Strong Like the Sea, стр. 23

I grab my stuff, slide my slippers on, and open the door.

“See you bumbai.” Mrs. Keala waves.

“Yep, see you later!” I step out under the covered path.

Keiki run around the grass by the little statues outside the library.

“Tag! You’re it!” A boy with curly black hair down past his shoulders pokes a freckled blond kid and off they go. Barefoot, they dodge and squeal and rush past me to the outdoor stage for school assemblies before running across the sidewalk to the fire-truck playground on the other side.

As I turn to walk along B building, a brown mynah bird walks out of a first-grade classroom onto a hopscotch in the middle of the sidewalk, but then scurries back inside the classroom when I get too close. Finches, doves, mynahs, you never know who’s coming to class when the door’s wide open. Sometimes I share my rice with them at lunch.

Inside the front office building, I slow by the giant gecko statue garden—my favorite spot in the whole school. With offices and covered sidewalks on all sides, the gecko garden sits under a tiny patch of sky as if someone cut a room-sized rectangle in the roof. As big as a reef shark—except with black and orange skin and legs—our mascot gecko statue hovers like a guardian spirit over the flower garden, his three smaller gecko brothers of black, blue, and green stuck to the wall behind him. I know they can’t move, but after a lifetime of geckos running around at home and all over, I watch them out of the corner of my eye, half-expecting them to change positions now and then just for fun. Part of me thinks that would be the coolest ever, but the rest of me thinks the big one might try to eat us . . . so maybe not.

At the entrance to the school, I lean against the half-circle sculpted on one of the gates and wait for Auntie, my newsboy hat cushioning my head against the metal.

When the Tanakas’ white car pulls up to the school, I hop down the cement steps and open the side door. Auntie scoots her ipu gourd and basket-weaving things from work over to make room for me. A few minutes later, we’re pulling into her driveway.

“Glad you can help today. If we wait any longer to mow, we’ll need machetes to cut a path to the mower.” Auntie carries her double ipu gourd to the house to keep it safe till she goes back to PCC again. “Mow the backyard first, then the front. Okay, sis?”

“Kay.” I take off my backpack and set it on the floor of the car for safekeeping while I work, but when I turn back around, a huge wet nose sniffs my glasses and leaves a trail of slime across the lens. “Aaah!”

Almost nose-to-nose with me, Sarge licks his lips and sniffs me again. A slobber-string of drool hangs from his sand-dusted jowls, and foamy wet drops splatter my shirt.

“Oof! Ew, Sarge. Back up.” I lean away from the sea-flavored dog breath, but he leans in closer, sniffs, sniffs again real deep . . . and sneezes all over me.

I wipe my cheek. “Ugh. Auntie? Where’s Uncle?”

Her back to me, she props the house door open and slides her ipu inside. “He’s had a couple of bad days—you know, not feeling well—but don’t tell him I told you that, eh?” She glances at us. “Hey! You big whale. Leave our Alex alone.”

Sarge obediently faces Auntie but sits on my foot, his shaggy rear end leaning hard against me all the way up to my knee.

I never thought of dog butts being super heavy, but Sarge weighs more than me, and I’m pretty sure his butt is full of bricks.

“I’m warning you.” Auntie shakes a finger at the massive dog. “No treats for a month if you keep this up.”

Sarge groans and lies down, and I heave my foot out from under him. He’s pretty much blocking every path out from the car, but I don’t dare step over him ’cause if he stands up under me, he could gallop off with me like a runaway shaggy pony.

Sidestepping, I finally clear Sarge, pull the mower out from the covered patio, and push it onto the lawn.

Sarge trots past me, so close his tail thumps against my hip on the way by. And when I get near Uncle’s boat, Sarge huffs and paces me, always standing between me and the boat.

“You don’t have to protect his boat from me,” I grumble. “You can keep it.”

I reach for the pull string to start the mower, but something moves nearby in the water . . . something that is not waves.

I squint for a closer look, but whatever it is dives under and hides, a distorted, dark shape lurking under the surface.

Is someone snorkeling—spying on us? Could a spy from Mom’s work find his way to our island? I stand on my toes, partly to see better, and partly to make it easier to run away if a creepy bad guy pops up out of the ocean.

But no, I hadn’t seen a face mask. It can’t be a person. Maybe a seal?

Sarge splashes into the shallow waves by the dark thing in the water and waits with ears perked and tail wagging.

Uncle walks up beside me, his hands around a teacup of something foul-smelling.

I lift my chin toward the black thing. “Something’s in the water by Sarge.”

Uncle takes a sip. “Mm-hmm.”

“Should we call Sarge away? It might be dangerous.”

“Maybe we go have a look then, eh?” Uncle drains the last of his cup and sets it on his boat. But when he walks to the shore, the thing in the water moves straight toward him!

Sarge backs out of the way, his tail wagging.

A wave rolls over the shape and it rides the motion onto the shore—not a seal but a turtle. Its brown, scaly head lifts toward Uncle as it pushes itself farther up onto the