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wonder how long that gum-wrapper chain is now. I wonder if Grams made fresh tomato sandwiches for lunch. I wonder what colors Grandpa is mixing today for his next oil painting—sapphire, mint, tangerine—and who will clean his brushes?

    The house is silent and all the curtains are drawn when I trudge in from school. I find a note on the dining room table under a new bottle of lotion:
    TV dinners in the freezer.
    Mama
    I guess the new doctor didn’t help.
    I know the drill—do not disturb.
    I reach for the lotion and pour gobs into my hands. I smear the cool goodness onto my skin until I look like a ghost.
    Then, I retreat to my room and study a little for Mr. Nakamoto’s test tomorrow.
    But it’s harder to concentrate without a cat on my lap. So I slip into the kitchen, grab a banana and the extra house key, and head next door for hula.
    But I’m back in two seconds. I write a note and stick it under Mama’s door:
    Hope you feel better soon
.
    Peggy Sue

Hula
    I TAKE A SEAT on the bench lining the back wall of Mrs. Halani’s studio and rock my feet on the woven mat.
    Pairs of girls enter, their voices filled with laughter. Tammy, the girl from my homeroom, bounces in, donning another pink hair ribbon. A girl I don’t know, at least I don’t think I do, prances beside her. “Snow,” Tammy says, and throws her arms in the air. Her charm bracelet jingles happiness. “I can’t wait.”
    “I’ve never seen snow,” says the other.
    I stand and move closer, but still hang back. Tammy turns around.
    “We’re moving next month,” she tells me. “My parents are taking my brother and me out of school early and we won’t even have to finish on the mainland.”
    “I can tell you’re excited,” I say. Tammy hasn’t just hit the double jackpot—leaving and no school to makeup—she’s hit the triple: no Kill Haole Day either.
    Other girls crowd around her. “Tammy, we’re going to miss you sooooo much.”
    “You guys can visit anytime. Our house will have a guest bedroom.…”
    I fade back onto the bench. Her still-ringing bracelet reminds me of Cindy’s. I gave her a four-leaf clover charm before I left.
    A few minutes later, a girl with short brown hair and a big smile rushes in, says hello to everyone, and plops beside me. Her dark eyes twinkle.
    “Hi, I’m Malina, Mrs. Halani’s daughter.”
    “Peggy Sue,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
    Malina’s a younger, smaller version of her mom, with an inked outline of an empty heart on the back of her right hand.
    She shows me her arms. No chicken pox.
    “Glad you’re not cooped up anymore,” I say.
    “Glad you’re the new neighbor,” she says. “The last ones didn’t have any kids.” She studies my arms. “Your sunburn looks terrible, by the way.”
    “I’ll survive,” I say, though it still doesn’t feel like it.
    “Time to begin,” says Mrs. Halani. Her muumuu is powder blue and white. “We have a new dance to learn.”
    “You may not want to stand next to me,” I tellMalina as we take our positions on the woven mat. “Last week was kind of a disaster.”
    “No worry, beef curry.”
    Just in case, even when Mrs. Halani tells us to add arm movements, I still dance only with my feet.
    During a break, Malina points to my old flyer next to the door. “Trying to earn extra money?”
    “As much as possible,” I say.
    “Me, too. I’m thinking about starting a dog-walking service.”
    “That’s a great idea.” But one I’ll shy away from for sure. The memory of that bite is still too fresh. And, besides, I don’t really know dogs.
    “I want to go to Paris someday,” says Malina. “Want to come?”
    “How about right after class?”
    She laughs.
    It turns out Malina is in Mr. Nakamoto’s homeroom and history class, but for some reason, we have different lunch schedules.
    “Transferring in late is hard,” she says. “We’re all stuck in our ways like cement.”
    I nod.
    “But you’ll be okay,” says Malina.