Honey Girl - Excerpt

Chapter 1: Rulers of the World

My sickest secret is about Dad. I stole his ashes and filled his internment box with sand, ground-up puka shells, and a mashed-up plastic necklace from a vintage shop in the Hawaiian Village. I gave it to my mom with the fake remains after she came back from the mainland with Uncle Mike. The freakiest part of the whole thing is that she sleeps with the box next to her bed. She thinks that someday her ashes and Dad's will be buried together. Sorry about that. I loved my dad more than any other person on the planet. I just didn't think about what the long-term karma would be.

Here's the thing: Hawaiian men like my dad don't get buried. They get a paddle out. I knew exactly how Dad would have wanted his memorial to be. He'd have all his pals sitting on their boards in the water and family in canoes. We'd form a big circle and we'd sing songs and throw leis while his ashes were scattered in the ocean, the place he loved most. Simple. But my mom went Catholic after Dad's heart attack. She got priests and an undertaker and a crypt. She put Dad on display after someone dressed him in a suit he didn't own, combed his hair to the wrong side, and put make up on him so he didn't look so dead. She even put a wooden cross in his hands. My dad hated all that Jesus voodoo. I wasn't surprised when no one on Oahu came to the mortuary.

Mom and I sat there along with Uncle Mike and his new girlfriend, watching little gnats buzz around Dad's nostrils as the day heated up. We listened to Alfred Apaka albums while Uncle Mike made small talk.

Thank God my mom decided to finally cremate him and ditch the whole grave thing. My plan was to give Dad a secret paddle out. I collected Dad from the mortuary, brought him home, switched the ashes, and put him in a shoebox. I was on my way to the beach when Mom walked through the front door three hours early. She was all excited about the new home we'd be moving to in Santa Monica, but all I could think about was where to hide Dad.

The new plan was genius if I do say so myself. Like some cosmic pot dealer who sealed up bags of weed airtight, I poured Dad into a Ziploc baggie and made sure there were no air pockets so he wouldn't get soggy. Then I took apart my talking Mrs. Beasley doll. She was from my favorite TV show Family Affair. I fit Dad into her torso, stuffed him up under her voice box, and carefully distributed the ashes evenly so Mrs. Beasley wouldn't get lopsided. I was very proud of myself for pulling this off on the spur of the moment.

Everything was cool until I came home from school the next day. Mom had packed and shipped all my stuff to California, including Mrs. Beasley. I got totally tweaked out and wrapped my hair around my arm so it looked like a snake, then pulled it tight to cut off circulation. After an hour of watching my skin turn colors, I came up with a final plan that would start as soon as we got to Santa Monica.

Imagining State Beach and actually being here were two different things. Before today, I'd never been on a beach where I didn't know anyone. Dad's been gone sixty-four days. I've put some of his ashes in a Band-Aid box and, once I've got the place checked out, I'll sprinkle them in the ocean bit by bit. The box isn't big, but it's made of metal, which keeps Dad safe and dry until I let him go. When I find the right times to let him fly, I'll do a little Hawaiian ritual in my mind and remind myself that I'm standing in the Pacific Ocean. The good news is that all currents lead home to Oahu. The bad news is that with this tiny Band Aid box, I'll probably be like twenty-five by the time Mrs. Beasley is empty.

Right now I'm almost sixteen, five-foot-six without an ounce of baby fat. I look like a model or something. No way could you tell that I used to be a kind of ugly smarty pants kid who skipped first grade. Something happened to me when we moved. For the first time in my life, I didn't have to be that hapa haole, a half-half girl with my mother's hazel eyes and a lighter version of my father's brown skin.