Free Anywhere but Paradise by Anne Bustard

door. “May I come in, folks?” he asks. His bald head is shiny and his smile bright.
    “Sure,” I say.
    “How’s the big boy today?” Mr. Santos asks.
    Howdy doesn’t answer. But Daddy does. “Doing great.”
    I know he says that to make me feel better. I press my lips together.
    “Howdy and I are buddies,” Mr. Santos says, and reaches over to scratch behind my cat’s ears. Howdy leans in. “He listens to all my stories. Laughs in all the right places.”
    “Laughs?”
    “With his eyes.”
    Now Daddy and I are the ones laughing.
    “Thanks for coming by,” Daddy says, and shakes Mr. Santos’s hand.
    “Yes,” I say. “Most of all, thanks for being his friend.”
    “Catch you later,” Mr. Santos says, and steps out of the cage.
    “Love you, Howdy,” I say as I give him one last pet. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Then there’ll be ninety-seven days to go. I’m trying my best,” I say into his fur. “But I know it’s not good enough. Please be okay. Please.”
    Daddy and I walk out to overcast skies. Whitecaps top the water nearby.
    The sun wants to shine, but somehow it just can’t break through. We’ve had showers on and off for days. Rain makes weeds grow. Why don’t folks call?

First Real Job
    I KNOW EXACTLY what Grams is up to right now. It’s past noon on Wednesday in Gladiola, and twelve ladies will have gathered with their sewing baskets and stitchery at someone’s house. Grams calls it her lunchtime sewing circle. Grandpa calls it information central. The ladies talk and eat more than they sew or needlepoint.
    Here in home ec, I have the sewing machine to myself. This is the third day Kiki hasn’t shown up. I figured she had the chicken pox, but before school, I could have sworn I saw her in the courtyard. So I keep one eye on the door.
    She never comes.
    During Hawaiian history, Malina invites me to babysit with her right after hula today. Which goes to show that life can change for the better in an instant.

    The Silva family lives five doors down from Malina and she’s sat with the boys before. We arrive on time. And after quick introductions, the parents take off.
    In the living room, dozens of little army soldiers line up on either side of the masking-tape border.
    “Cross it and you’re dead,” hollers Kevin as he and his older brother, Kenneth, stare down their two younger siblings.
    I don’t have a good feeling about this.
    “Ready. Aim. Fire,” Kevin hollers. “Attack. Attack.”
    Sounds of gunfire and explosions fill the air. The war is on full volume.
    Malina sits in a recliner reading a
National Geographic
article about Paris. I back up and take a seat on the couch. Basically, the older boys are clobbering the younger.
    “I think the first thing we have to do when we get to Paris is go to the top of this,” says Malina, holding up the magazine page with a photo of the Eiffel Tower.
    “But of course,” I say with a fakey French accent, and quickly cross my fingers behind my back.
    “Whoa, take it easy, y’all,” I say as the older boys topple the younger ones.
    No response.
    “It’s getting a little loud in here,” I say.
    It gets louder.
    I wave my arms.
    Nothing happens.
    Malina looks up from her magazine, raises a whistle to her mouth, and blows.
    The war goes silent.
    “Attention,” she commands just like Mr. Nakamoto, and the boys salute.
    “Troops need sustenance,” she says, opens her straw bag, and hands each boy a chocolate bar.
    I am watching a pro. And I am way out of my league.
    The boys inhale their snack and start again. When the battle gets loud enough to be heard in Honolulu, Malina blows her whistle again. She sends the troops around the room four times. Once, they are told to do twenty-five jumping jacks. Once, they have to be silent for a whole minute. And last, they have inspection before chow time.
    After supper, sponge baths instead of regular baths commence since water is rationed on the frontlines, and then we do a competition to