound my fist against the door over and over again.

  “Mr. Watanabe?” I’m shouting in a coarse, weary voice.

  There’s no answer. I skirt around the edge of the house, looking into every window. The living room is empty. The hallway is empty.