First published by Egmont Publishing, 2015
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806
New York, NY 10016
Text copyright © Anne Bustard 2015
All rights reserved
www.egmontusa.com
www.annebustard.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bustard, Anne, 1951– author.
Anywhere but paradise / Anne Bustard.
Summary: In 1960 twelve-year-old Peggy Sue and her family move to the island of Oahu, and she is finding it anything but paradise, because from the first day at school she is bullied and made fun of by the Hawaiian children, and she is worried sick about her beloved cat who is in mandatory quarantine—and then the tsunami hits Hilo where her parents have gone on business.
ISBN 978-1-60684-586-8 (ebook) — ISBN 978-1-60684-585-1 (hardcover)
1. Middle schools—Hawaii—Juvenile fiction. 2. Bullying—Juvenile fiction. 3. Ethnic relations—Juvenile fiction. 4. Friendship—Juvenile fiction. 5. Tsunamis—Hawaii—Hilo—Juvenile fiction. 6. Hawaii—History—1959—Juvenile fiction. [1. Middle schools—Fiction. 2. Schools—Fiction. 3. Bullying—Fiction. 4. Ethnic relations—Fiction. 5. Friendship—Fiction. 6. Tsunamis—Fiction. 7. Hawaii—History—1959—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.1.B89
813.54—dc23
[Fic]
2014039128
v3.1
To Leilehua, a forever friend
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Jail
Good-bye Again
Hanu Intermediate
One Chance
Second Chances
Zigzag Day
Beef
The Dog
Come September
Hula, Here I Come
My First Lesson
Washed Out
Ocean or Train?
Sharing
Hawaiian History Again
Extra Credit
Hula Practice
Howdy
Night-Blooming Cereus
Sunday at the Beach
Fire
Still Burning
Sour Pineapple
Word Problems
Detention
Shut Out
Hula
Where There’s Smoke
Walking with Malina
Boyfriends
Cindy
Friday Morning Lemonade
Underwater View
Howdy Time
Pele
Easter
Not Native
Thinking About Tomorrow
Sweet-Talking Monday
Holoku
Consumed
Information, Please
The Sign
54
Visiting Howdy
First Real Job
Lei Making
Bud
Lei Day
Half-Full or Half-Empty?
Civil Defense Announcement
In the Event of an Emergency
Civil Defense Meal
Let’s Make a Deal
A Way Out
Class Time
Kimo + Malina?
Satin
Holdout
Clothesline
Counting Maybes
Due Date
Luau Prep
Dog
Cousins
Calling Home
Big Island
Blooming?
Tangled
Talking to Daddy
Talking with Malina
Big Wave
Gone
Kahuna
On the Beach
Stranger
Good Dog
Bufo
Hospital
The Radio
Beauty
Kapakahi
Distractions
Be Okay
Headlines
Dinner Sounds
The Call
About Kahuna
Reunion
Lava Rocks
Being Safe
Hana Hou!
Telling
Last Day of School
Help!
Briiiiiiiing
Under the Flags
Cindy
Paris Confessional
So
Bump
Man o’ War
Hanai family
Fittings
Last Practice
Keep Smiling
“Lovely Hula Hands”
Falling
Last Dance
Response
Bloom
Home
Glossary of Hawaiian Words
A Note from the Author
Jail
BEST I CAN FIGURE, Hanu, Oahu, is almost four thousand miles from home.
And my cat, my sweet Howdy, hasn’t purred in days. Hasn’t since we arrived all the way from Gladiola, Texas.
I can’t say I blame him, seeing as he’s locked up in animal quarantine jail with all the other cat and dog newcomers.
Sitting with him on this wooden bench inside his chain-link pen with a tin roof, taking in breath after breath of smelly disinfectant makes my eyes sting. Twisting my head, I can barely see the tops of the coconut trees swaying in the gray sky.
One thing’s for sure—Howdy doesn’t have rabies.
But no one believes a twelve-year-old girl.
When you’re twelve, a lot of folks don’t listen to you. Like jailers. Like parents.
When you’re twelve, you don’t have a choice about where you live.
Good-bye Again
FOOTSTEPS HURRY toward us. Howdy’s paws clasp both of my shoulders.
“Closing time,” says the animal quarantine officer. “You can come back tomorrow.”
Not when you live on the other side of the island. Not when Daddy has to drive the car to work tomorrow. Not when the only reason you got to come today was because tomorrow is your first day at a new school. And you promised seeing Howdy would clear up your two-day-old stomachache.
I pick Howdy off my shoulders, look into his pretty greens, and give his nose a kiss. I hold him like a baby and he nuzzles his head into my side.
“Peggy Sue,” says Mama as she moves toward me with determination. “Say your good-byes.”
“He’s lonely,” I say. Howdy stirs his hind legs. I shift him to my lap and scratch behind his ears. Somewhere inside him, I know he wants to purr. But right now he just can’t.
“He’s lucky,” says Mama. “Lucky he got to come.”
Mama’s changed. Before our plans to move and the packing and the good-byes and her headaches, Mama knew. She knew that Howdy has always needed me close.
