Aloha, Baby-Sitters!

by Ann M. Martin

  Claudia and Stacey slid in next to us, holding their breakfast trays. “Who’s ‘Steve’?” asked Claudia.

  “Steven Spielberg,” Jessi answered with a straight face.

  Claudia’s tray hit the table. “Steven Spielberg is going to call Abby?”

  “Well, not yet,” Dawn said. “He has to discover her in the TV commercial first.”

  “Oh.” Claudia sank into her seat and began tearing into a ham-and-cheese omelette. “Don’t forget to mention us in your Oscar speech.”

  “And give out our number,” Jessi added. “What great publicity.”

  “Abby won’t have to,” Dawn remarked. “Swifty will probably be standing next to her, holding up a BSC T-shirt.”

  I lifted my nose in the air. “Scoff if you must. The road to fame and fortune is lined with rubberneckers.”

  That stopped the conversation flat. “What does that mean?” Jessi asked.

  “I don’t know, I heard it in a movie once.” I stood up from the table and put on my back-pack, which contained sunscreen and a beach towel.

  “Can we come and watch?” Claudia asked.

  “You’d better,” I replied.

  We exchanged good-byes, and I sauntered over to where Ms. Bernhardt was sitting. (I figured, if I was going to be a star, I had to learn to saunter.)

  Ms. Bernhardt had agreed to be my escort. She was the only teacher/chaperone who had liked the idea of my doing the commercial. I had brought it up during dinner the night before. Forget about Mr. Kingbridge. He’d started shaking his head even before I’d finished my request.

  “This trip is a team effort,” he’d said. “We can’t have kids running off to do individual things like this.”

  My angel of fortune, Ms. Bernhardt, had spoken right up. “Oh, Howard, don’t be such an old fusspot. How many kids have the chance to do something as exciting as this? I’ll be happy to chaperone her. The rest of you can easily handle the groups tomorrow morning.”

  Old Mr. K. backed right down.

  Afterward, when I thanked Ms. Bernhardt, she whispered, “Honey, when I was your age, my daddy wouldn’t let me try for a singing career, and I always resented it.”

  Now, as I approached Ms. Bernhardt, she beamed a big smile. “It’s showtime!”

  We left the hotel and caught a public bus to Waikiki. At the Diamond Head end of the beach, we got off.

  I could spot the camera crew from the road. The workers were fussing with tripods and setting up the volleyball net.

  As we walked onto the sand, I felt a little funny. I mean, I’d told them I was eighteen. Why would I need an escort? Were they going to think Ms. Bernhardt was my mom?

  It was as if Ms. Bernhardt had read my mind. She whispered, “I brought a beach towel. I’ll stay back and hang out on the sand. If anyone suspects anything, I’m your agent. Go ahead. Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  As I walked to the volleyball net, the angle of the early-morning sun was making me squint. I remembered my sunscreen and took off my backpack to get it.

  My hand froze as I pulled it out.

  The label said Coppertone. I had told the woman with the phone that Day-Nite was my favorite. What would they do if they saw me using a rival?

  I shoved it back in. Hey, it wasn’t even seven-thirty. The sun wouldn’t really start burning until ten o’clock anyway.

  I waved to my fellow actors. “Hi!”

  “Hey, it’s the new kid on the block!” shouted Mr. Dimples.

  The woman who’d been on the phone the day before smiled at me. “Listen, I’m sorry we were so rude yesterday. I’m the director, Kaiulani Flores. Welcome.”

  One by one, the actors introduced themselves. Mr. Dimples’s name was actually Chad. I don’t remember all the others, but I do recall a Jim, a Don, a Linda, and a Roxanne.

  Poor Roxanne was beet red. She had zinc oxide on her face and wore a T-shirt and long, loose cotton slacks.

  I said “Hi” a million times, then stripped down to my bathing suit.

  One of the net poles needed to be put up, so I pitched in.

  Chad laughed. “What are you doing?”

  “Just helping out,” I explained.

  “You don’t do that. That’s what the crew is for. You’re the talent.”

  The talent. Yeah, that’s what I was. I loved the way that sounded.

  When the net was up, we all started playing volleyball. Alongside us, the three camerapeople were still bustling around, running wires, and loading film.

