Honey Girl

by Lisa Freeman

  Behaving ladylike, or ho’owahine as Dad called it, meant waiting. Nigel stood in the middle of a bunch of overgrown wisteria tugging at my door and finally opening it.

  “I’ll see you in,” he said.

  There were a few groans from the back of the van as the door slid open and smoke billowed out. Rox and Claire looked like they just woke up, eyes at half-mast and hair everywhere.

  “Take care, Nani,” Claire mumbled.

  “Sorry about your folks, I mean, your dad,” Rox joined in.

  “Me, too,” Shawn shrugged.

  “Yeah,” Jerry said, closing the door quietly so Lord Ricky wouldn’t wake up.

  They were stoned and had obviously heard every word of my excuse. But I knew it was all cool when Nigel followed me up the stairs. We walked to the back door and everything wrong with 33 Sage leapt out at me: the broken window screen, the old wicker chair with stuffing sticking out of its cushion, and the seriously overgrown bougainvillea. Nigel seemed oblivious to all of it. After untangling himself from Jean’s bizarre security system of rusted cowbells in the orange trees, I told him that making noise when entering a home is a Hawaiian tradition for good luck. That was completely bogus, but I didn’t know how else I could explain these obnoxious things and save face. Anyway, he seemed to buy it.

  Nigel escorted me all the way into the house through the kitchen. He didn’t notice the dirty dishes piled next to the sink or the slew of Mayfair Market bags splayed all over the counter or the smell of overripe bananas lying next to the Yuban Coffee can filled with bacon grease or the mismatched chairs around our table. Nigel didn’t even hear my new fish tank buzzing or see that there were no fish inside or notice that the glass was already covered by algae.

  I questioned Nigel’s vision for real when he walked into the living room and nonchalantly passed the TV tray with Jean’s smelly slippers on it, not to mention the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. He saw absolutely nothing through those beautiful eyes but a small black-and-white photograph resting on the shelf.

  “Is this you?” he asked, holding the photo in his hand.

  I nodded. It was Dad’s favorite of me with Duke Kahanamoku. Nigel looked like he had just seen Jesus Christ himself. I was ready for him drop to his knees and start talking in tongues.

  I hadn’t peed since before sunrise. It was a world record, but I couldn’t hold it another second without getting permanent brain damage. While Nigel ogled at the photo of Duke Kahanamoku, I casually announced that I had to let the cat out. Nigel didn’t look up and I ran to the back of the house. We didn’t have a cat but he’d never know that.

  The water was still swishing down the toilet when I opened the bathroom door. Nigel was looking around my room. I hoped he hadn’t heard me pee. It was a rule:

  Never let a guy hear you pee or fart.

  Nigel picked up Mrs. Beasley. He fussed with her yellow hair and fiddled with her glasses. He looked at me coyly and then lifted her polka-dot skirt but didn’t see the white threaded seam across her belly that looked just like Jean’s cesarean scar. He cha cha’d with Mrs. Beasley across the room, twirling her around, cuddling her close to his chest. I didn’t think it could get more embarrassing until he noticed the string. I prayed he wouldn’t pull it but he did. Mrs. Beasley said, “Do you wanna play?”

  Mrs. Beasley sounded drunk and slow. Not squeaky and happy like she was supposed to.

  Nigel laughed. Then he pulled the string again and these words came out of Mrs. Beasley. “If you could have three wishes, what would you wish for?”

  My first wish would be that Nigel stop making Mrs. Beasley talk. My second wish would be that I’d get the nerve to sprinkle Dad’s ashes at State. It was clear that the longer I waited, the more trouble I’d have. The third wish would be that Nigel McBride would fall madly in love with me.

  Something else caught Nigel’s eye. On the wall, right where Jean had put them, were the pictures of Jesus. Nigel stared at the Jesus with his palms held above his head and the sacred heart on his chest. He touched the plastic glow-in-the-dark rosary hanging over the frame and asked, “Have you accepted Jesus?” He looked stunned.

  Jerry was honking the horn outside. Nigel ignored it. He flipped back his damp hair and tightened the towel around his waist. Absentmindedly, he stroked his chest while staring at me real hard. Was I in trouble? He looked so stern.