But for some reason, Mama didn’t think Howdy should come all this way on account of his age, which is ten. She wasn’t certain we could visit regularly, seeing as we’d live a ways away. She wasn’t convinced we should spend the money. But Daddy and I had no doubt.
“I can see you need my help letting go,” Mama says, tucking both sides of her wavy brown hair behind her ears. “Let’s not prolong this.” And just like that, she reaches for my cat.
“No,” I say.
I let go. But I don’t mean to.
Howdy’s eyes open extra wide and he tries to meow, but no sound comes. His silent cry is the most pitiful thing of all. It is a sad so deep it can’t find its way out.
Howdy dangles in front of me.
“You’re hurting him,” I say.
Mama holds him at arm’s length like he is a suitcase of smelly clothes.
“This isn’t easy for me, either.”
“Love you,” I say to my
gray tabby. “I’ll be back this weekend.”
The officer nods.
Mama plops Howdy on the wooden bench and brushes cat hair from her navy skirt. Howdy slinks underneath the bench, cowering.
The door squeals shut and the officer clamps down the lever on Howdy’s cell. His release date, July 29, 1960, is stamped on the small white card in the pocket at the front of his cage.
Right next door lives a young calico named Tinkerbell. She’ll leave a month before Howdy. Tink must still be out for a bath or something, because she’s not there.
Dogs bark all around the station. I’m sure they’re saying, “I want my family; let me out; take me home.” I am worried sick for Howdy. He is very afraid of dogs.
It’s our fifth day here. One hundred fifteen more days until he’s free?
Hang on, Howdy.
Hang on.
Hanu Intermediate
SHE POPS OUT OF NOWHERE.
“Move it, haole,” says the girl wearing a bold red- and-white muumuu dress. And a big old scowl. Her long dark hair is almost to her waist.
My arm scrapes against the prickly bricks beside the counselor’s office.
I know that word. It was on the list Daddy made for me just before we moved. I’ve heard it plenty of times since we arrived.
The girl called me white.
She said it like it was dirty.
My face heats up and my mouth opens. But no words come out. I don’t understand. Why is she acting so ugly?
“I got places to go,” says the girl. But she just stands there and stares, hands on her hips. “Say you’re sorry.”
I clutch my binder and sack lunch. I don’t want trouble. Not with her. Not with anyone. Today. Or any day. “I’m Peggy Sue Bennett and I apologize if I was standing in your way.”
The girl nods, so I guess I said it right.
“But you didn’t have to push,” I say under my breath.
The girl’s deep brown eyes fire up. She heard me? Read my mind?
“Something wrong with you, haole? You talk funny. You’re skinny tall.”
Not that tall. Same as her. But she’s sturdier.
“You wear funny clothes, too.”
I wasn’t dressed like anyone else at Hanu Intermediate, that’s for sure. Here, girls wear cotton dresses or short muumuus.
Before we came, I’d only seen one muumuu in real life. And that was years ago. The mayor’s wife showed off her billowy, egg-yolk-yellow-and-white muumuu at a school assembly after she and her husband took a Hawaiian vacation. It was long. Since arriving, I’ve already observed that these dresses come in other shapes, styles, and prints.
And that no one wears saddle shoes and bobby socks to this school. At least some have ponytails, like me.
The counselor’s door opens onto the outside walkway, and Mrs. Taniguchi, the woman in charge of my class schedule, pokes her head out. Her soft pink manicured fingernails match her pencil skirt. “Kiki, I asked you to come fifteen minutes before the first bell. You’re late.”
“It’s her fault,” says the girl, tossing her head in my direction.
Kiki. What I wouldn’t give for a Texas twister to swoop her right up and carry her away. Far, far away. Or me.
Mrs. Taniguchi sighs. “Good morning, Peggy Sue. Let me get your paperwork.” She puts her arm around Kiki’s shoulders and leads her into her office.
Kiki whips around just before the door closes and mouths Stupid haole.
On second thought, how about a tidal wave instead of a twister? But there is no whoosh of wind. No crash of waves.
I blink hard.
What did I expect? That I’d be given a flower lei and a smile like when we arrived at the airport?
I look out onto the school courtyard surrounded by one- and two-story cinder-block buildings. Kids stand in groups under the few scrawny coconut trees, talking, laughing, kicking up the red dirt.
I count. Twice.
Eighteen haoles out of maybe one hundred.
One Chance
MRS. TANIGUCHI EMERGES a few minutes later with my schedule. “Your homeroom is B-26,” she says, and gives me directions.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Have a good day and let me know if you need anything. And, Peggy Sue, we’re informal here; you don’t have to call me ma’am.”
I stifle my next thank-you and nod instead as she slips back into her office.
The opening bell rings loud and long. Kids holler see-ya-laters and set out for the classrooms. Some speed, juggling towers of books and poster boards lined with charts and diagrams. Some poke along, teasing out last bits of conversation. Some move halfway between zip and drag.
Back home, I was a pokey one. Gabfests with friends happened only outside of class. On Wednesday mornings, my best friend, Cindy, and I hoisted the flags at the front of the school. Afterward, we’d configure the longest possible route to homeroom.