  “Listen up, actors,” Ms. Flores announced.

  We quit playing and gathered near her. I held the ball.

  “This shouldn’t take too much time,” Ms. Flores went on. “When we roll, you play as if it’s the world championship. Volley until I say ‘And go!’ Then set it up so that Chad spikes one. When the ball hits the sand, the game is over. I want to see yelling, screaming, high-fives, hugs, the works. Then, instantly — break. You all start reapplying your Day-Nite sunscreen, which we’re setting up on a blanket. Roxanne will be the center of the action, and … um, Abby, you bump into her. She yells in pain. Don gently presses a finger on her arm to show the burn. See, she’s the one who doesn’t use our product. And then, everyone, your puppy was just run over. Got it?”

  Everybody nodded, and the two teams lined up again. “‘Your puppy was just run over’?” I whispered to Linda.

  “It’s an expression,” she explained. “It’s what the old-time Hollywood directors used to say to child actors when they wanted them to cry on film. She means, look concerned and sad for Roxanne.”

  “That’s horrible!” I said.

  Linda shrugged. “That’s show biz.”

  As we volleyed some more, I could see Claudia, Dawn, Mary Anne, Stacey, Jessi, Robert, Logan, and Mrs. Hall walking toward me. I waved to them.

  “Are those your friends?” Roxanne asked.

  “Yup.” My brain started screaming, Eighteen, Abigail, you’re supposed to be eighteen! “I mean, my … younger sister’s friends. But that makes them my friends, too, I guess.”

  Before I could feel like too much of a fool, Ms. Flores shouted, “Okay, are we ready for take one? Start playing hard now.”

  Jim, who was on our side, served the ball. I bounced on my feet, ready for anything.

  “And … rolling!” Ms. Flores called out.

  This was it. The moment of truth. The camera was going.

  “YEEEEAAAA, ABBY!” my friends were shouting.

  The ball was flying in my direction, high and very close to the net. A perfect spike if I ever saw one. I ran toward it. I jumped as high as I could, fist tight.

  “Yaaaaah!” I yelled, whacking the ball with all my strength.

  It smashed over the net and bounced in the sand.

  “Cut!” Ms. Flores yelled.

  I looked around. Chad was laughing, and I had no idea why.

  “Uh, Abby?” Ms. Flores said. “That’s not in the script. Remember?”

  She repeated her instructions. I felt like an idiot. “I’m sorry,” I said about a thousand times.

  “One more thing,” Ms. Flores went on. “Enjoy yourself, okay? This isn’t the Olympics.”

  “Okay.”

  As play started, I smiled. I laughed for no reason. I was going to have the time of my life if it killed me.

  Ms. Flores yelled “Cut” when the ball went bouncing away. And again when a little boy went running through our team. And again when Don elbowed Chad in the face.

  Roxanne had been made up to look as if she had a terrible sunburn. But when it came time for me to bump into her, I was the one who screamed.

  Roxanne may have been the one without Day-Nite suntan lotion, but I was the one without any at all.

  I checked my watch. It was already ten-thirty. I’d been in the sun for three hours. And we still weren’t done.

  During a break, I coated myself with Day-Nite sunscreen. It smelled awful.

  Besides, at that point, I don’
t know how much good it could have done. I was already fried.

  Oh, well, I guess it was a small price to pay.

  No one ever said stardom was easy.

  “All I said was, ‘Lookin’ good,’” Robert pleaded. “She was offering us something to drink.”

  “I know, but it was the way you said it.” I tried to imitate the way Robert was ogling the flight attendant and lowered my voice. “ ‘Lookin’ goooood.’ I didn’t know you liked brunettes.”

  “I was talking about the juice, Stacey, not the stewardess.”

  “Flight attendant. Don’t be so sexist.”

  Robert burst out laughing. “Stacey, what has gotten into you? You’re joking, right?”

  I looked out the window. I hadn’t been joking at all. But even as I was saying the words, I knew they didn’t sound like me. I’m not usually the jealous type, yet I was so suspicious of Robert.

  I know he’s not a two-timer or a liar. That’s not his nature. And on this trip he’d been nice and considerate and handsome and charming. All that good stuff.

