Fierce as the Wind

by Tara Wilson Redd

  I wipe my tears. I’m seventeen. Crying over my hair? This is pathetic. The scissors pause.

  “What’s wrong, Miho?”

  “Nothing,” I say, laughing.

  “Miho.”

  “Really. Nothing,” I say.

  The scissors start again. But I can’t listen to my brain anymore.

  “Do you ever wish you were someone else?” I ask after a few minutes. He thinks for a moment.

  “The Duke,” he says. “My first girlfriend had a big crush on him.”

  “The Duke?”

  “Duke Kahanamoku! The father of surfing. Anyway, he died when she was a little kid, so you think: no real competition. But you ever try competing with an idea? Can’t win; an idea does no wrong. Who do you wish you were? Van Gogh?”

  “I don’t think it was very fun to be Van Gogh,” I say. “I don’t wish I was him, I wish I understood him.”

  “Who, then? Your old movie lady? Myrna Loy?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That’d be nice. To be pretty like Myrna Loy.”

  “Pretty? I thought you meant rich. And talented. And charming. But you already are those things. Except rich.”

  But I can’t answer him. If I open my mouth, I’m going to start crying again.

  After a minute, he continues:

  “You know, I don’t know why you’d wish to be someone else. You are a very beautiful little girl. You always have been,” Mr. Kalani says. “When you first came to live with us, your dad was so concerned with getting your room ready because he wanted you to feel at home here. He painted, he bought a bed, he bought toys, he bought a little backpack just for you. Fret, fret, fret. But your uncles were thinking ahead. We said, forget about the room. This girl, she is too beautiful. She’s going to fill this lawn with boys. Every night, we’re going to have teenage boys on this lawn playing guitars, bringing flowers, reciting poetry. It will be a disaster. So while your dad was getting your room ready, your uncles built that giant fence down at the end of the property and put electric wire up to keep out all your beaus.”

  I laugh, despite myself.

  “That fence is from when the ‘mysterious creature’ destroyed Dad’s whole garden,” I say. It was a feral piglet orphan that ended up taking a ride with Animal Control, but Dad refuses to believe that much destruction came from something so small.

  “Where do you think the pigs came from? We turned all your suitors into pigs.”

  I wipe my eyes.

  “We missed one. If I see him ever, I’ll turn him into bacon,” Mr. Kalani says. “Stupid like a pig, that…what did you call him?”

  “Scumbucket. And anyway, pigs are smart.”

  “Must not have been as smart as he seemed, sounds like.”

  Scumbucket told me he liked my curly hair. He said it looked like Myrna Loy’s hair when it decided to cooperate. He said he loved it when it dried all funny after swimming in the ocean, because my curls went everywhere and then I looked like a particularly shipwrecked Myrna Loy. While we were dating, I wore it down all the time. I’d get up in the morning, shake it out like Achilles to dry it, and smile in the mirror when I saw it twisting itself every which way. My favorite thing was when he would pull out the spirals without thinking about it while we were tangled up watching movies. But he wanted a straight-haired girl.

  “Done,” Mr. Kalani announces.

  “Thank you, Uncle.” I start pulling my hair up into a slobbery wet bun.

  “Don’t you want some coffee?”

  “I’m late,” I say. “Got an important workout this morning.”

  “Oh, wait. That reminds me. I saw a contest to win a bike.”

  I stop, my hair halfway up.

  “What kind of bike?”

  “Like the ones in your races.”

  “Where?”

  “In town. You know, next to the clinic that went out of business, where my sister worked in high school.”

  He’s not always very helpful with directions.

  He tries again. “Across from the 7-Eleven.”

  “Half the stores on this island are across from a 7-Eleven.”

  “The one where Mr. Bu’s nephew works. The one on parole.”

  “Right,” I say. I do know where that is.

  “You’re a lucky girl,” Mr. Kalani says. “Maybe you will win.”

