The building's stairway leads to a listing L-shaped lanai. Overlapping lengths of lattice, firmly fastened with fabric, form the lanai's long exterior wall. Bamboo shades provide privacy but cannot deaden noise.

Voices drift down. Kepu looks up. After a moment’s hesitation, he climbs the steps – two at a time – passing overgrown potted plants that camouflage the makeshift stairs and weathered walls. At the top, Kepu opens a bright-blue fiberboard door and enters. As the door closes, his awareness of a prominent high-rise condo, towering 20 feet away, and the perpetual Ala Wai traffic, topping 35 mph, fades.

The lanai is cluttered yet cozy. Draping fabrics and hanging plants soften the effect of the half-dozen-or-so colors of leftover paint that decorate the multipurpose room. Captain's chairs circle a large table that sports a collection of boxed board games. An open curtain reveals a long sleep-study area with a dresser-desk and sofa-bed.

Beside the door from which Kepu has entered, two other doors open onto the lanai. One leads to a bedroom, the other to the living room.

Thomas sits on a short set of wooden steps that fronts the living-room door, lacing a pair of new sneakers. He looks up, frowns at Kepu and mutters, "Don't you knock?"

"No . . . Why?"

Thomas' mouth opens to respond but no words come to mind. Frustrated by his inability to verbalize the obvious, his frown deepens. He resumes the task of keeping his laces even, ignoring Kepu. The visitor turns, about to vanish, when Thomas' mother appears in the doorway behind her son.

"Hi, Kepu. What a pleasant surprise," Cora exclaims. "Have you eaten?"

Kepu's discomfort dissolves with her warm welcome. He turns, a big smile brightening his broad, dark face. "Tanks . . . I gone eat at scool . . . wif Tomas," he answers.

The mother looks surprised. "I thought you hated school breakfast, Tom."

Thomas, who has just finished fussing with his sneakers, replies, "I do . . . but . . . ah . . . Kepu and I thought we'd . . . ah . . . check it out."

"Oh," his mother replies, with a skeptical smile.

Kepu points a finger at Thomas' feet, "Nice soos."

"Ugh! . . . I hate these fucking sneakers."

"They're good for your feet," his mother says, rumpling his hair and retreating back inside the apartment. "Don't forget to make your bed," she yells.

Kepu looks at Thomas in amazement. "You say da f-wood . . . an . . . you mom no do noting?"

"What she gonna do? . . . Make me go my room? . . . I already in it."

"Mines kill me I say da f-wood," Kepu exclaims.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! . . . The word is fuck! Stop calling it the f-word," Thomas demands.

"Thomas, watch your mouth," his mother shouts from the kitchen.

"No talk la dat," Kepu pleads.

Ignoring his mother, Thomas turns to Kepu and asks, "Why not?"

"Is bad," Kepu replies, dismay distorting his friendly features.

Thomas stares at the boy for a few seconds, then stands up, sorts through the school books on his dresser and slips several into his pack. "I'll tell you what’s bad. . . . What's bad . . . is having to sleep on the fucking lanai . . . while my little sister gets her own room." He leans over, picks up a shoe, turns and throws it at his sibling's bedroom door. "And having to wear generic fucking sneakers . . . ’cause my mom's afraid I get flat feet."

Without removing the mismatched sheets, paperback books and candy wrappers, Thomas folds the fat futon into a sofa.

Pointing to the bedroom door, Kepu says, "You sista sleep dea?" Then pointing to the lanai's sleep area, "You sleep dea? . . . Wea you mom sleep?" he asks.

Thomas points to the door, indicating inside the main living area.

"Oo . . . We all sleep togeta," Kepu remarks.

Thomas bursts out, "All of you? . . . Even your parents?" After a moment, a sly smile spreads across his lips and he asks, "Wow! . . . How do they do it?"

Kepu looks puzzled.

Thomas persists, "You know." . . . Kepu still looks puzzled. Thomas makes a circle out of the thumb and index finger of his left hand and sticks his right index finger in and out of the puka.

