Anywhere but Paradise

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 thirty-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.