  I guess I had accepted Jesus. I mean, I’d been talking to him all morning. I didn’t see any harm in saying yes. But just in case, I crossed my fingers under my hair.

  “Iesu, in Hawaiian,” I added.

  Nigel walked toward me and softly said, “That’s so hot. Say it again.”

  “Iesu.”

  “Again.”

  “Iesu.”

  He slowly backed me up against the wall. I rested my head as he took the tips of my hair and bit down on them. I relied on the cool plaster instead of my legs to keep me steady. Nigel was really tall. I held my chin up and stood on my tiptoes just to keep in front of his eyes. He pressed into me and swayed side to side. I wasn’t sure what to do.

  I didn’t know very much about this stuff. I only knew that it would probably be best for me to kiss him before navigating the rest of his body. I put my hand behind Nigel’s neck and pulled his head toward my lips. As he got close, I tilted my head back slightly and opened my mouth. I reminded myself of what Annie told me: to keep my lips relaxed while gently pushing my tongue into his mouth. I was cool because I had practiced it a thousand times on marshmallows while watching reruns of I Love Lucy. But when Nigel slipped his tongue around mine, it felt a whole lot different than a marshmallow.

  I had only officially kissed two guys, but this was nothing like playing spin the bottle with Eli Kalili, or when Stuart Wong had a crush on me and talked me into having a séance with him in his bathroom. Calling back Kui Lee from the dead was a good excuse to get in the dark, light a candle, and make out. That was in fifth grade when I was still fat.

  Kissing Nigel was way different. I felt transported to another world where silk curtains moved in slow motion and soft music played. He wrapped one hand around my waist, pressed his bare chest into me, and lifted my skirt with his free hand just like he had on Mrs. Beasley. I was imagining floating toward clouds filling the morning sky when the phone rang. Then it rang again and again.

  I looked at Nigel’s watch. It was 9:15 a.m. on the dot. Time for Jean’s checkin call. My hair was pinched between my back and the wall. Nigel had me sandwiched; I was stuck. The phone kept ringing as I grabbed my hair with both hands and pulled it to one side, freeing myself with just enough room to roll out of Nigel’s arms. I ran down the hall fast as I could to the living room and grabbed the receiver.

  “Hello.”

  Nigel dashed behind me and, as I listened to Jean go off about Uncle Mike, St. John’s, and what we would have for dinner that night, Nigel handed me a copy of my dad’s obituary. How he had seen that newspaper buried in all the junk in my room was a mystery. He stood close to me with a raised eyebrow and a hard-on. What the hell was I going to do? Actually, I had no choice. I rested the phone on my shoulder and Nigel took my hand.

  “Mom, I am going to read Dad’s obituary now,” I said, unable to even imagine her response.

  When none came, I continued, “James Kamalei Nuuhiwa, ‘Jimmy Star’ to his friends, died today, April 15, 1972, at his home in Kaimuki. He was forty-two. The owner of Waikiki’s famous entertainment bar, the Java Jones, where artists Haunani Kahalewai, Hilo Hattie, Lani Kai, Alfred Apaka, Gilbert ‘Zulu’ Kauhi, Pakalolo, and the late, great, Kui Lee performed regularly. Jimmy had a wonderful sense of humor and a positive outlook on life. He was a native Hawaiian and is survived by many generations of the Nuuhiwa family. Jimmy was a great storyteller and his presence will be missed by all, especially at Sunday surfing and Wednesday volleyball with the Royal Hawaiian Regulars. Jimmy’s call to God came from a fatal heart attack. He is survived by his wife Jean Nuuhiwa, a native Californian, and
their daughter, Haunani Grace Nuuhiwa, as well as long-time business partner Michael Kei. There will be no paddle out. A private memorial will be held for family and friends.”

  I could hear Jean crying on the phone. I don’t know what came over me.

  While looking up at Nigel, I told Jean, “I love you.”

  The words just fell out of my mouth. Tears welled up in my eyes until they poured down my face and onto Nigel’s chest. I had always been able to hold them back, but feeling Nigel’s hands around my waist somehow got to me and the leak turned into a flood. There was a rule, of course:

  Never lose it in front of a guy you like.

  Jean cried hard while telling me, “Honey, sweetheart, I love you, too.”

