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she says. “He walks his dog on the beach. So I’ve got to say something, defend the guy. So I tell her
she’s
the sour one.”
    “You said that? To her face?”
    “Yep.” She glances back and smiles. “What do you think about that, haole?”
    I blow out a stream of air and look straight at Kiki. “Sometimes it’s true.” Like today.
    I see the surprise in Kiki’s eyes.
    I turn to my pattern directions to figure out what I’m supposed to do next.
    If only I had directions for her.

Word Problems
    LATER, IN MATH, we tackle word problems. But I already have plenty of my own:
    Likelike
is pronounced “leakay-leakay,” not “like-like.”
    Hilo
is “hee-low,” not “high-low.”
    Kaneohe
is “kah-nay-oh-hay.”
    Pau
is “pow,” not “pa-you.”
    Aina
is “eye-na,” not “a-in-ah.”
    Kalanianaole
is a blur of letters and sounds.
    And I still can’t figure
humuhumunukunukuapuaa
.

    That evening, Daddy honks the car horn twice as he pulls up to the house. I bolt out the door. “Howdy’s in tip-top shape,” he says before I can even ask. “Though he did let me know I was a poor substitute for you.”
    “Thanks, Daddy,” I say, and kiss him on the cheek. “I trust you to tell me the unvarnished truth.”
    “Always,” he says, and grabs his briefcase from the backseat. “I just passed one of your flyers on a telephone pole. How’s my favorite entrepreneur?”
    “Broke.”
    “But not for long.”
    “Daddy, don’t you get tired of being positive all the time?” I ask as we move toward the house.
    “It beats worrying, kitten.”
    I sigh. Deeply.
    I wouldn’t know.

Detention
    WHEN I GET to home ec the next morning, Mrs. Barsdale and Kiki are finishing up a conversation. Kiki turns, muttering, and stomps back to our sewing machine.
    I scoot my chair out of her way.
    “Haoles never listen. Never say sorry. Never say thank you,” she says as she threads the machine.
    “Typical,” says the girl sewing next to us.
    Kiki studies the page of instructions, balls it up, and tosses it at me. I wince as it scratches my sunburned arm and lands on the floor. I let it be.
    For the next fifteen minutes, Kiki sews in darts, pops up for water, and talks to the girls beside us.
    She rethreads the machine at least five times because the tension is too tight. Not to mention her darts are on the outside.
    I am silent.
    “Look what you made me do, leper,” she shouts as she holds up her dress. “You should have stopped me.” Her eyes narrow. “See you in detention,” she says, and rushes away from me.
    My stomach catches. “No, wait,” I say, following.
    “Is there a problem?” asks Mrs. Barsdale.
    Kiki holds out her dress. “This,” she says. “And her.” Kiki steers Mrs. Barsdale out of my hearing.
    I should have known better. I did nothing while Kiki made those mistakes.
    Mrs. Barsdale and Kiki return. Our teacher takes the dress from her. “Peggy Sue, this kind of oversight won’t earn you any extra credit today. Please help Kiki correct her error.”
    “I will. Which should mean I won’t have detention either.”
    “Detention?” asks Mrs. Barsdale.
    “Gotcha,” says Kiki, and jabs me in the chest. “Gotcha good.”
    “What is going on here?” asks Mrs. Barsdale.
    “I need air,” I say, before barreling out of the room. And a smarter brain. I don’t go far. I slump against the lockers outside the door for the rest of class. No one comes looking for me. When the bell rings, I rush in, grab my stuff, and leave.
    Only two more days of her this week. Good Friday can’t come soon enough.
    That night, I tiptoe out back, plant my feet in the dewy coolness, and stare up at that cacti that’s hanging on for its life.
    Are you going to bloom?
    Show me.

Shut Out
    LIKE ALWAYS, I sit by myself at lunch the next day and eat my baloney sandwich. Only now, I’m in the cafeteria, smushed between a wall and a girl who is talking to everyone else. I don’t listen in. I think about Gladiola. I