Kepu's mouth flies open. He flushes. Thomas, amused by his embarrassment, thinks about teasing him, then thinks better of it. The Tongan could kick his ass.

Kepu, still shocked, crosses the lanai to a large pile of shoes and, after a brief inspection, picks a pair of slippers. They are a perfect fit.

"Hey, wut you doing? Dem mines," Thomas demands.

Pointing to Tom's feet, Kepu replies matter-of-factly, "You no need."

Tom eyes his favorite flip-flops on Kepu's feet. His mouth parts in protest, but before he can respond, he recalls the scene outside their sixth-grade classroom the previous morning.

* * *

Mrs. Hiroko*, having seen the Tongan boy's bare feet, had shouted, "Kepu, where are your shoes?" Her tone, angry and accusing, instantly captured the class' undivided attention.

"I tole you yestaday . . . I no moa."

She stared silently. Arms crossed. Face hard. "Do not come to school tomorrow without shoes."

"But . . . we no wea slipper in class," the boy protested.

"How many times do I have to repeat myself? It's school policy. All students are required to wear shoes to school. At the teacher's discretion, shoes may be left outside the classroom."

"But . . . I tole you . . . I no moa!"

"Then buy another pair, for heaven's sake. They only cost two dollars." Coming closer but not lowering her voice, his teacher said in a saccharine-sweet voice, "If your family doesn’t have the money, you can go to the Community Center’s thrift shop after school and pick up a free pair."

"We get slippa, but . . . mine cusin all da time loose um."

Her voice filled with disgust, Mrs. Hiroko admonished the boy: "Then get your own pair and hide them so your cousin can’t walk off with them. You shouldn’t share shoes. That’s a dirty habit. You could get a disease."

The smile disappeared from the boy’s face. He lowered his head. Her words stung far worse than a slap. Tears welled in his eyes.

* * *

Kepu’s family – mother, father, grandmother, two uncles, one aunt, five cousins, two sisters and a brother – share a large two-bedroom Ala Wai apartment. Shoes – and most everything else – are shared. None minds this arrangement. It allows them to support a large extended family in Tonga. Most consider themselves blessed.

Kepu's father, File, came to Hawaii 15 years ago after a series of storms devastated the economy of his island home. A skilled carpenter, he scoured local construction sites looking for work. He got lucky after only a few weeks. A contractor, who was far more impressed with File’s size than his skill, hired him to dig ditches and carry concrete for $5 an hour – off the books. He slept at the site, protecting the place from thieves and vandals. Most of his pay went home.

Within months File met and married Leilani, a local girl who loved sex as much as he did. They rented a small place. He got a green card. Members of his family applied for visitor’s visas and began arriving at the couple’s one-bedroom apartment.

Leilani’s sense of family differed dramatically from File’s. She didn’t appreciate being invaded by in-laws. His relatives, shocked by her refusal to turn over her paycheck, became verbally and emotionally abusive, treating Leilani like an outsider.

File remained neutral, neither defending nor attacking Leilani. He felt torn. She felt betrayed. Bitter brawls replaced sweet sex.

She left him. He waited for her to return. She waited for him to follow. Neither budged.

File now runs a small landscaping business. Tongans' practical approach to controlling vegetation – slash-’n-burn – clashes with local, Japanese-influenced aesthetics. Thus, he cannot acquire cushy maintenance contracts in Manoa, Kahala and Hawaii Kai. But he has found a steady source of work to support his family.

Some landscapers find it profitable to subcontract jobs they consider too dirty or dangerous. Kepu’s father knows what the work is worth, but he does not bid against local firms, as most of his family-crew are working illegally. Malcontents are deported. By filling this niche – taking jobs Americans don’t want – they avoid immigration’s attention.

Kepu’s mother and the other women – all here illegally – have two main ways to earn money. They collect and crush aluminum cans for a recycling outfit that cheats them. Complaining that large loads cost more to process, the company pays them far less per pound than the advertised rate. They continue recycling because it is a fairly safe way to earn money.

