“Are you and Afton ever going to be friends again?”
“Sure we are,” I say, because that’s what I’m supposed to say. I hug Abby. “You and me and Afton, we’re sisters. That’s an unbreakable bond, you know.”
“Sisters forever,” I say, putting out my pinkie finger to hook with hers. We shake solemnly. “Now let’s go do some slides.”
24
Over the next few hours I voluntarily throw my body down every available slippery surface at the Hilton Waikoloa. I gave Mom a hard time about always assuming that I’m on duty for childcare, but I am grateful to be hanging out with Abby and not alone to stew in the problems of my messed-up life. I have to spend almost every minute trying to keep my little sister’s head above the water.
This, too, feels like a metaphor somehow.
Sometime after lunch Abby gets tired enough to sit down for a few minutes. I reapply our sunscreen and then lean back in one of those white plastic lounge chairs that line the pools and close my eyes, feeling the sun soak into me.
My mind starts to wander back to the situation with Mom, so I deliberately choose to think about Nick instead.
Nick. The way he equates having sex with having a cup of tea. So funny.
And even funnier, our sex plan. Just the words sex plan cheer me up substantially, not because sex is such a cheerful subject, but because the idea sounds too ridiculous to be true. Nick Kelly and Ada Bloom—arguably the two least-cool individuals on the entire Big Island—are going to have sexual intercourse. It’s glorious, in a silly yet appealing way. It’ll be a good, distracting adventure.
Speaking of adventures. “How about we try paddleboarding?” I ask Abby. Paddleboarding with Abby is not exactly what I’ve been picturing, but at this point I’ll take what I can get.
She doesn’t answer.
I open my eyes. She’s sprawled on her stomach over the next lounge chair, using the end of one curly wet braid to drip patterns on the concrete.
“Abby?”
“No, thanks,” she says lightly. “I need some quiet time now. Maybe even a nap.”
My sister is a strange five-year-old.
“But it will be so peaceful and quiet when we go paddleboarding. Just picture it, Abs, you and me on a paddleboard in the middle of the lagoon, water lapping at our feet, the sun on our faces, the wind in our hair.”
“We could tip over,” Abby says. “I could drown.”
“You’ll wear a life jacket. Plus, you’re the best swimmer I’ve ever seen. You’re like a baby shark.” I try a few lines of the song, but she doesn’t go for it.
She sits up and crosses her arms. “I can swim in a pool, yes. But the lagoon is like the ocean. Dark and deep, with monsters under there.”
“What monsters?”
“Giant squid,” she informs me gravely.
“The lagoon is not the ocean,” I argue. “Water is water, Abby. We’ll be fine. There are no monsters, I promise. I’ll be right there with you.”
“No, thanks.”
“If you were going to drown, you would have done it already,” I say. “And then . . . I would go paddleboarding.”
Her eyes widen. “I can’t believe you just said that! I’m going to tell Mom.”
“You go right ahead.”
She jumps up. “Look!” She points to where, not too far away, a couple has just gotten out of one of those white rope hammocks. “Let’s sit in there, and you can read me my Amelia Bedelia.” She reaches into our bag and pulls the book out proudly. “I packed it. I thought, you never know when you might need Amelia.”
“Oh, good.” I am clearly never going to go paddleboarding. I am never going to have that spiritual experience Pop talked about, whenever he talked about Hawaii.
I inspect Abby’s book. It’s called Amelia Bedelia Means Business. The letters of the title all look hand drawn, with Amelia Bedelia large and centered on the orange cover, and Means Business much smaller to one side. Abby traces her fingers over the big A.
“Amelia’s initials are A.B.,” she points out. “Just like mine.”
“And mine,” I say. Abby’s name is Abigail Bloom-Carter. A.B.C. I always thought that was neat.
“And Afton’s!” Abby exclaims. It obviously just now occurred to her that we all have names that start with the letter A.
“And Mom,” I add.
Afton and I have conflicting theories about why Mom did this to us. Mine is that Mom likes things orderly—she likes our