stare at each for a couple of seconds. Then Jacob grins mockingly and sits down.
Omar comes over to me. “Wuzzup, sistah?”
“Not much. Thanks for that.”
“Ain’t no thang. How you doing?”
“Hangin’ in there, I guess.”
“You gonna be ok, Rani. You’ll see. Anyway, I gots to get to the library. Research that’s due next period awaits. Talk to you later.” He gives me a chin-up and heads off.
I watch him until he turns the corner to the library, thankful for my one true homie. I walk towards the cafeteria.
Unfortunately, bolo head rings in my ears. It feels like a pinch of salt in a gaping, raw wound. The pinch soon becomes an entire twenty-six ounce canister of Morton Salt as Kapena’s Masese fills the air. Someone once told me that this song is a bunch of Fijian words that sound good together when sung and the actual meaning isn’t clear. Something about being bummed and lighting up cigarettes and drinking kava to feel better. I could use some kava right about now because there in front of me is Emily leaning back against Pono.
Emily. Pono’s Filipina girlfriend. With silky, cascading waist-length hair. I follow her every move. She sits up on the picnic table bench and fiddles with the volume knob on Pono’s boombox. Then she drops her head back and shakes out her luscious locks. She turns the knob more to the right. Then she smiles, presumably satisfied with the loudness. And I sneer. Full on Billy Idol. Not wanting to draw attention to myself by fist pumping and rebel yelling, I shift my gaze to Pono. He looks like a T&C model in his black tank top and tapa print board shorts. Only when he wraps his arms around Emily and kisses her shoulder do my eyes become unglued from his broad, chiseled shoulders.
Nothing new about this scene. But with my hairless head and everything going on, I’m feeling like more of a reject than ever.
Didn’t think that was possible.
It is.
I go back to Connecticut again. The harsh feather or curry mocking was only part of the story. Back in Constitution State, I was perpetually ostracized. The social scene was like in Grease. The popular white kids were The Pink Ladies and the T-Birds. I was Eugene Felsnic. P.E. wasn’t about physical education training. It was about being picked last for teams. And not picked at all for parties. The girls, in their fancy Benetton, Esprit, and Gap outfits, CCD, and country club weekends, pointed at me, giggled, and walked away. The coups de grâce: the boys avoided me like the plague. A bespectacled loser, I watched the cool kids live their cool lives from the sidelines.
And here I am at MHIS six years later, still watching the cool kids. Today the view’s perfect from behind a bushy purple bougainvillea. All I need now is some popcorn and a large Coke. Emily turns her head and kisses Pono back. On the lips.
Shoot me now.
Pono asked Emily out at the beginning of junior year. To my dismay, they can’t keep their hands and lips off each other in public. I wonder what they do when they’re alone. An image of their naked, intertwined bodies flashes in my mind. I shudder and refocus on the scene in front of me.
Pono stands up, stretches, and grabs his ukulele. He nods at Emily. She skips the CD forward to Reggae Train. He starts strumming along with the song, totally in sync. Pono’s a ukulele virtuoso. The whole scene is pretty much like a free Jawaiian concert. And who on Moloka’i doesn’t love a good Jawaiian jam? A crowd of kids surrounds them, blocking my view. I drag myself away from the life film I’ll never be a part of. Not even as an extra.
The aroma from the cafeteria draws me in. Nothing like a hot sloppy joe and tater tots to make everything better. Lunch is the surefire highlight of my school day. The lunch ladies are like the aunties I wish I had: funny, thoughtful, sweet. One of them, Auntie Mary, always gives me a little extra of the sides. Winking, she’ll whisper some version of, “I gotta fatten you up, Rani.” Is it really that or can she tell I’m having a bad day? Every day?
I search for an empty table. That’s when I hear my name.
“Rani! Over here, Rani!”
I know that sound—the clinking of multiple gold Hawaiian bracelets. I scan the cafeteria.
It’s Crystal. From a distance, her arm looks like it’s gold-plated. She’s waving at me. “Rani, there’s room here.”
Oh no.
I head over in what feels like slow motion. The Empire Strikes Back theme song blasts in my head.
Crystal Polani’s also a senior and the most popular girl in school. A beautiful Hawaiian girl, with long, straight black hair. When she dances hula, everyone, including me, is spellbound. She’s always May Day Queen. She’s even a cheerleader. She’s sitting with Rayna and Richelle, also cheerleaders. They all have boyfriends. And hickies.
Seeing the Pink Ladies of MHIS, my brain offers me a concise, bulleted list of my loser qualifications. How thoughtful.
Rani! Listen up.
—You’re not popular.
—You’re an IH.
—You wear big ass glasses.
—You can’t dance hula.
—You’re not a cheerleader.
—You don’t have any girlfriends.
—Boys will never like you like that.
—You’ve never even been kissed by someone not related to you.
—You haven’t even stepped up to bat with a boy.
—And now you’re BALD!
Dang.
I feel like I’m about to get a root canal. I sit down next to Crystal. Their shocked eyes lock in on my head. The normal insecurity I feel around them triples. I take a bite of my sloppy joe. Juice runs down my chin. I forgot to get a napkin. Of course.
Sloppy Rani.
“Oh here,” Crystal says, handing me an extra napkin.
“Thanks.” I wipe my chin.
They watch me devour the rest of my lunch.
“Everything ok, Rani?” Crystal eventually asks.
“Yeah, everything’s ok.” I keep my eyes on my lunch tray.
“Do you have cancer?” Richelle blurts out. Crystal kicks her under the table.
“No. No cancer. No chemo. I did this to myself.” I rub my smooth head.
“Oh.” Richelle tucks strands of her long black hair behind her ears.
“Why?” asks Rayna, leaning forward.
“It’s a statement,” I say, adjusting my glasses and hoping the interrogation will stop. I tell myself they’re genuinely worried. I
