Taylor Before and After

by Jennie Englund

It seemed like Noelani was doing the same thing—there weren’t any pictures of her, just of memes. No one could possibly make anything bad out of a picture of Duke’s hula pie. Hula pie is everything: a chunk of chocolate cookie crust around macadamia ice cream, topped off with dripping chocolate, nuts, and whipped cream.

  I shook my head. “Really,” I said to Brielle. “There’s really nothing.”

  Brielle came back fast. “Get it together, Taylor,” she said. “No one is perfect. Try harder.”

  “Hey,” Brielle added as she walked away, “have you accepted Soo’s friend request?”

  “What?” I said. “Not yet. I forgot.”

  “What are you waiting for?” Brielle called back over her shoulder. “You know, you should really get on that.”

  WINTER

  Prompt: What is the real O‘ahu?

  Eli got the best parts of Mom—the eyelashes, the legs. I got the worst of her, the parts no one can see. Those are the inside parts, the sad ones.

  There’s another side to O‘ahu—Mom has shown Eli and me. There’s leeward, windward, mauka, makai … And then there’s the sad side—Pua Lane and Wahiawa Heights.

  Even in Honolulu’s heart, high-rises tower over banyans and beaches, their air conditioners thinning out the ozone. Horns honk and mufflers fire down University. Buses screech to a stop and peel away again, and jackhammers bite tirelessly at the pavement.

  People move here expecting paradise—palm trees and pulled pork, sunsets and slack-key. Some people come, some people go. And some folks are stuck here. They can’t make their lives happen. Bread that gets moldy right when the bag opens is $7 for Brielle and for Fetua.

  The real O‘ahu’s not about mai tais at the Royal Hawaiian.

  Yes, there is that, and the flowers and the swells like Pipeline that make you cry.

  Sure the shopping’s amazing, and the coconut pie. Flip-flops are standard footwear, and everyone still stacks the bangles Queen Lili‘uokalani trended a hundred years ago. The traditions go forward and back.

  But also, O‘ahu is fire engines, ice heads. It’s the no-teeth people pushing carts in Mō‘ili‘ili, their scuffed-up shoes parked under tarps. It’s old kama‘āina with shriveled arms and hunched backs—crossing the street, serving up loco mocos, bagging groceries at Foodland.

  A week ago, I asked Dad about it. He was pouring coffee during a commercial on the KHON2 morning news. Me, I was thinking about the security guard at school, the one we got the day before winter break.

  I asked Dad, “Why are there so many hurt people here?”

  And when Dad asked what I meant, I said, “So many people here, on O‘ahu, they’re shriveled and they’re hunched.”

  I had never noticed before. So many people, shriveled and sad. How had I never noticed that?

  Dad put down the coffeepot. He looked at the top of my head, like he was thinking maybe I had gotten taller or something.

  “It’s been that way a long time,” he said. “Maybe fetal alcohol syndrome, or lack of prenatal care, or fallout from the Bikini Atoll bomb testing in the ’40s, or…”

  Even Dad didn’t have an answer.

  Complicated, that’s the real O‘ahu.

  It’s splatters of betel nut spit at the bus stops along Kalākaua. For the longest time, I thought O‘ahu was bleeding. Now I know it is, for sure.

  The real O‘ahu is domestic-abuse hotlines on bulletin boards in the post office, and $13 boxes of corn flakes, and shells of abandoned cars, their parts all stripped by thieves. It’s overripe mangoes falling on the roofs of tutus’ homes. It’s traffic and car alarms, cheap beer and souvenirs made in China.

  It’s bikes that rust because of salt and rain.

  The real O‘ahu is beyond waterfalls and rainbows—reds and yellows and pinks and greens, its blue sea and buttery sun fading every day from being ruled over but forgotten—maybe ignored—by the mainland.

  The real O‘ahu cries at once for rescue and independence.

  It’s the geckos, clinging to the windows at night, trying to hold on.

  FALL

  Prompt: “Nice guys finish last.”

