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“See, Kal? Perfect.”
“Yes, Tina. Her birthing hips are the only reason I like her. You’re brilliant.” He tugs at one of his mother’s hands, forcing it from my hip.
“You, smart mouth.” Alana shakes a finger at her son. “Go get the food processor and taro root from the cellar. I’m teaching Meg Miller to make poi.”
“Tina, that won’t be ready for three days. Meg leaves tomorrow.”
“Why? What’s so pressing to get back to? She has no husband.”
I have no argument, and neither does Kal. I don’t have a husband or kids waiting for me. I don’t have anything planted, longing for me to water it. I don’t have a hamster to feed. I don’t even have work waiting, at least not until the beginning of July. Not until it’s time to revamp the district’s kinder curriculum map.
My fence might be waiting for me…That wooden chair from the flea market hasn’t once crossed my mind. Is it waiting for some paint?
I swallow, but it doesn’t seem like Alana needs an answer. She’s already moving on.
“Grab the food processor,” Alana barks, swatting Kal on the behind. She looks at me. “See how well he listens? Such a good boy.” Her blue eyes are bright, they’re hopeful.
But hopeful for what?
25
Kal
Meg has spent the entire morning and afternoon cooking, eating, and getting local lessons with my mother—who has decided that Meg Miller is allowed to bear all of my babies. She loves that Meg is responsible and organized, and as Tina says it, has her priorities straight, unlike me. She even loves that Meg moved to Wyoming for dirtbag Kyle, who is officially on my hit list. She says it shows she is willing to commit, and that’s a good sign. Again, unlike me. But Mom has faith that Meg can change me.
I say—my mother needs to simmer.
“There is Hawaiian and there is the pidgin dialect,” Mom tells Meg. “They are different. This is important. We don’t speak Hawaiian. We speak pidgin.”
“Okay.” Meg nods, listening closely as my mother attempts to explain all things Hawaiian to Meg in this one sitting.
“We are all a mix!” Mom smacks Meg on the butt, and it’s worth it watching Meg jump and squawk like a bird. “There is no one here who is just Hawaiian. No one. Not anymore. We are a mesh. A mesh of Korean, Japanese, Hawaiian, and more. We, the Kekoas, have Samoan in us. Lots of it. If someone tells you they speak Hawaiian, they speak pidgin. Okay?”
“Got it,” Meg says.
I lean against the kitchen counter next to where Meg cuts the taro root into small even pieces. “There’s a quiz later. Are you listening?” I peck her cheek, breathing in the sweetness that is Meg.
“We add to the processor,” Mom says, lifting the flexible cutting board and emptying all of the contents into the machine. We’ll process and as we go, add a little water until the mixture is smooth. But we want it sticky and thick.” She stares at Meg, unblinking, waiting for recognition.
“Sticky, thick, smooth.” Meg nods like a good student. “Got it.” She scoops her hair behind her right ear and watches Mom closely.
“Great. We’ll try it in three days.”
“Oh, right,” Meg says, looking from my mother to me and back again. “Um, I’ll be gone by then, like Kal said. I’d like to stay, but my plane leaves tomorrow.”
Mom looks at the two of us thoughtfully. Her tan nose wrinkles. “I don’t think so.”
I link my fingers through Meg’s—Mom’s got this. She could make poi in her sleep. “Hey, want to see my old room?”
“No baby-making in your childhood bedroom, Kalani! That is not allowed. Okay?” Mom scolds, then mutters under her breath something about how if I ever give her a grandchild it will be a miracle.
Meg blinks, her eyes as round as globes. Her palm goes sweaty in mine, but she follows me down the hallway to the two small bedrooms in this house. “Your bedroom? You still have a room here?” She smirks.
“When you’re the favorite child, it doesn’t change. Kind of like a shrine.”
“So humble,” Meg says, and while I can’t see her face, I can hear the smile in her tone.
The space is just how I left it all those years ago—without my clothes on the ground and the Mountain Dew can tower in the corner. It’s a small bedroom—though everything in Mom’s house is small. There’s a twin bed in the corner and a desk next to it. Surf posters line the walls, and swim trophies sit dusty on my shelves. There’s a family picture sitting on the desk—the only thing in the room that Mom updates.
