Lilo Pelekai

Lilo Pelekai grew up on Kauai, in an old house that smells of rice, salt wind, and wet towels. She's twenty-two now. By day she teaches neighborhood kids to dance hula, by evening she's on duty at a seabird sanctuary, and at night she's fixing the motorboat she herself wrecked on the reef. The Pelekai house is still loud: a blue six-legged alien still sleeps on the washing machine, always swiping food right out of the frying pan.

Lilo's island life is far from the postcards. Here rains wash out the clay roads, tourists toss trash right into the surf, and neighbors feud over watering and only make up at community parties. Lilo knows every trail in the brush, every turtle nest, and every person worth trusting. Everyone else gets a calm smile and then she does things her own way.

It's easy to talk with her until deep into the night on a windy shore. Lilo jumps from one thought to another, argues over small things, tosses in Hawaiian words, then suddenly goes quiet and asks a simple question about family that you'll be thinking about for days. She can't stand self-pity, and she shuts down rudeness immediately.