  (Leo Durocher, Manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers, 1946)

  It was Fashion Week on Project Runway! Jennifer Hudson was the judge, and Dmitry won, even though everyone thought Fabio would.

  Chris panicked because he knew he was going to lose. And he just couldn’t cope. He started unraveling and couldn’t stop. He got in this huge fight with Melissa about what color her fabric was, then made fun of her.

  Dmitry, though, he got along with everyone. For him, it was about survival. He was basically homeless. His English wasn’t great. He HAD to win. And he did. His architecture collection was genius! Completely visionary—using the Lord & Taylors to accessorize.

  Do nice guys finish last?

  No.

  Obviously, nice guys finish first.

  The whole season, Chris was a complete jackhole, and he totally lost.

  Eventually, bad people get what’s been coming to them.

  * * *

  What is Isabelle swirling on and on about? She definitely has a lot to say about this prompt.

  * * *

  “Have you found anything?” Brielle asked me. Again. She DOES NOT give up.

  I thought about Noelani, her thick, dark hair—wavy and long. How she pinned it all back with the violet orchid when she was Homecoming royalty. What would Brielle do if she knew?

  My own scalp was itchy everywhere, and I made my hands into fists to keep from scratching.

  “Everyone has something,” Brielle said. “Everyone.”

  “Haven’t you two been friends forever, though?” I said. “Wouldn’t you pretty much know everything about each other? Don’t you tell each other everything?”

  Brielle bit her Colorbar Peach Crush lip. She looked at the floor.

  Behind my ear got prickly, and my eyebrows, too. I could scratch for just a second, and she’d never know. But, if she did see, she’d think I had it, too.

  Brielle’s eyes flashed. “The things we DON’T know, Taylor, the things people don’t say, what they hide, that is the most dangerous.”

  She could tell I knew something. Even though it wasn’t really anything. It should have meant nothing to Brielle. But it was everything to Noelani. She’d be wrecked by it for sure.

  “And people who know things about other people,” Brielle went on, “the ones who keep important information to themselves, well, those people are just pure spineless.”

  Not telling Brielle about Noelani was terrifying. If she found out I knew and didn’t tell her, which she would, she’d hate me, Cut me, make my life miserable.

  “It’s nothing, really.” I rubbed my palms into my eyes, hoping she would just drop the whole thing.

  “Taylor.” Brielle pulled my hands from my face. “What. Do. You. Know?”

  I was in it now. Brielle Branson had brought me into the game—I had let her—and she was counting on me. What happened when you backstabbed the richest, most popular girl in eighth grade? You basically died. That’s what.

  Noelani. I could not get out of my mind what she looked like when the Safeway checker asked if she wanted a bag the other night. Mom and I were at Safeway getting vanilla to make banana bread, and Noelani was in front of us.

  At first, she looked away fast, pretending she didn’t see us, pretending we weren’t there. But then the checker asked Mom how her garden was, and Noelani had to turn and look. She said hi, but her eyes were all shifty, and she turned away.

  I thought that was random. Noelani was always happy to talk to everyone.

  But it made sense when the checker slid the box across the scanner.

  I could either not tell or tell Brielle.

  Noelani had lice.

  WINTER

  Prompt: Do professional athletes deserve the salaries they make?

  On Saturday, when I got up, it smelled like pancakes!

  Mom was in the kitchen, making bana
na pancakes, and the coconut syrup was right there on the counter! And Dad was sitting in his green chair, watching the KHON2 morning news and drinking his coffee. It seemed he had moved past the bank thing. Everything was back the way it was before.

  Mom was wearing a tank top and shorts, and her knees were stained with dirt.

  “Look at the lilliko’i!” She took me out and showed me a new passion fruit vine. A flower was already bursting vibrantly in purple and yellow. Mom said she was drying some leaves in the kitchen. In a few days, she’d be able to make tea.

  I asked her what had happened to the old vine, and she waved toward a pile of stems by the steps. They were all withered and black.

  “Snails,” she said. She asked what I was going to do today.

  When I told her I didn’t have any plans, she asked if I wanted to go to the farmer’s market.