  She hadn’t said a nice word to me in months. It brought up those old feelings I had for her when she was the best mom in the world. This sent me over the edge.

  Nigel looked freaked out. My tears streaked his salt-stained chest. He gave me a weird look and walked toward the door. Oh God, could he have thought I was saying, “I love you” to him? I mean, I did say it to him, but I meant it for Jean.

  Jean wasn’t used to me being so emotional. She told me she’d be home soon and we would talk. What was I thinking? I studied every move on Nigel’s face to see how badly I had blown it. I knew it wasn’t good when he backed farther away.

  “Bye,” I said to Jean. I hung up the phone.

  “Bye,” Nigel said to me.

  I could tell from his eyes that he did think I said, “I love you” to him. They didn’t have that sleepy cool look anymore, and the magnetic pull that made me feel like I was floating off the ground was gone. There was an awkward silence. Nigel fumbled with the front door lock a couple of times. He looked worried as I moved closer to help him. We stood toe to toe.

  “I’m going to pray for your family,” he said. And then, in an instant, he vanished through the shrubs.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Heart Attack

  I was hiding in my tent in the drop-and-cover position. On my knees, hands locked behind my neck. I rocked back and forth with my chin tucked deep into my chest. In my head, I could still hear Dad slamming the screen door and shuffling over the gravel drive to his car.

  My dad’s heart attack happened so fast. By the look on his face, I thought he had a sour stomach or indigestion. I watched him leave the house from my bedroom window. He was drinking a bottle of Pepto-Bismol and lighting up a joint. He was rubbing his forehead like it hurt really badly and rested for a moment. I was just about to yell out, “Are you okay, Daddy?” when he fell like a tree cut in one swift chop.

  He clutched his left arm, dropped to his knees, and rolled onto his side. When I got to him, he had curled into a little ball; he was breathing hard, and the skin under his eyes had turned blue. He didn’t know who I was. A pasty film covered his face. I didn’t know what to do. I touched his hands. They were cold and wet. He was totally confused and talking gibberish—that’s when I screamed for my mom. The muscles on his face pulled tight and his eyes rolled back. He smelled like wet cement, quivering gray. I tried to yank him to one side but fell under his weight.

  Jean ran out of the house yelling, “Call an ambulance!”

  She pushed me aside so hard I fell on my hip.

  Before the ambulance left our house, Daddy was in a coma. They call his kind of heart attack a “widow maker.” When they hit, a person is lucky because they die fast. Yeah, real lucky.

  It felt like I had a thousand heart attacks in the two days since Nigel left. I think I got plaque in my arteries or something like that from all the stress. I remember the ambulance guy made it really easy to understand. He told me the heart is like a city and the arteries are like roads. And now my roads were collapsing, just like my dad’s. If I could stop thinking about how badly I blew it with Nigel, maybe the heart attacks would end.

  Jean’s face was in her bottomless tumbler of wine. She didn’t notice I had gone underground, and she had totally forgotten any tender moments from the days before. She was too busy now having a meltdown about Angela Davis getting out of jail. I was a total nonissue.

  I figured it would be best to duck out from State for a while. My dream chamber had turned into a hard shell, cold and murky. So I found a new place to hide, a real place. I made my primo tent by running a sheet from the pegboard of my hobby center to the end of my bed. There was just enough room inside for my sleeping bag and record player. That was cool because I had been listening to Joni Mitchell’s Ladies of the Canyon drone on since Thursday. I kept pushing the replay button with my big toe. I wanted to die to the sound of her voice.

  It wasn’t time for lunch or dinner, but Jean was cooking again. She got adventurous on her days off. The scent of ham steaks and pineapple frying on the hibachi wafted through my window and into my tent. Jean had taken to soaking everything she cooked in white wine, and she kept her tumbler with her at all times just in case she needed extra flavoring. At night, she’d wander around her weird little garden balancing her checkbook, doing the math on her fingers, and sitting by a kerosene lamp waiting for an occasional moth to go up in flames.

  Jean was upset because Uncle Mike wasn’t returning her calls. She stood at the kitchen sink watching for the mailman, waiting for a check, sales slip, or something from the Java Jones.

