Chapter 14
“I can’t believeI’m doing this!” I shout across to Jordan despite the wind whipping my hair around. “We’re not going too fast, are we?”
“Not possible with these babies.” He looks over from the moped he’s riding and swerves closer to me.
“Watch it! Don’t bump me.” I steer my moped to the left, but a passing car blasts its horn and I jerk the handlebar to the right.
My moped grazes Jordan’s, and I overcorrect, then wrestle with it to get it to go straight. I’ve never ridden anything more motorized than a pretty, pink kiddie car, but this is insanely fun and crazy.
“You’re doing great.” Jordan gives me a thumbs-up, and we take a turn toward a lonely beach on the south side of Kauai, the Garden Island. It is the oldest of the Hawaiian Islands and the most lush, full of tropical color and immense beauty.
It’s more laid back than Oahu and much less crowded. Using mopeds, we can tool around the back roads and explore the island to our hearts’ content.
I don’t know how Jordan does it, but he must have an internal navigator, because we hop from one secret beach to the next. Some have interesting lava rock formations, with plumes of water spouting through tubes, and others are hidden between verdant valleys and secret turquoise bays.
“You have to get a dirt shirt,” a shopkeeper says to me when we stop in an out-of-the-way place for taro chips and shaved ice. “It’s the Hawaiian way.”
“I don’t want to look like a tourist,” I exclaim in between sucks of sugary water and crunchy, salty, and spicy chips.
“Why not?” Jordan asks. “If the shoe fits.”
I roll my eyes. He’s always pointing out the obvious.
“I’m not about to wear dirt.” I wipe my hands over my white tank top.
“You can take home a part of our island,” the shopkeeper says. “Come, I’ll show you how we make our dirt shirts.”
We follow the shopkeeper, a wizened, petite lady with a mound of gray hair in a poufy bun, to the back of her shop where shirts soak in washers full of dirt and vinegar.
“Feel free to look around and get dirty,” she says. “We’re having a big sale after the horrible flooding we had earlier this year.”
She winks at Jordan as if they have a secret understanding and leaves us in front of what looks like a wall of dirt-stained washers and dryers.
A vat of moist mud sits nearby for workers to scoop into washing machines, and a pile of dry dirt stands inside a shed.
“I’m still not wearing dirt,” I say to Jordan after the shopkeeper goes back to the storefront.
Jordan doesn’t reply. His eyes narrow and focus on my pristine white shirt.
Oh no.
I know exactly what he’s thinking, so I put down my snacks. This time, I’m striking first.
I pick up a handful of mushy, red mud and smear it on his equally pristine, white shirt. “This is for all of the mud pies you stuffed down my shirt in third grade.”
“This is war and for all the blue balls you’ve inflicted on me,” he growls, brows lowered, but can’t quite hide the smile on his face.
Uh oh.
Before I can rush back to the safety of the storefront, Jordan dips his hands into one of the washers and palms me over both breasts.
“I can’t go anywhere looking like this.” I stare at the handprints over my boobs, then pick up a ball of mud and smush it over his crotch.
A worker comes in, wide-eyed. His clothes, from his apron to his shoes, are stained with red-brown mud. He picks up a hose and points it at us. “Let me clean you two off.”
Before we can protest, he sprays us with water. I jump back, trying to dodge his shooting hose, but the water turns the mud under my feet slippery.
My feet shoot out from under me. Hands wild and windmilling, I land in the pile of dirt. A cloud of red dust puffs and lands all over me.