When plumeria trees bloom, the women gather the flowers and string sweet-smelling leis. Some Waikiki lei stands pay the women $3 per tightly strung garland. Tourists pay $5 to $8 apiece, depending on how much they dicker. Similar leis sell for $3 downtown and $5 at the airport. The women command such a high price because they replace any lei that doesn’t sell with a fresh one the following day – at no charge.

After finishing their rounds of the lei stands, most of the women return home. One or two will take a couple of the older preschoolers to Beach Walk, or some other Waikiki side street. The youngsters approach unsuspecting tourists, smile and offer day-old leis (a few edges may have darkened, but the flowers have not wilted and still smell sweet). Most visitors are touched. They usually respond in kind, giving a few dollars, which elicits a warm response from the children. Tourists walk away glowing from this moment of aloha. Occasionally, the mark doesn't offer any money – especially if they are Canadian – and the kids have to ask.

* * *

Back in the classroom, Mrs. Hiroko snapped, "Kepu, go to your seat." But he would not let her see him cry. He turned, walked out of the room and ran across the playground. His teacher stormed after him, shouting demands and threatening retribution.

The pained look on Kepu's face evoked empathy in some students. Some shared his shame because they too swapped slippers. Some suffered guilt because they had not defended him. Glaring at his teacher's back, Thomas thought, "Japanee bitch! Well . . . at least it's not me this time."

Mrs. Hiroko knows exactly how to shame each of her students into submission. Thomas, too smart for his own good, is her favorite target. He is stubborn and becoming tough-skinned. Each time he rebels, she must cut a bit deeper to get the desired response.

* * *

Mrs. Hiroko’s father was born on a Big Island plantation. His mother, father and four older brothers worked cutting cane, scraping and saving for years to make a down payment on some property. At age ten, he started working during the summers. When he was thirteen, the family got lucky. A friend’s friend’s cousin heard that a choice piece of property on Oahu would soon be for sale. The owner would take half down and let the buyer make payments for five years.

The three-acre rural lot, minutes from downtown Honolulu contained an old boarding house with an attached store. The building would provide the family with a place to live and the income to make monthly payments. The owner, short on cash, knew the property would some day be valuable. He could have sold the property outright to an investor, but he agreed to finance it because the family’s down payment met his immediate needs and the monthly income would keep him afloat. If he got lucky, and they couldn’t make the payments, he would get the property back and keep their money. He had sold the lot three times in twelve years to other families anxious to get away from the plantation.

The family worked even harder than they had on the plantation to make ends meet, but they did not mind. They lived in two rooms, renting out the rest to boarders, who ate breakfast and dinner with them. Mrs. Hiroko’s mother and sister got up in the middle of the night to make snacks for the store. Then they made boxed lunches for their family and the boarders and fixed breakfast. To meet the monthly payments, his father found work as a carpenter in town. Two of his older brothers found jobs in the shipyard. Their employment was seasonal, but the pay was good and they were able to put some aside for months when there was no work. They also bought some supplies to repair the old house, which they did whenever they got laid off.

Mrs. Hiroko’s father and one of his brothers went to school during the day and worked in the store until dark. Over the years, the family never missed a payment on the property, which soon included two small houses where two of his brothers lived with their families. The big house was divided into the family’s living area and rooms for boarders, who had a separate dining area. His brothers’ wives helped his mother cook for them and prepare snacks to sell in the store.

His brother began working in the shipyard after high school, but when he graduated in June, his family would make their last monthly payment. He would be able to attend the University.

With the attack on Pearl Harbor, his brothers were fired from the shipyard. Within months his father and mother, who were born in Japan, but had lived here for almost 40 years, were relocated to the Mainland. They lost their property. The owner allowed the brothers to rent the small houses they had built.

Even before the attack, many Hawaii-born Japanese (Americans, but that fact had never seemed particularly important on the plantation) began identifying themselves as Americans of Japanese Ancestry. News reports on the Japanese invasion of China had shamed many of them into rejecting any loyalties they might have felt for Japan.