  “Thanks, Uncle. I’ll take a look,” I say as I throw my bag over my shoulder and head toward my bike. I pull my phone out of my pocket, and I see five messages from Lani on the screen.

  “Hey you free this morning?”

  “Sucks to ask but can you help out in the truck this morning?”

  “You up?”

  “I’d ask Trin but she’s a disaster with customers.”

  “Can you text me if you get this? It’s kind of an emergency.”

  I sprint to the house and throw my workout bag back in the front door. I’ll have to do that brick another day. The last message was twenty minutes ago. She’s probably freaking out.

  I head out and text her with one hand as I coast down the hill: “Where? On my way.”

  * * *

  Last summer when Lani announced that her food truck was going to be called “Fat Girl with a Food Truck,” we all tried to tell her that this was a bad idea. “Fat” isn’t a dirty word, but even X thought this was going to end up inviting a bunch of shark bait harassing her instead of enjoying her good food. But Lani had a vision.

  If there are people making fun of her somewhere out in Twitter land, they don’t have the brass to come here. And if they did ever try, there’s always a line of loyal customers protecting her like a moat. Today, her line is like half a mile long. I skid up to Fat Girl soaked in sweat, legs burning. I drop my bike and run to the counter. I hear a bunch of “hey”s and angry noises. “She works here,” Lani shouts as she hands me her keys with one hand, makes change with the other. The “hey”s turn into cheers, and I turn and take a bow. People literally applaud.

  I have a bike lock permanently attached to the back of Lani’s trailer, for moments like this when there’s nothing sturdy enough to chain it to. I lock up my bike, pull the hidden tarp over it, and climb into the sweltering truck.

  “Sorry thank you so much I’m so sorry—”

  “Orders or griddle?” I cut her off.

  “Orders.” I slide in front of the window. “One second, right with you,” I tell the first customer.

  “What is going on out there?” I ask as I crouch in the corner, changing my shirt with my back to the window. Thank god I was already wearing my sports bra. I put my hair under a cap.

  “Some celebrity retweeted the location this morning,” Lani says. Her hands are making sandwiches, folding paper around them. “An actor in one of the Marvel movies, I think. I kind of remember him from yesterday, but I didn’t know he was famous. But then it went viral and now—”

  “Are we going to run out?” I survey the line as I wash my hands, bag sandwiches, call order numbers. Lani does all her prep at this commercial kitchen where she rents a teeny little space because her mom got tired of her taking over the whole house. The truck is only for putting the food together, not for all the chopping and mixing and measuring. No way we have that much food in here.

  “My mom is at the market right now and she’s stopping at my fridge,” Lani says. She looks like she’s about to cry. “What are we going to do? We have to keep this going as long as we can. Normally I’d hang the sign, but, like, this is the best publicity I’ve ever had. I can’t screw this up.”

  “Roger that,” I say, staying super calm and taking an order even though customers are yelling. “Did you text everyone?”

  “You’re the only one I trust in this kitchen besides me.”

  I blush a little. Make the change. Think it out. “Order up!” I call, reading
off the number.

  Lani is a fantastic cook. She’s also a great businesswoman. She set this whole thing up herself, permits and all. She is not, however, always the best under pressure. I help Lani out every once in a while with food prep and orders, because I have all the permits and experience from Tua’s, so she can leave the truck with me if she has to. But the real reason Lani needs me is that when the lines build up, Lani gets nervous, and then she clams up. Secretly, I think she wants an excuse to shut everything down. And I get that. But I’ve worked for Tua since I was fourteen. I know how to handle this.

  “Okay, real talk?” I say. “Trin’s a rocket scientist. She can handle orders. We need more hands.”

  Lani puts the back of her arm over her eyes, thinking.

  “I’m doing it.” I text the crew before she can argue. X is watching his brothers, Rei’s at brunch with her mom, Wyatt has a swim thing, but Trin just might be able to get here. For Lani, she will make it happen.