  The problem was, he’d been nice and considerate and handsome and charming to a lot of girls. Especially one particular girl on the flight from New York. Blonde, blue-eyed, pretty, slimy, disgusting Sue Archer.

  “Stacey, why are you being so weird?” Robert asked. “Are you still mad about Sue? I told you I didn’t mean anything serious —”

  “You spent more time with her on the plane than with me!”

  Robert put his arm around me. “That’s because she wouldn’t stop talking. Besides, I’m with you now, aren’t I?”

  I exhaled deeply. I didn’t shake off his arm, but I also wasn’t exactly cuddly.

  Sue was a big talker. Robert was right. Maybe I should just lighten up, I thought. We were in the world’s most romantic place. Why not just relax, snuggle with Robert, enjoy it all?

  I started to lean back. But Robert was already pulling his arm away. He reached into the seat-back pouch in front of him and took out a magazine.

  My head snuggled back against worn-out nylon plush.

  Minutes later, we were descending into Maui’s Kahului Airport. (The flight from Oahu to Maui is super-short.)

  Mr. De Young, our chaperone, turned to face us from his seat across the aisle. “Everyone stick together. Let’s get out of the airport as fast as possible. The trip to the crater takes almost two hours.”

  Our group had only seven kids, including Robert and me, so we could move pretty fast. When the plane landed, we followed Mr. De Young into the terminal and claimed our packs. (We were camping out, so we’d each brought camping packs crammed with everything we needed — including heavy clothes, rain gear, and sleeping bags.)

  At a rent-a-car counter, the clerk greeted us with a big smile. “I just called for weather conditions,” he said. “Right now, Haleakalā is bright and sunny. But you never know. Upcountry, the weather can change in a minute. The crater gathers up all the trade winds and clouds, and it can be cold.”

  “Thanks,” Mr. De Young said. “Can I rent a minivan with snow tires?”

  After signing all the papers, Mr. De Young gave Robert a road map and appointed him navigator. We all went outside and piled in the van.

  “Upcountry” meant the interior of Maui, where the highway rises up the side of Haleakalā. It’s one of the steepest car rides in the world. We passed huge farms, cactus-filled plains, and patches of vivid flowers.

  I sat in back with Pete Black and Mari Drabek, while up front Mr. De Young and Robert chatted about sports and road directions.

  My stomach didn’t do too well as the road started turning sharply. But we took a break just in time, at the park headquarters. (The first thing I did was pull out my down jacket. It was freezing.) By this time it was already afternoon, and the rangers told us the volcano was covered with clouds.

  “Bummer,” Mr. De Young said.

  “Not really,” one of the rangers said. “It’s a perfect day to see a Brocken specter.”

  “A what?” Robert asked.

  The man winked. “Go to the Leleiwi Overlook and keep your eyes on the clouds.”

  We took his advice and parked at the overlook. Even overcast (or undercast, since we were so high up), the view from the volcano’s edge was spectacular. Inside the valley of the big crater, smaller craters rose up through the cloud cover.

  Then I heard Robert gasp. “Stacey, look!”

  I gazed upward. There, hovering above the volcano against the fluffy gray-white clouds, was my silhouette. Over my head arched a brilliant rainbow.

  “Awesome,” muttered Mari.

  “So this shadow is a Brocken specter,” Mr. De Young said. “I wonder what it’s supposed to mean?”

  “Fame and fortune,” Robert said.

  “Seven years’ bad luck,” Pete Black chimed at the same time. (Nice guy, huh?)

  We climbed back into the van and chugged farther up the foggy, wet road. At one point we passed a sign that said NĒNĒ CROSSING. The nēnē is the Hawaiian state bird, a type of goose without webbed feet. (We didn’t actually see one cross the road, but I think I spotted one flying overhead.)

  Finally, after a slow, twisting ride, we reached the top — Pu‘u Ula‘ula.

  How can I describe the view? “Awesome” is too weak a word. The clouds had begun to burn off, and the valley stretched out before us, rolling into the distance and looking like the face of the moon.

  We were all too thunderstruck to speak. Finally Robert stood next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. “The guidebook says that the entire island of Manhattan could fit in there.”