  I think there was something wrong with the mail. I hadn’t gotten a postcard or anything from Annie in over a week.

  In addition to having heart attacks, I hadn’t brushed my teeth since I kissed Nigel. If that wasn’t lame enough, I hadn’t had the strength to shave my legs or open a new bottle of Breck to wash my hair. The best I could do was put on a clean muumuu and ask Jean to barbecue me a Spam burger. Unfortunately, that reminded the nut job of my father, which got her crying again. It was probably best to just stay in the tent, put on another Joni Mitchell record, and dream.

  Sometimes the pain in my chest went away. And I’d think of the look on Nigel’s face when he left. Then the pain would come right back. If I could only figure out what sign he was, maybe I’d know what went wrong. He was sensitive and sweet like a Libra, but sexy and strong like a Scorpio. Or maybe he was a Capricorn. It was too much to think about. I started praying. I switched between Jesus and Pele. Finally, I did a quick round of eeny, meeny, miny, moe to decide which one would be my god for the day. Out went Pele.

  I asked Jesus to give me another chance with Nigel. The breeze blew smoke from the grill into my room. I got up. I considered setting up the TV trays and eating with Jean, but I knew that would only make me sadder. Seeing two places set for dinner always reminded me how much I missed my father.

  I missed Annie, too. She was the one person I could really talk to. Jean, on the other hand, was the no-fly zone when it came to discussing personal matters. She made everything worse. If she saw me all funky, she’d know something was wrong and want to talk about it. There was no way in the world I would ever mention anything important to Jean, especially Nigel McBride. She was clueless when it came to guys.

  Actually, she was clueless about almost everything. She had no idea that I had my dad’s stash. Or that I burned it as incense to have that feeling of him all around me. When Dad was having a dog day or the blues, he smoked hash. Just a little at a time, but often. He said it jump-started him out of the “no good thinking.” I only hoped burning it all around me could do the same.

  For the last two days, I had been burning bits and pieces. I even made a pipe out of a Tampax inserter. It was easy. I took the thick part of the cardboard tube and cut a small hole on the top at the end. Then I put a bit of tin foil in it. If I wanted to smoke hash, I could have dropped the little rock in it, lit up, cupped my palm over the end of it, and sucked it down. But after the vodka experiment, it didn’t seem like a very good idea. So I used the pipe in the form of an altar. I kept it in my tent with a little picture of my dad. Burning his dope was like breathing the air he left behind.

  My tent was like a beautiful cave un
til I started to smell my own B.O. and crawled out. The daylight hurt my eyes. I looked in the mirror. That’s when I understood what people meant when they said that someone looked like “death warmed over.” Something had to be done. After not showering or brushing for all that time, I smelled like cat food. I looked totally grody. That sucked. Girls shouldn’t smell bad, even if they were dying. Actually there was a rule:

  Always smell good.

  I battled with the nylon shower curtain and eventually got myself situated under a stream of hot water. I lathered my body with Ivory soap and tried to wash my hair. Washing my hair was an event. When the hot water ran out, I knew it was clean.

  I thought about how lucky I was to have gotten in with the locals at all. I may have messed it all up but, for a short time in my life, I had been in the epicenter of cool. Who really cared if I screwed up with Nigel McBride?

  While conditioning my hair, I made some big decisions. I decided to ration the rest of my dad’s stash so he’d stay with me a little longer. I’d eat everything Jean cooked then slide away into my tent until school started in September. I’d listen to every album I owned through my headphones and wait patiently.

  I was naked and bent over drying my hair when Jean stormed into the bathroom. Even seeing her upside down, I could tell something was terribly wrong. She was chewing her necklace with the cross on it and shaking her head.

  “Ever hear of knocking?” I asked flipping my hair back over my shoulder and twisting a towel around me.

  She motioned me toward my room. As we made our way, she stepped on a pack of Red Vines and a day old Pop-Tart that was stuck in the carpeting just outside the tent. When she didn’t scold me for using the floor as a garbage can, I knew it was serious.

  “What?” I asked.

  She clasped her hand over my mouth. Jesus Christ, were we getting robbed or something? Had aliens taken over Santa Monica? I was trying to get away but she grabbed my wrist hard like she used to when we crossed the volcanically active hillsides together on the big island.