The Word Is...By C. S. Perryess

師雅巍

Tasi watched Martins gym shoes fly through the cold city air， tied together like dancers holding hands.

Martin was going to throw them again， up toward the telephone lines along the street， Tasi just knew it. He wished they would just walk home to their apartment building.

“You could lose them，” Tasi said.

“You be quiet， boy，” Martin said as he swung① his shoes again.

Back home on the island， on Samoa， things were different. Nobody cared here — not even your best friend. City people acted as if they didnt even need each other.

Martins shoes made black and white patterns， spinning in a big hoop. Tasi knew Martins mama didnt have extra money for new gym shoes.

The shoes sailed into the air， up by the palm② tree in front of the Palm Apartments， dancing away. Then they wrapped perfectly around the top of a streetlight.

“What —？” Martin said， with his eyes all big and his voice getting squeaky.

The shoes swung to a stop. Martin kicked the pole that held up the streetlight.

Tasis mom and auntie wouldnt be home till after dark. He stood in their apartment， looking through the window at the cold streets. People pushed past one another. Cars honked.

“People here，” he said to the glass in the window， “they dont get it.” Back home the word was aiga. They say aiga means family， but that isnt all. It means making the people around you number one.

He thought about Martin and what Martins mama would say. He remembered those shoes on the post and that one leaning palm tree.

Back home there were niu trees — they looked about the same as palm trees here but they grew coconuts③. Everybody worked

together to make houses， roofs， mats — all from parts of the niu tree. They even got together to eat the coconuts. Island people did everything together.

But here？ All those people walking all alone， so fast， with their heads down， and that poor tree out there with no coconuts.

The sun set brown and dirty behind the big buildings. Tasi stood in his baggy shorts and bare feet， just under that palm tree. He shivered， but who could climb in jeans and shoes？ He held his lavalava④ in his hands.

“Lio，” he whispered， twisting the fabric as if he were wringing out a dish towel.

“Milo，” he said， trying it in a circle. It was good to hear the right words.

He looped one end of the twisted lavalava