The Descendants Read Online Free

Dr. Johnston, and she turns and follows me.
    “Walk quickly,” I tell her.
    “Why?”
    “It’s a game. Let’s race. Walk fast. Run.” She takes off, her backpack jiggling on her back, and I follow her, walking quickly then breaking into a slow jog, and because Dr. Johnston is my friend’s dad and was a friend of my father’s, I feel like I’m fourteen again, running from the patriarchs.
    I remember egging Dr. Johnston’s house as a prank on his son, Skip. The three of us—Blake Kelly, Kekoa Liu, and I—ran off only to be pursued by Dr. Johnston in his truck. He practically ran us down, and when we cut into an alley, he got out and hoofed it, eventually cornering us. He had a Foodland bag in hand, and he said we had a couple of choices: He could either call our parents, or we could help him dispose of his wife’s tofu surprise. We chose the latter, and he reached in the bag and gave us a taste of our own medicine. We walked away, tofu surprise in our hair, ears, everywhere. To this day he calls us the Soy Boys, laughing hysterically and yelling “Boo!,” which still causes me to jump a little. Not lately, though. He hasn’t done that in a while.
    I run down the hall with my daughter, feeling like I’m in some other country. All around, people speak pidgin English and glare at the two of us like we’re crazy white fools, even though we’re Hawaiian. But we don’t look it, and we don’t count as true or real Hawaiians because we don’t talk right, either.
    Dr. Johnston said Tuesday. That’s when we’ve scheduled our date, and that’s when I’ll show up. I don’t want to know anything just yet. I have too much to take care of right now. I take a good look around. Twenty-three days. This has been my world: the people looking at one another trying to guess what they’re here for, the magazine covers featuring the healthiest people alive. I see the model train in its glass case making slow laps around a model coast with model citizens stiffly sitting on beaches. I run from the diagnosis. I’ll be ready for it tomorrow.

 
     
    3

     
     
    I TELL ESTHER she should ease up on the lard. There’s no need to mix lard in with Scottie’s rice, chicken, and beans. I tell her she hasn’t read the blogs. I’ve read the blogs. I know what Scottie should eat.
    I’ve gotten the hang of home. I help run the household, help decide what Scottie eats, when she sleeps, what she’s allowed to wear, watch, do. I say things like “time out” and “full circle,” and I tell her to check the Chore Door, an invention of mine: It’s a door in the den that posts her weekly duties. It’s sort of fun, these responsibilities, and I think Joanie will be impressed.
    “Is good fat,” Esther says. “She so skinny. This good fat.”
    “No,” I say. “Some fats are good, but not that fat.” I point to the white substance in the pan, melting slowly like wax. On parenting websites, I’ve learned that corn syrup, nitrates, and hydrogenated fats are bad and that soy is good, as well as organic produce and whole grains. I’ve also learned that Scottie needs a booster shot for whooping cough, meningitis, and that there’s a vaccine for HPV, which causes genital warts and can lead to cervical cancer. It’s recommended as a preventive measure for tweens before they become sexually active. When I read this, I was so appalled that I participated in the online vaccination chat, only to be severely reprimanded by Taylorsmom. Why not protect them as best we can?! Yes, Scottiesdad, I would give them a vaccine for loneliness and heartache if it were available, TYVM, and it’s not the same! Genital warts are not emotions! They’re warts, and we can put a stop to them.
    I had to ask Scottie what TYVM meant, because now that I’ve narrowed into her activities, I notice she is constantly text-messaging her friends, or at least I hope it’s her friends and not some perv in a bathrobe.
    “Thank you very much,” Scottie said, and