  I lose track of the next hour as I handle this rush and Lani makes sandwich after sandwich.

  Finally, Trin is waving in the window. People in line mutter and groan. “She works here!” I shout, and Trin gets a cheer of her own. “Oh, so that’s how it is,” I shout, and I get a huge laugh. There’s not enough room in the truck for all of us, so between orders, I hand her a big platter I’ve put together with small samples of Lani’s amazing taro red bean rolls. They’re super pretty with little coconut flakes on them, and they look great on social media, which is exactly where a line of bored tourists is going to put them. I send Trin up and down the line with different samples—a trick I learned from Tua—until morale improves. We don’t bother Lani. She’s cooking. I’m not even sure she totally knows Trin is here.

  Lani’s mom shows up in her beat-up car loaded with stuff from Lani’s kitchen and the market. Trin helps unload. Some of it isn’t right, but it’ll do. Lani’s mom peeks in the back door, and Lani stops for one second to wave, then goes back to her orders. I know Lani’s mom doesn’t approve of this. She wants Lani to go to college. But as she’s looking at this huge line of people all here to have what her daughter is cooking up, I hope she sees that Lani’s got something special. You can always taste it. Today you can see it too. And maybe Lani doesn’t need to be good at managing half a mile of hangry people. That’s what people like me are for. That’s why you need a #supportcrew.

  Once the line is calmer, I start Trin on delivering finished orders far away from the truck so there’s not such a crowd at the window. And in between, I send her to take as many pictures and videos as she can on Lani’s phone with the good camera. People eating, waiting, ordering, smiling. After four hours, we’ve got the line down to manageable. Lots of people toward the back got samples and left because it was too long. But today’s not about making money, though we made freaking bank. It’s about getting the word out. Those people will come back some other morning, and hopefully they’ll bring their friends.

  At two in the afternoon, Trin hangs the out of food sign with much ceremony and we pull down the window.

  “Thanks, girls,” Lani says, sitting on the stairs outside the truck. She is stained with sweat, totally drained.

  “No problem, boss lady. I gotta jet. Makerspace hours,” Trin says. She runs away before we can even divvy up the tips.

  Lani and I sit in silence for a long time, drinking water and just being. A big rush like that can leave your ears ringing. It goes away, but I feel totally filthy and exhausted.

  “Thanks,” Lani says.

  “You already said that.”

  “Yeah, but you saved the day,” Lani says. “And thanks for calling Trinity.”

  “You have to learn to take help, even if it’s not perfect,” I say. “Like, what about when you have employees? They’re not all going to be as awesome as me. Some of them are going to be dumb.”

  Lani laughs.

  “I don’t think Trinity is dumb,” she says.

  “Not her. But she’s not a food person. You have to learn to triage and manage. The food’s only half of it.”

  “Or hire you full-time to do it for me.”

  “I would never do Tua like that,” I say with a smile.

  “But for serious. Thanks for being there. Thanks for always being there. And your hair looks nice.”

  “Thanks,” I say sheepishly.

  We sit with our exhaustion for a few minutes. I can hear the ocean in the distance. It’s like living near a highway in California. After a while, you have to choose to hear it.

  At last, Lani clears her throat.

  “Can I tell you something and have it be, like, not a big deal?”

  “Is it your taro roll recipe? Because that’d be, like, a big deal. And I would totally sell it to Tua for a raise.”

  She laughs. “Can I tell you something?” she says after a minute.

  “Sure.”

  “Between us?”

  “Of course.”

  “I think I’m gay. Maybe.”

  “Okay,” I say. I’m not surprised. Not really. But why tell me now? Why today? Then it occurs to me. “Oh my god, is it me?”

  “No, idiot,” Lani says, laughing. “It’s not you.”

  I crinkle my nose at her, very Myrna Loy. It makes me sad for a moment that there’s no way she’ll get the reference. The only people who do are Scumbucket and X.