When the war broke out, Mrs. Hiroko’s father tried to join the army but was laughed out of the recruiting office. He moved in with his eldest brother and finished high school. Later served in the 442nd.

The irony of fighting for a country that kept his parents in a concentration camp did not escape Mrs. Hiroko’s father. His resentment was sublimated into a drive to prove himself the equal of other Americans. Of course, since he also resented having to prove himself, he did a hell of a lot of sublimating and became one hell of a soldier. He was awarded two purple hearts and a bronze star. One of his brothers died in Italy.

After the war, Mrs Hiroko’s father used his veteran’s benefits to attend the University of Hawaii. He joined the Democratic Party, voted for statehood and secured a state job.

He married a like-minded AJA. They lived exemplary lives. They made many sacrifices for the sake of the children – kodomo no tame ni.

Proud of their heritage, they sent their children to Japanese language school. At the same time, they tried to mold them into model Americans, encouraging them to speak standard English. To get good grades. To attend UH. To vote democratic. To secure state jobs. To marry AJAs.

Mrs. Hiroko was young when the rapid changes that accompanied statehood, including a flood of Mainland emigrants – many of whom tried to remake the Islands to suit themselves – triggered historical resentment against whites. The primary identity of Hawaii-born children became local as opposed to non-local. However, Hawaii-born Caucasians found themselves labeled as haoles and lumped together with other non-locals. They had to prove themselves, often by acting more "local" that other locals. Many resented having to prove they were local.

Everyone in Hawaii except haoles has separate ethnic identities. As a child, Mrs. Hiroko was a local Japanese, with local being primary and Japanese secondary. From the local perspective, "haole is haole." It acknowledges no secondary identity for Caucasians. The fact that enormous ethnic and cultural diversity exists among Caucausians usually goes unrecognized.

As a politically aware adult, Mrs. Hiroko identified as a local AJA. Many of her generation spoke out against the racism and oppression their parents and grandparents had suffered. They pressured the federal government to apologize and pay reparations to AJAs who had been relocated to camps during WWII. The ensuing transformation from AJA occurred without fanfare. Suddenly, Mrs. Hiroko identified herself as a local, Japanese American.

* * *

Mrs. Hiroko believes a slim chance exists for Kepu. She blames his family’s provincial lifestyle for holding him back. She tries to make him fit in, but a person can only do so much.

What a shame. Born in Hawaii but he barely speaks English. Such a sweet child . . . and he’s not stupid. Of course, he’ll never make it to college, but he could . . . attend a trade school. Get a good union job. Join the military. Damn . . . he’ll . . . probably drop out. Join a gang. End up in Halawa.

She is not overly fond of Thomas. She blames his mother for not teaching the boy how to behave properly. As his teacher, she feels obligated to undo some of the damage. To teach him humility, she only calls on Thomas when she is certain he doesn’t know the answer. He’ll never be local, but if she can undermine his inflated ego, he just might learn to act more like a local boy.

Haoles. So much trouble. If he wasn’t so disrespectful, I could almost feels sorry for him. Good heart. Quick mind. Big mouth. So opinionated. Not his fault really. His mother should be shot. Dumb haole.

* * *

Instead of returning to class, Kepu went to the office. After school, Thomas found him, and the two boys walked home together – for the first time in years. They had lived on the same lot since first grade. They had played together as kids but had never clicked. They were friendly yet not friends.

* * *

Back on his lanai, Thomas decides to let Kepu wear his slippers. His teacher never had been so cruel to anyone but him. A smile slowly spreads across his face. She made a mistake by humiliating the Tongan. Now it will be easy to persuade Kepu to play one of his favorite games, "Make Hiroko mad."

"Okay . . . you can wear um. But no loose."

Kepu nods his agreement and asks, "We go?"

"Wait." Sticking his head in the open doorway, Thomas shouts, "Cora, can get da kine?"

