Beverly Lindberg

The Hula Dancer

Her whole family was there, bags loaded in the trunk and car seat prepared for the baby. The hula dancer’s grass skirt swished with glee as she observed from the dashboard. She wished her painted smile could grow larger.

“Did you pack a toothbrush?” called Driver, starting the car.
“Yes, of course I packed a toothbrush!” his wife shouted as she picked up a stroller. 

“Sweater?”
“Yep!”
“Daisy’s Blankie?”

Driver’s wife froze, eyes wide. She began frantically overturning luggage. The hula dancer watched, yearning to help. After an eternity, Driver’s wife held up the plush blanket. 

“Yeah,” she sighed, “I’ve got Blankie.”

As hours passed, the hula dancer silently participated in their games of i-spy and intently listened to Driver and his wife bicker over music (Driver won, per usual). She felt the vibrations of the speakers as they played yet another George Strait song. The brakes squealed as they arrived at a gas station, the only building for miles. 

Sweet tea, beef jerky, peanut butter M&M’s, and, most importantly, bathrooms awaited them inside, so the hula dancer understood why her family was in such a rush to leave her. As Driver picked Daisy up out of her carseat, her chubby hands barely held onto Blankie. The hula dancer watched in terror as Blankie fell to the ground; Driver was too focused on his impending emergency to notice. She wished she could cry out to them, paralyzed as her hips continued to sway. The minutes they spent inside the gas station felt like hours. When they finally settled back into the car, she wished she could somehow catch their attention. Suddenly, Daisy pointed at her and laughed. Now was her chance!

“Hey, it’s the hula dancer!” Driver exclaimed.  

“Where’d you even get that thing, anyway?” his wife asked.

She wished, she wished, she wished. 

The car started moving.