  “What’s wrong with me?” I ask, mock indignant.

  “Nothing, it’s just not you.”

  “Fine.”

  “Are you going to pout?”

  “No.”

  “You’re totally pouting. Did you want it to be you?”

  “No. But I think you should put some Snickers bars on my nutrition plan to help me save face.”

  “No dice, babe.”

  “Twix bars?”

  “In what universe is that better?”

  “Fine. Fine. Let me guess who it is.”

  “Who says it has to be a specific person?”

  I roll my eyes. I’ve known for weeks it’s someone. We all have, I bet. And unless it was a customer, there was only one other person here this morning. Someone who I think of so completely as a feral wolf and a scientist that the fact that she’s clearly gay rarely enters my conscious mind.

  “Don’t guess. It’ll make it weird. I don’t even know. I definitely don’t want to be, like, out or anything. Not in high school. Too much drama. I want it to be a cool thing. A casual thing. I just wanted to try telling someone on for size.”

  “How was it?”

  “Fine.” She shrugs. “Kind of just right.”

  Normally, I think you’re supposed to ask all kinds of questions when someone comes out to you. Like, how long have they known? And, are they seeing anyone? And you’re definitely supposed to tell the person you totally love them and support them and have this big movie moment of affirmation. But for us, that would be stupid. Lani knows all that.

  It’s not that complicated.

  Still. I don’t want her to think I don’t care.

  “When you come out, will you cater your own party?” I have to ask something.

  “What?”

  “Like, will you have a big coming-out party? I think that’s a thing people do. Have you seen debutante balls in old movies? Like The Reluctant Debutante.”

  “No, because I’m not that kind of gay, you weird, weird thing.”

  “Good thing I am weird. I know exactly what you do. It’s like your gay debutante ball. You’re saying, ‘Come at me, ladies.’ ”

  I shake my shoulders to demonstrate. She looks at me like I’m an idiot.

  “I don’t want balloons and a rainbow closet. I think that’s how X will come out to his parents someday.”

  I scoff.

  “X will come out to his parents after his v
ery not-gay butler serves them fine cocktails in truly divine Nick and Nora stemware on a tasteful yacht once he buys them a mansion with the fortune he makes as a successful tech millionaire.”

  “You mean billionaire.”

  “How much does a yacht cost? Like not a reality TV one but a nice one with wood stuff on it? He was very specific about the wood…curvy…rail things. You know, that go on stairs.”

  “You definitely mean banister, and you definitely mean billionaire.”

  “Whatever. He and I have discussed this extensively. We’re going to get engaged beforehand with an absolutely stunning Art Deco sapphire ring, and I’m going to pretend I didn’t know he was gay and faint on the deck in my evening gown, and that will distract his parents from the fact that their son is going directly to hell.”

  “I assume the billions will distract them.”

  “Or, you know, the fact that they love their son. I did point that out to him.”

  Lani laughs. I do too. But it’s kind of half-hearted. They do love him, but the truth is, we both know the reason X is still basically in the closet and has never had a serious boyfriend (except a sloppy kisser named Patrick who was a total wet noodle) is because we’re pretty sure X’s dad would totally lose it if he found out. Not even because he’s religious. Just because he can’t wrap his head around having a gay son.

  It’s like X says: sometimes people who casually use words like “faggot” surprise you. But more often, they don’t. I get that he needs to play his cards right. He needs to play it close to the vest. But sometimes it seems like he plays it so close, he’s got this huge person wound up inside him that even I only see glimpses of. And I can’t imagine how that feels. He doesn’t talk about that kind of thing for serious. Not with anyone. He’s out to us. But he’s not going to be out for real until he feels like coming out isn’t the thing that rips the rug out from under him and ruins his life. After all this waiting, X is going to be a sex maniac when he gets to college, though.

  “Don’t you ever wish he was more than your best friend?” Lani asks hesitantly. “Two birds with one stone. You guys are so cute together.”