Anywhere but Paradise Read Online Free Page B

together.
    I glance down the first page:
King Kalakaua the Merrie Monarch, Bayonet Constitution of 1887, “Hawaii Pono‘ī,” Missionary Party, Iolani Palace, John Owen Dominis, Committee of Safety
.
    “But the test isn’t until next Thursday,” says the boy in front of me.
    “Mr. Aquino,” says Mr. Nakamoto, “I can see my magnanimous gesture escapes your consciousness. As I’ve said prior to every quiz, it would behoove you to study some each day rather than cram the night before. This aid,” he says, holding the papers as high as a torch, “is a gift.”
    The boy sighs extra loud. Even though no one else makes a sound, the looks on our faces tell the same story—we’re sighing on the inside.
    Mr. Nakamoto is still talking, and I tune back in. “…  we’ll end our year with a unit on statehood and look at our first months as the fiftieth star.”
    Statehood? All I know is the date, August 21, last year. Gladiola held a party at the rec center to celebrate and the whole town showed up wearing red, white, and blue. Cindy and I handed out plastic leis. We drank Hawaiian punch, ate cake with coconut icing, and entered a hula hoop contest, which I lost to my friend. Before we left, we sang to Daddy, because it was his birthday, too.
    Here, I imagine, there was an even bigger party. Parades with folks on floats covered in flowers, riders on horseback draped in leis. Bands playing patriotic songs for crowds gathered up and down the streets, cheering, waving flags. Important speeches by the governor and other dignitaries. Boats clustered along the shoreline, some spraying plumes of water, making rainbows. Honking horns. Hula dancing and music. And later, fireworks that reached for the stars.
    But after only two days in Mr. Nakamoto’s class, Ican already tell that at the end of the unit, he will give us another test instead of a party.

    As soon as I’m in from school, I’m out again.
    The water from the garden hose beats
bat-a-bat-a
against the front window of the house. I move in time with the music next door.
    Just one more day of school and I’ll see Howdy. I hope he and Tinkerbell have become good friends.
    I zoom back inside, make more posters for my window-washing business, and circulate them around the neighborhood once more.
    It’s only partly cloudy. No rain.

Extra Credit
    “THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO take you over a week,” Mrs. Barsdale says Friday morning while standing beside the sewing machine. She taps the beauty mark above her upper lip.
    My darts are in and pressed, shoulders stitched together, and front facings basted.
    It’s hard for me to tell from the sound of her voice if being ahead is a good thing or not.
    “So I’d like you to help Kiki.”
    “What?” says Kiki. “I don’t need help from her. I don’t need help from the haole.”
    “Truth be told, I’m terrible at putting in zippers. And there’s so much more to do. The back facings, the hem, handwork …”
    Mrs. Barsdale picks up a pin from the floor and sticks it into the red pincushion attached to her wrist. “I am prepared to offer you extra credit, Peggy Sue.”
    That sounds good, but I know it really means nothing.
    “Haoles helping haoles,” says Kiki.
    “Typical,” murmurs the girl at the machine next to us.
    “Kiki, I’m trying to help you. It’s the perfect solution. We discussed your academic problems in the counselor’s office. You promised you’d raise your grades. You need help. This girl is an accomplished seamstress. You’re akamai, Kiki. Act like it. Act smart.”
    “She can help me,” says the girl to my left.
    “Or me,” says another.
    “No,” says Kiki, glaring right at me. “She’s mine.”
    “It’s settled, then,” says Mrs. Barsdale, walking away.
    “I can’t wait to leave this stupid school,” Kiki says. “Next year, high school will be so much better.”
    So she’s an eighth grader.
    “Stupid haole,” says Kiki.
    “What have I done?”
    “Plenty. You’re all the same;