the Pacific. The wild tossing waves hypnotized her. She pressed her forehead and fingertips onto the glass and pretended they were on a cruise ship. Below deck in their large suite she watched the storm, safe from it.
Safe.
Drowsiness overcame her. She forgot she was a black widow. She forgot about the money-making scheme she’d planned with this guy whose name she didn’t know.
Instead she wanted to curl up on the dark brown suede couch and cover herself in the fuzzy white throw that lay neatly folded on one end. She wanted him to tuck the edges of the blanket under her. She wanted him to stroke her forehead and say, “Go to sleep.” Then let her drift off into secure slumber.
Safe from the weather.
Safe from people.
Safe from him.
She turned around, determined to lie down on the couch for a solo nap.
But he was standing in front of it. Naked.
No one at school had ever rocked liberty spikes. Jaya thought he was the perfect person to introduce his classmates to this classic punk hairstyle. He was a misunderstood outsider anyway, why not be true to himself? He walked a brisk pace through the Manoa Prep campus with his head held high and his hair even higher.
He’d made it through the busy morning parking lot without any negative attention. Maybe his classmates would leave him alone today. Maybe they’d respect him for making a bold fashion statement.
Yeah, maybe.
His luck ran out as he approached the track.
“What’s with the Mohawk? You’re not that kind of Indian, you dumbass.”
It was one of the three haole boys from Hawaii Kai, juniors just like Jaya, who bullied him at least once a week. He and his co-tormentors sprung up from the sidewalk and surrounded Jaya.
Jaya touched his scalp and looked away.
“We know you’re gay, Jaya. Good thing, because no guy would ever hit that,” the freckled one said with a slight one-handed shove.
Jaya took a step forward, hoping to escape their insults. But they tightened their circle. Jaya was trapped. And they turned their derision on, full blast.
“Curry-eating carpet-muncher.”
“Go with me. Betcha I can turn you straight.”
A minute later, someone pushed through the circle and stood next to Jaya. It was Alika Keahi. “What’s going on?” he wanted to know, crossing his arms. He looked the shorter haole boys up and down, right and left. Jaya couldn’t help but think of that Herb Kane painting in the school library—Warrior Chief. Alika was the chief thrusting his leiomano and saying, “Really? You’ve got no chance. Run along now, little white invaders.”
Jaya stifled a laugh when the Hawaii Kai boys did just that. They left.
“Thanks, Alika,” Jaya said. He extended his hand.
“No problem.” Alika gave him a double-handed handshake.
Alika Keahi was more than fifty-percent Native Hawaiian with some Chinese and Portuguese. He was from Waianae. Unlike many of his classmates and their families, he and his family weren’t well-off. They certainly couldn’t afford Manoa Prep’s tuition.
But Alika was the top wideout in the state, a talent that awarded him a full scholarship.
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