Haole Wood Read Online Free Page A

several years later, it paid off. I got to do the weather on Christmas day, when no one else was available, to an audience of two (my parents). I was awful. I was so nervous it was painful to watch. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before Hyperventilating Weather Girl shows up on the internet.
    My news director told me if trying hard was a talent, I would be a superstar. He reluctantly offered me the weekend weather spot because A. I was available, B. Believe it or not, there were worse candidates, and C. But, none who would work so cheaply.
    I backwards bowed out of his office before he could change his mind. He barely noticed. “Jaswinder. Jesus.” He threw my resume away.
    I fought my nerves, took voice lessons, watched Katie Couric, my idol, and practiced, practiced, practiced, trying to get better. I served my time in the Midwest, before eventually landing in paradise in San Diego. As God is my witness, I’ll never be cold again.
    “At least your name sounds like a weather girl,” the west coast managing editor who hired me said. “And you aren’t as hideous as the last chick.” With those glowing recommendations, what was to stop me?
    I loved my job, even though it freaked me out. I was always stressed about going on air, live—with no do-overs. Anything can happen, including that time I burped. Then there was the time my nose ran for the last thirty seconds of a live shot on the Mission Beach boardwalk. I thought maybe no one would notice. It was just a clear little slow drip, the totally unexpected instantaneous kind that sends out a glistening welcome mat, “Well, hello, it’s chilly out here today, let me fire up my nasal membranes and get this party started.” A trick of lighting made me look like an orphaned ragamuffin Sarah McLachlan would enjoy singing about.
    Live TV was petrifying, but it had always been my dream. Dream Subplot B, buried beneath my future hot husband who would love me more than I loved him, and next to my neck-breaking high-heel collection that would be as comfortable as Havaiana flip-flops, (which I had yet to invent) stuffed me into one of those super-secret Spanx wrap dresses worn by scary anchorwomen. I would totally rock that look, who wouldn’t? What I lost in the ability of being able to sit down I would more than make up for with killer posture and finally having a spine. I knew it was my destiny to become an anchorwoman. I felt it with every fiber of my being. I could taste it, though I didn’t take big bites, what with having to fit into the Spanx dress and all.
    My mom supported me the best way she could. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” I don’t know what renaissance fair she picked that ditty up from, but I wish she would have a little more faith. I believe I could correctly delete the word more.
    In addition to doing the weekend weather, the station was beginning to use me for reporting and allowed me to do feature stories—even though I think I probably drove the senior producers and editors crazy, trying to get the stories just right. I really wanted to prove myself but had a tendency for second-guessing, or as my executive producer said, one-hundred-twenty-second-guessing. That apparently was funny because that’s the amount of time they allowed me for my stories, and according to them, it worked as well in mocking the number of times I supposedly changed my script.
    How could this be happening? How could I have screwed up so badly that I threw away the one good thing I had going for me?
    I rested my head on my knee and peeked through wet eyelashes to see the day begin to break outside of my window. Light streamed through fronds of a big palm tree as birds greeted each other. It sounded like they chirped, “ kokua, kokua .” Help, help. I sure needed help.
    I tried to stop crying and snuggled back under the sheet to call my parents. Of course, they wanted to hear about Halmoni first. “Put Dad on the other extension Mom, you’re not