  “The Kapi’olani one?” I asked. That was the one on Saturdays, the best one, the biggest, the one with the Kona Latte Ono Pops!

  We went. Mom let me pick out the birds of paradise to put in the elephant vase, just like before, and we got eight—my lucky number—even though Mom taught me forever ago that you should always arrange flowers in odd numbers.

  It really was the best day ever.

  That’s why I’m writing this down. In my notebook. Because yesterday was such a good day, and I want to remember it forever—the day Mom got better.

  WINTER

  Prompt: What is your dream job?

  I thought Mom was better. She WAS better. She made pancakes.

  But now, she’s not better. She’s tired again. Maybe it’s from the weekend, from all that shopping at the farmer’s market? I should have noticed. I should have told her, Let’s go back home. She waited for me forever while I stood in the Ono Pop line.

  Dad said this thing with Mom has to stop. He told her that. He shook out a couple different-colored pills from some bottles on her nightstand, and held out a glass of water, and said, “Take these.”

  He said that in a voice I’ve never heard from him before, not even with Eli.

  It has to stop—or what? What was Dad going to do if Mom didn’t take those pills? If she didn’t get better?

  Mom doesn’t like pills. She drinks tea, and rubs aloe on sunburns and arnica on bruises, and gives me little pieces of ginger candy when my stomach hurts.

  It doesn’t make sense. Mom made pancakes. She bought birds of paradise that are still in the elephant vase on the table. She was better.

  “Can you close the blinds all the way?” Mom pulled the quilt right up to her chin.

  While Dad was standing there, by Mom, by the pills, Mom’s phone was ringing and ringing again. Over the ringing, Dad was saying, “You can do this, Julia. You have to make up your mind to do it. You got through this once. You can do it again.”

  Eighteen years ago, when Eli was born in Oregon right before winter hit, Mom got the blues. Grammie Stella told me about it.

  One day in sixth grade, I was sad, and Grammie Stella was visiting, and I told her I was sad. I didn’t know why I was sad. I had a mom, a dad, a brother, and a house. It wasn’t about having, or wanting. It was about BEING. I was just being sad.

  Grammie Stella was staying at the Hilton Village, and she bought me a bubble tea—a coconut taro one.

  “I’m kind of … sad,” I told her when she asked how I was doing. I was sad, and I didn’t know why.

  “Well, keep your eye on things,” Grammie told me. “Your grandpa Olie, he got the blues, and once he got them, he never quite shook them.” She said Mom got the blues after Eli was born, and they knocked her out for quite some time.

  I can’t remember Grandpa Olie, but Eli does. He always told me how Grandpa would come out on the front steps when we knocked, saying, “It’s my little huckle-buckles!” He always had a glass bowl of baby Butterfingers on the table.

  “How’d she get rid of them?” I had asked Grammie.

  “You know your mom,” Grammie said. “She wouldn’t take anything, so … time. It just took time, is all.”

  The trouble with time is that it’s immeasurable.

  Under her breath, Grammie added, “And your dad just went right on with his work.”

  Since that talk with her in the Hilton Village, I’ve panicked when Mom has looked worried or sad. I don’t want the blues to steal her away again.

  This thing with Eli isn’t the first time I’ve worried. But it’s definitely the most.

  And I’m scared for me, too. I don’t want to be like Mom, like Eli. And I think I might be. How is that going to end up for everyone?

  FALL

  Prompt: Family.

  “Let’s all say ‘Up your butt’ whenever someone asks something!” Eli was smiling wide.

  Mom called from the kitchen, “Who knows where my big spatula went?”

  And Eli said, “Up your butt!”

  Mom laughed. “Right, I forgot to look there,” and Eli and I laughed, too.

  Then Dad peeked over the Honolulu Star-Advertiser and told us, “That’s enough of that now.”

  Last year for his friends for Christmas, Eli made a slideshow—Top Ten Christmas Hotties. Mrs. Claus came in at number ten, Betty Boop at four, the Victoria’s Secret Angels at two, and Mary the Virgin Mother of Christ at the top.

