Strong Like the Sea, стр. 55
He swallows and clears his throat. “Malia missed the bus? I thought the plan was for Auntie, Uncle, or someone to take you.”
“Malia is someone.” Okay, maybe it only counts as mostly trustworthy. I feel him watching me, trying to decide if he’s gonna be mad or disappointed or not. I carefully study my chopsticks as the silence drags on.
Finally, he exhales. “Why’d you want to go to Mānoa Chocolate Factory in the first place? I’m sure Mom wouldn’t send you out of town without telling me first. What’s the clue you’re looking for?”
My head jerks up. “Wait, you talked to Mom? When? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“No. No word yet, but it’s only been a few days. I’m sure she’ll call as soon as she can.”
If Mom hasn’t called, how would Dad know if she wanted to send me anywhere? I shut my mouth as a tide of angry words surges through my head and breaks against my closed lips.
He should know where Mom is. In fact, he should call her right now and sort this out—ask her if I should go to Kailua. It’s her challenge and not his.
I glare at my plate while my insides swirl from one current to the next. Waves of irritation, fury, logic, and fear crash and roll till I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.
“You know I’d tell you, right? I wouldn’t keep that secret.” Dad’s words are an anchor as I fight the tides inside.
I shrug like it’s no big deal, but that’s not how I feel. I know it’s not his fault that Mom hasn’t called. Logically, I do. But I’m mad anyway. Mad at him, or Mom, or me. I try to scrape the anger off, but it clings like barnacles, fouling me and weighing me down.
“What made you think you needed to go there? Show me the clue.”
When I pass the golden ticket to Dad, he turns it over and holds it up to the light. His thumb slides across the smudge. “This is why you want to go to Kailua? Because of this ticket?”
“Yeah, it says chocolate factory. You know how Mom loves that place with the good cacao fruit and stuff.” Easiest clue yet—except for the whole seal-giving-me-a-heart-attack part.
“I think this ticket go to a different sort of factory.” He traces the triple bump line with his finger. “One with snozberries and rainbow drops.”
“It says chocolate factory right there. And there’s no such thing as snot berries.” Real chocolate is made from cacao fruit. Doesn’t he remember the tour at all?
“There is, but it’s snozberries, not snot berries. And part of the writing is smeared away, so this is trickier than it was meant to be.” He walks to the bookcase and runs a finger along the line of books by Mom’s old textbooks before sliding a worn paperback from the shelf and handing it to me. “Here’s your factory.”
A kid smiles on the cover, a golden ticket in his hands: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
The book can’t be that old—I mean, there’s a pretty good picture on the front, but it’s in really bad shape. Our librarian would have a fit if she saw this book; the dog-eared pages, stains on the cover, corners worn round instead of square from being carried around in a bag so much. “What happened to it?” Maybe it fell out of a car, or got thrown in with the laundry?
“The book?” He checks the cover. “Oh, nothing’s wrong. This was your Mom’s favorite book when she was little. A kid’s favorite book is kind of like a velveteen rabbit. They make friends with the characters and carry the book everywhere. The more tangible the tale, the more tattered the pages.” He passes it back to me. “No, nothing’s wrong. Except maybe she loved the story until it became real.”
Real or ragged? Maybe it means the same thing for Mom’s story. I turn the pages. On the inside cover, a long list of moves lines the page. I read down the list, but they seem like commands from an old Battleship game: A3 to J6, B9 to H8 . . .
I flip through the pages in order, but the broken spine flops open to a fat white envelope jutting out of the middle.
Mom’s handwriting scrawls in neat, clear lettering across the top. “Almost there.”
My mouth forms an O, and I feel Dad hovering over my shoulder as I pluck the card from its hiding spot. I was wrong. And Dad was right. Mom didn’t send me to Kailua.
She sent me home.
If Malia had gone on the bus with me, how long would we have crawled around the Mānoa Chocolate Factory looking for clues that weren’t there? Probably till they kicked me out for acting all weird. Maybe I owe Malia a thank you for missing the bus—even if it was an accident.
In the middle of the envelope, something bulky pushes against the sides with raised lines and ridges—probably another one of Mom’s paper creations. They used to fold them just for each other, but after I was born, most of the new ones ended up hanging from my ceiling because I like them too.
But when I open the flap and pull the folded paper from inside, it’s not some intricate dragon or bird—it’s a simple paper airplane. It’s not even as detailed as the origami jet plane hanging with my flock of origami over my bed. A simple paper airplane. “Um, am I supposed to throw it—fly it somewhere?”
Dad’s trying his hardest not to smile, but his dimples give him away.
“You know