Today is Wednesday. And I’ll be pokey for a different reason. Here, I’m in no hurry to be the new kid.
After the crowd thins, I head down the covered sidewalk toward the cafeteria building and turn left. I look up. In the small gap between the cafeteria and the next buildings I see dark gray clouds pinch the corners of the green mountain range in the distance. I can’t see the ocean, but I feel its breeze pushing me forward.
I plod along. Four two-story rectangular buildings with outside walkways open onto patches of shared grass. As far as I can see, banks of tan metal lockers front the classrooms on either side of the buildings. A few stragglers click locks and spin dials one last time. At the very end, I find room 26.
The door is closed, but through the open louvered windows above the lockers, I can hear a pencil sharpener grind, and I catch the rise and fall of voices settling in. I take a deep breath, turn the knob, and step inside.
The room silences.
My eyes glom on to my black-and-white saddle shoes. One lace is undone.
“Welcome, Miss Bennett,” says a man’s voice.
I look up at the teacher stepping toward me. His flattop haircut glistens like Daddy’s. His crisp, short-sleeved white shirt looks store-bought new. “I’m Mr. Nakamoto.”
I try to smile, but my upper lip sticks to my teeth. Papers shuffle, whispers rise.
I glance around the room. B-26 doesn’t look much different from the classrooms back home. Same kind of desks. Same blackboard. Bulletin boards with maps and facts. Even the same framed photo of President Eisenhower. But there are also portraits of other folks I don’t know. I take a closer look. They are royalty: I count seven kings and a queen.
“You’ll need this after a few classes,” says Mr. Nakamoto, handing me a lock with a number on the back and a combination tag attached. “You’re in my last period for Hawaiian history. I’ll give you your materials then.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Mr. Nakamoto turns to the class. “Attention.” Kids sit up straighter than straight, eyes forward, mouths closed. “Meet Miss Peggy Sue Bennett, from Gladiola, Texas.”
A sea of questioning faces study me. They’re probably asking: Why would anyone transfer at the end of the year, and in the middle of the week, no less? Does she have a tremor or something, because that paper in her hand is quivering something fierce? Will this outsider make it? Will she last?
“Miss Bennett, would you like to say hello?” asks Mr. Nakamoto.
Mama’s parting words after breakfast swirl in my head—“You only have one chance to make a first impression, so do good.”
“Hi, y’all.” I wave.
The class erupts into laughter and my face heats up for the second time this morning. Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken. Maybe I shouldn’t have waved.
“There’s a seat in the back,” says Mr. Nakamoto.
I hurry down the row by the windows, focused on the floor.
“For those of you just waking up,” Mr. Nakamoto says as chalk marks punctuate the blackboard, “it is April sixth. Including today, that makes th
irty-seven school days left.”
The class whoops and hollers.
“And it would behoove you to remember the change in the bus schedule.…”
I slink into an empty chair, stack my belongings on the desk, and retie my shoe.
The boy on my left, with a wavy strand of black hair in the middle of his forehead, watches me.
I sit up and clasp my lock.
“Rehearsals for the May Day ceremony …” continues Mr. Nakamoto.
“Hey, Texas,” whispers my new neighbor. “Do you have a horse?”
“I have a cat. A cat named Howdy.”
The boy shrugs, looking disappointed. His eyes brighten. “How about an oil well?”
I shake my head and the boy snaps his fingers. “Oooh, junk.”
Seems like I can’t please anyone today.
Two girls up ahead pass notes and stifle giggles as Mr. Nakamoto’s announcements march on.
Without looking at the numbers on my lock, I spin the dial this way and that, listening to the whir. It’s the closest sound to a purr I’ve heard in days, so I keep spinning.
In Gladiola, it’s lunchtime now. In Gladiola, one table in the junior high cafeteria is chatting and laughing as they fold gum wrappers for the chain whose length will surely grow to Guinness Book of Records status. In Gladiola, there’s an empty seat beside Cindy at that table.
Out the window, the mountain range with its various shades of green is in shadow, with just a thread of light. Two thin lines of white water stream down the folds in its face.
Second Chances
“I HOPE YOU’RE a good seamstress. Or a quick learner,” says Mrs. Barsdale, the first-period home ec teacher. She must use a can of hair spray on her helmetshaped blond bob. It doesn’t move as she searches for her roll book under stacks of fabric samples and whatnots on her desk. “We’re already two weeks into our sewing module,” she explains while I stand next to her desk.
Grams helped me make my skirt and blouse, but I don’t tell her that.
“Mrs. Barsdale,” a girl calls, and waves from the front row. “I need help.”
“As you can see,” Mrs. Barsdale says, not looking up, “I am busy.”
“You always are,” mumbles the girl. She keeps her arm raised, props her other elbow on the edge of the sewing machine table, and rests her head in her hand.
Two others already have their hands up. One group visits next to the supply cabinets while another chats around a sewing machine. Some girls unfold pattern directions and read; a few thread needles. One machine zzztZzzzztZzzzts away.