"Speak English!"

"Sorry . . . I forgot."

"Don't forget! It's important. . . . Speak English at home."

"Okay, okay. Chill, already. . . . Can I please have my allowance?"

"Did you remember to make your bed?"

"Yes."

"Neatly?"

"Sorta."

"Then you sorta can't have your allowance."

"But . . . you still owe me for three weeks."

She comes through the doorway, steps onto the lanai and hands each a paper sack. "In case lunch is junk." She looks around and says, "Remake that bed."

"Shit."

"Excuse me?"

"That's not fair. Why should I? . . . You already owe me money!"

"I'm not going to argue with you," she says, suddenly stern.

Thomas glares at his mother, crossing his arms. She gives him a hard look, then softens, "I'm sorry your allowance is late. If I had the money, I'd pay you. But I don't."

She puts a hand on his cheek. He turns his face away. "Please remake the bed, Tom," she says, walking back inside.

* * *

Cora works in a doctors' office in Waikiki. She had earned a good living on the Mainland; but here she earns only $6.50 an hour. Staying is impractical, but leaving is unthinkable. She loves Hawaii – though she has neither the time nor the money to enjoy it.

Cora is licensed to work as a medical technologist in any state except Hawaii and California, where regulations require a bachelor's degree. Hawaii changed its requirements in the early 1970s. A flood of skilled Filipinos had just immigrated here, competing against locals for choice jobs. New regulations, containing a clause exempting people previously licensed by the state as technologists from the educational requirement, were immediately adopted.

Cora performs the same work as a technologist, but is paid as a technician – about half as much. She resents it. Especially since her bosses make huge profits by catering to tourists, who would pay almost any price to forget their foolish overindulgences. Most suffer from simple sunburn, indigestion, infections or strains – with the lab work serving as a placebo that pads the bill.

Cora’s conscience cries each time she gets an order to perform an unnecessary test. What can she do? Scold the doctor? Tell the patient? Oahu is a small island. Malcontents are blacklisted.

* * *

Kepu starts unfolding the futon. Thomas watches him work for a moment, then walks over, pulls out the sheets and folds them over a few times. Kepu piles the books on the dresser. Thomas throws the wrappers in the trash. Together they refold the futon. Thomas stuffs the sheets behind the sofa while Kepu fluffs the pillows.

His mother, watching from the window, says, "Much better." She comes out, gives Thomas a kiss on the cheek, which he brushes away, and rumples Kepu's hair. "Thanks, boys," she adds.

She hesitates a moment, then adds, "Tom, I have to pay the gas company $50 or it's cold-shower time again. But . . . ah . . . I can give you a couple of dollars in food stamps."

Thomas scowls, " You cud haf tole me dat for I wen make da bed."

Cora’s mouth flies open. She is about to go off about his speaking pidgin at home when she sees a light dance across Thomas' eyes. Realizing that he is playing her – retaliating for a perceived manipulation – she smiles instead and says, "Sorry."

Satisfied he has made his point, he lets her hug him. "Food stamps are fine."

"Have a good day at school, honey. You too, Kepu," she says, including him in the hug. "Try not to irritate Mrs. Hiroko too much."

"Yeah, right," Thomas replies, pulling away.

Kepu half tries to hide his laughter behind his hands. "Bye," he says.

The boys pull open the door and bolt down the rickety stairs, suddenly aware of the exterior surroundings. Halfway to the bottom, Thomas stops suddenly and turns. His mother is holding open the lanai door, watching them leave.

"Cora . . . can make spaghetti tonight?"

"Sure . . . if you chop the veggies," she calls out.

Thomas scowls again. He loves cooking with his mother but pretends to hate it. He suspects that she knows this secret. Yet he avoids confirming his suspicion because if he is right, the game would end.

As he turns, his scowl becomes a smile. He starts back down the stairs, stops and turns again. "Can Kepu eat over?"

"Sure . . . if it's okay with his mom."