  I tried to picture it. I glanced over to what would be the Upper West Side. “Not a good idea,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to live in a crater. Besides, the subway would be too hot.”

  Robert lowered his arm. “I was only kidding.”

  Ugh. He looked offended. I hadn’t meant my comment to be snide. “Well, so was I.”

  “Uh-huh.” He nodded. I nodded.

  We glanced out over the big, gaping hole.

  Well, it didn’t actually start there. I left out our first stop. Punchbowl Crater National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific.

  It’s a graveyard of soldiers — thirty thousand of them, mostly from the Vietnam War and World War Two. In the center, a long flight of stairs leads up to a monument to the dead.

  Part of the monument is a long marble wall, etched with maps of famous battles. Including, of course, Pearl Harbor.

  When I saw it, I felt a little sick. My visit to the Arizona memorial had been on my mind for two days. I’d awakened that morning with a horrible dream. In it, I was a Japanese spy in Pearl Harbor during the attack. I escaped harm, but then an American general took a look at me and realized I was one of the enemy. A whole batallion of soldiers started chasing me, as bombs exploded in the background and a Japanese plane swung by with a rope for me to grab onto.

  I think I screamed myself awake. But Dawn and Mary Anne didn’t hear me. They were still fast asleep.

  Now, at Punchbowl, I was in no mood for reminders. I turned away quickly and headed down the steps.

  “Where are you going?” asked Mary Anne.

  “Back to the bus,” I said. “This is interesting, but you know, time to move on …”

  I felt so self-conscious. My face was burning. On my way down, I avoided looking at old people. What if they had been around back then, like Mr. Blanchard at the Arizona memorial? What if they were paying respects to one of their relatives or friends who was killed at Pearl Harbor? How could they possibly forgive the Japanese?

  I picked up speed.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a group of Japanese tourists walking upward, slowly and solemnly. Did they feel the same way I did? I thought about joining them, trying to lose myself in their midst.

  But I didn’t. At the bottom of the steps, I hung out by the entrance. I mingled with the eucalyptus trees until everyone came filing back. Then I slipped onto the bus and sa
t quietly next to Mary Anne.

  She was eyeing me warily. “Tired?” she asked.

  “Yup.” I faked a yawn. “Wake me up when we get to the beach.”

  A few minutes later we pulled up to the place I mentioned in Mal’s journal, the summer palace of a Hawaiian queen named Emma. Actually, palace was kind of a grand word for it. Oversized, white-shingled New England cottage was more like it. The house was cute, a little like some nice, normal Stoneybrook homes. At least on the outside.

  The inside was a different story. Emma had the coolest taste — feather capes, huge paintings, intricate wall hangings, and textured fabrics I’d never seen before.

  “I could live here,” Mary Anne remarked.

  “Nahh, not close enough to the water,” Abby said.

  Poor Abby. Her face was the color of a boiled lobster. The rest of her body must have been badly burned, too, because she was walking like the Tin Man.

  “Maybe Queen Emma wasn’t a surfer girl like you,” Logan remarked.

  “‘Dooooo youuuuu love me, dooo youuuu, suuurfer giiirl?’” sang Alan (the Goon) Gray.

  A guide gave him a sharp Look. (So did Mr. Kingbridge.)

  “Sorry.” Alan weaseled away, pretending to be interested in the surroundings.

  Mary Anne, Jessi, and I came across a dramatic picture of Emma’s son, Prince Albert. “I guess this was way before, like, governors and mayors and stuff,” I remarked.

  “Huh?” Mary Anne looked at me blankly.

  “I mean, states don’t have kings and queens and princes anymore,” I explained.

  Jessi burst out laughing. “Hawaii wasn’t always a state, Claudia. It used to be its own country.”

  Duh. Open mouth, insert foot.

  “I knew that,” I lied.

  I could hear Alan snickering.

  I decided to wander off and investigate Emma’s backyard, where I might not be tempted to ask stupid questions.

  Near the house was a basketball court. (I imagined a duke in high-tops calling inside, “Your Majesty, thy court is prepared!”) Just beyond it I spotted a small, strange-looking white cottage. I walked closer and noticed an intricate rope hanging over the entrance.