Strong Like the Sea, стр. 16
Inside the frame, Grandma and Grandpa Force stand frozen with pale arms raised mid-wave on the steps of a white wraparound porch—they would never call it a lanai like we do. For them, it’s all porches, beef, and potatoes. Probably never had a bite of poi in their lives. They’re the reason I get cards from the mainland every Christmas and birthday like clockwork, and I send thank-you notes back. They ask about school, talk about the weather, and dream about getting together one of these days . . . which is a lot like someday . . . which is a lot like never.
The gecko races across the next picture, where Mom and Dad smooch in front of Rainbow Falls on the Big Island. It’s way newlywed and sappy, with all the hand-holding and mushy stuff.
Obviously grossed out by all the kissing, our gecko leaps off the picture frame and lands on a photo of Auntie and Uncle grinning from the bow of Uncle’s boat, Sarge’s Barge. Auntie wears a swimsuit with a lavalava tied around her waist, her warm brown shoulders encircled by Uncle’s strong arms.
The gecko hops onto the wall, his magic sticky-toes splayed wide as he skitters across the smooth wall and hangs there, over Auntie and Uncle’s picture.
I’ve seen that picture a million times—can close my eyes and still see every detail: flowers in Auntie’s hair, Uncle’s Spartan race bandana, and their new puppy, Sarge, a brown and white fluffball barely big enough to peek over the gunwale of Sarge’s Barge.
Except this time, a scrap of paper sits tucked into the corner of the frame—and it’s stamped with the same mark as the one inside the bottle.
The gecko licks his eyeball with a pink tongue that slimes up over his brow and darts back into his mouth. He studies me with wide eyes split down the center by black irises drawn tight into a vertical line. Whatever bug he was chasing must’ve got away, ’cause he settles onto the picture and turns his whole head to watch as I ease close enough to pluck the paper out of the frame.
I check the back side for more clues and hold it to the light, but there’s nothing there, so I flip it back and stare at the symbol again. My app says it means “rescue,” but it might as well read “Mom was here,” because it means the same thing to me.
救援
The gecko curves its whole body and stretches one arm out, the fat, lined pads of its front toes grasping at the air like it wants to read too, but its tail flops over the frame and it clings tight to the wood again.
With the gecko’s tail dangling over their heads, Auntie and Uncle smile out at me from the photo like they’re waiting for me to figure out the rest of the clue.
“I know, I know. There’s something more,” I agree, but nothing on the picture seems out of place. The beach behind Auntie’s house, the boat, the dog, some coconut trees and bushes to the side—nothing weird to see. At least, nothing on the front of the picture.
“Time to move, buddy.” I lift the picture off the wall and lower it to the floor until Mr. Gecko jumps off and scurries behind a bookshelf in search of more bugs.
Something knocks against the back of the picture and bumps my hand as I stand up. When I turn the frame over, a tiny glass stopper swings back and forth, dangling from a yellow string attached to the top. Mom’s swirling handwriting scrawls across the backing, spelling out a single word:
rise
“Ha! Found it!” I glance at the space where the gecko had disappeared and raise the picture so he can see it if he’s still back there in the shadows. “See? Mom was here.”
Cradling the picture with one arm, I trace the loops of her writing with a finger. “Okay, so, ‘Rise.’ You mean, like . . . get up and go now?” I glance at the rain splattering against the window. “Or like find another clue on the family crest?”
Just in case, I check the back of the tapestry, but there’s nothing there.
I roll the glass stopper back and forth. Maybe it means go at moonrise? Or sunrise?
Would Auntie already be headed to work at sunrise? She goes in pretty early, along with loads of other residents and students who work at the Polynesian Cultural Center—PCC for short—to teach tourists about Polynesian cultures.
Or maybe “Rise” could be the name of a new program there? I know there’s a luau and special shows besides all the little villages of different nations like Fiji, Samoa, and Hawaii. But maybe there’s a new presentation I haven’t heard of yet?
I don’t know, but whatever it means, Auntie’s definitely in the middle of it. She gave me the bottle, and the new paper clue was tucked in the corner of a picture of her and Uncle. I grab the phone and text her.
Found the picture clue. Can I come over?
Rain patters against my window in waves. First a light smattering, then a downpour, and then light again. I scowl at the storm. Is the worst of it over or not? I wish it would make up its mind.
Either way, it’s gonna be real wet. Better walk, not ride my bike. Probably it’d take less than ten minutes to get there if I hurried, and Dad’s umbrella would keep the rain off as long as the wind doesn’t blow too hard. I’d stay dry—mostly.
My phone chimes.
Wait till rain stops. Check weather in 30 min.
Not the answer I want, but I guess that gives me time to study. I scan the history notes on the wall. “Okay, Mavis, looks like you’re up. Let’s do this.”
My computer screen flickers as I click past news reports of typhoons forming in the Pacific and pull up references on Mavis Batey.
Notes fill my pages. Red and blue are Dad’s favorite colors to use, but I mark Mavis’s