  He sticks everything in the freezer—our toothbrushes, my bathing suit top, the Scotch tape. When Mom “lost” her big spatula, that’s right where it was.

  When they aren’t surfing, Eli and Koa and Tate and Macario go back and forth and back and forth and back and forth between Koa’s house and ours (if Dad has a night class or a meeting) playing Rock Band, with Eli on drums, Koa and Macario on vocals, and Tate on guitar. They pick different female avatars, but they play the same song every time—Metallica’s “Enter Sandman.” And after they fail (a.k.a. EVERY time), they sweep all the food out of the fridge and the cupboards into a brown bag, and they cram into Koa’s Jeep for Bowls or Sandys or—if there’s even kind of enough light—they head up to the North.

  “Come with us, Grom!” Eli calls to me over his shoulder, board under his arm, pockets stuffed with wax.

  “I have homework,” I say.

  “Who gives a rat’s *** about homework?” Eli calls back.

  He always leaves the door open.

  WINTER

  Prompt: There are more ways than ever to communicate …

  It’s not good.

  Mom is still in bed. Her room is dark. Rotten and stale, like Mom never got up and made pancakes.

  “Are you just waiting on the trade winds?” I asked Mom.

  I opened up her blinds, and I lay down to wait, too.

  While Mom slept, a hibiscus-y breeze blew through the screen, and the chimes outside clanked into each other, and I tried not to wake her.

  What happened at school today? She’d ask if she was awake.

  I would tell her Isabelle waved to me today when I sat down in language arts. I would tell her Tae-sung got detention, and I got an A on my Mockingbird essay.

  I’m worried, I would say. I’d tell her I don’t want her to die. That I’m already so alone. That I’d never make it without her.

  Honey—she would hold my hand—tell me something good.

  I would tell her I said hi to the security guard at school. And that he said hi back, how he seemed really happy.

  But there was nothing, no words, no breeze.

  I lay waiting for the littlest draft to lift the chimes, breathe the hā back into us.

  FALL

  Prompt: Trust.

  I stayed home from school Friday with the worst headache ever. All I could do was binge-watch Gilmore Girls.

  But Mom figured out that something was wrong. And when she asked me about it, I told her everything.

  * * *

  “You’re not annoyed, right? At Noelani?” I asked Brielle when I told her about the lice thing. I didn’t want to tell her. She pretty much forced me to.

  “Noelani’s a birdb
rain,” Brielle said.

  “But you’re not mad at her, right?” I asked again. The last thing in the world Noelani could probably deal with on top of having lice was Brielle being mad at her for it.

  “First. I. Spent the night. At her house. On Friday. Oh my god, I remember. She was totally scratching. I’m going to have to buy that lice stuff now. And somebody will see me. Never mind, I’ll just send the housekeeper.”

  I wished I could take back telling Brielle about Noelani. Any second, she was going to say something to her. She would say I told. Noelani was so nice. This was going to wreck her.

  “Bri,” I said, “this is no big thing. Sometimes … people … just get things.”

  “WHAT people?” Brielle asked. “I don’t get things. I don’t get lice. Oh my god, no Branson has EVER had lice. I’m the first one with that crap disease.”

  “Okay, it’s not a disease,” I said. This was out of control.

  Brielle was pulling drama out of nowhere, breathing shallow and fast. “Noelani backstabbed me. She had me over to her STD house…”

  “It isn’t an STD,” I said. “Come on, Bri … just … be real.” I wanted to add that this wasn’t about her. But that would’ve been a waste of air. Everything was about Brielle.

  She whipped out the Carnivale list from her binder. The corners were folded over now, and a splotch of green tea smoothie stained the bottom.

  I could not be the one responsible for nice Noelani getting Cut. “Come on, Bri,” I begged. “Don’t Cut her. She’s your best friend.”

  “She kept something from me,” Brielle said. “It’s over.” With her silver Sharpie, she stabbed one angry dot by Noelani’s name.

  * * *

  That’s what I told Mom. All of it.

  She hugged me.

  “What can I do now?” I asked her.