"Tanks, Cora . . . Bye," Thomas calls out. He turns again, ready to bolt down the steps, and almost runs into Kepu, who is waving to his mother.

As they walk toward the street, Kepu asks, "Why you call you mom Cola?'"

"Ass her name."

"I no dat!"

Laughing, Thomas says, "I like the way you say it, Cola, like one soda."

"Cola," Kepu repeats, frowning.

* * *

Kepu can hear the difference in pronunciation but cannot say the letter "r." Tongan, his first language, doesn’t include that sound. He can pronounce "b" and "d," but "r" and "v" are harder. Kepu also speaks fluent Samoan and some Hawaiian. He speaks local pidgin – Hawaii Creole English – with a Tongan twist. He understands spoken and written English but is confused by its grammar and pronunciation.

In particular, he needs to practice the consonant sounds and grammatical structures absent in the Pacific Island languages at which he excels. Whenever he speaks English to his teachers, they invariably correct him in front of the class – shaming him silent.

He also needs to read; however, oral cultures traditionally do not place as much value on the written word. Kepu’s grandfather, who lives in Tonga, and his uncle, who shares the Ala Wai apartment, both are well-known tusatala – storytellers. They can entertain an audience for hours, telling traditional and modern tales. But their homes contain few books, magazines and newspapers.

Kepu speaks five languages. School records indicate that his communications skills are severely retarded.

Thomas moved to Hawaii shortly after his fifth birthday. He speaks English with a lilting, local inflection but can make his speech "haolified" when necessary. His pidgin sounds more like a local’s than a Mainlander’s, but is far from fluent because he cannnot practice at home. School records indicate that Thomas is gifted but lazy – a model underachiever.

* * *

As the boys cross the lot toward Tusatala Street, Kepu says, "I nefa call mines Falola."

"How come?"

Kepu shrugs, thinking about it as they walk. He doesn’t know why, but he knows better than to call his mother by her given name. Changing the subject, he inquires, "Why Cola owes you money?"

"Ass my allowance."

Kepu looks at him blankly.

He stops and stares at Kepu. "Wut, Tongans no pay dare kids for do chores?" Like . . . for make da bed . . . for clean da room . . . for go da store . . . la dat," Thomas exclaims, appalled by such blatant abuse.

Kepu looks at Thomas disbelieving, "De suppose pay me fo dat?"

Thomas nods. Kepu's face lights up.

"You neva no dat?" Thomas smiles momentarily before reality sets in. "Shit! No tell Falola I tole you. . . . Ass all I need," Thomas says, involuntarily shuddering at the thought of Falola’s temper. After a moment he adds, "An no tell Cora."

The boys walk rapidly – expertly maneuvering through the jungle of sweet potato vines, banana and papaya trees and ti plants that Kepu's family skillfully scattered across the large communal lot on the ewa edge of Waikiki’s "jungle." Cora's garden, carefully tucked in a corner to avoid trampling, gets too much sun. Its perfect rows produce tall but tough rewards.

"We go school . . . eat . . . den play outside," Kepu announces.

Holding up $2 in food stamps, Thomas dismisses the idea. "Fuck dat. We go da pink store . . . buy grinds . . . manapua . . . pork hash . . . seed. Den we play outside."

"Tanks, Tomas . . . but . . . ah . . . no talk la dat."

"Like wut?"

"No say da f-wood," Kepu pleads.

Annoyed, Thomas demands, "Why da fuck not?"

Kepu hesitates, then replies, "If Falola fine out . . . she be mad."

"Oh, . . . she strict, huh. . . . She hit?"

"No . . . but she yell."

"Mine yells too . . . a lot."

"Yea . . . I no. . . . She moa loud. But mines moa mad."

The boys burst into laughter. After they turn the corner, Thomas leans against a parked car, unties his sneakers, pulls them off, sticks his socks deep inside and hands them to Kepu. "Hea . . . no tell."

Kepu smiles, slides out of the slippers and hands them to Thomas. They open their packs, toss the shoes inside and start running.