Juniors (10 page)

IT'S
ALMOST SIX, BUT THE
LATE SUN IS STRONG T
HROUGH
the clouds. It's a glorious feeling, walking across this sea of lawn. The palms sway languidly, and even though it's sunny, a faint spray of rain comes down at a diagonal. It's like being misted with an atomizer.

The house is so open, and this is both intimidating and welcoming. I go up to the front door, but feel silly about knocking on a glass sliding door. The living room is just there, wide open, so that I can see my mom and Melanie on the patio beyond, though neither
patio
nor
lanai
seems like a big enough word to describe something that's essentially another living room or, for some people, another house.

“Hello?” I say, so I don't scare anyone, though it's not a kind of house where people can really drop in unexpectedly. No Mormons on bikes making their way to these parts.

I take off my shoes, even though I hate that Hawaiian custom of shoe removal, especially to go over to someone's house for dinner. Like monkeys dining at a table, our bare feet gripping the chair legs. Yuck.

The living room is vast and smells like gardenias and
candles. I look around for gardenias. I look around for candles, and see neither. The stone floor feels hotel-like, and the inside of their home is beautiful, but sort of similar to all the beautiful houses in Hawaii I've been in. Pillows with coral or turquoise tropical motifs, perfectly plumped and placed. High ceilings, sometimes thatched, lazy fans, tropical paintings, and books about other grand Hawaiian homes. It's like they all work with the same architect and designers or something, and everything is situated as if staged for an open house. There's no debris, no sign of life, until I walk in a little farther and then I see some evidence—a phone, a bag, keys.

“Lea!” Melanie calls out. “Come on out!”

I walk out to everyone on the lanai, which is furnished similarly to the living room, but more rattan and Bali. I could go on vacation here.

My mom and Melanie are sitting in big plush chairs with high backs. My mom gives me the say-something-nice look.

“I love your home,” I say.

“Oh gosh,” Melanie says, as if I'm crazy and she lives in a sinkhole. “Look at you.” She stands, then walks to me and holds my wrists. “You look so pretty.”

I seriously wonder if this is something all adults say.

“You too,” I say, with a forced smile. She wears a bright, belted dress and petite and skinny accessories, a tiny pearl necklace and thin gold ones with small trinkets that make faint noises. She's fit, but not crazily so like a lot of these moms who belong to the Outrigger or run triathlons and have bodies like the boys in cross-country. It's weird seeing her now, knowing what I
know, that she stole my mom's boyfriend. How? I automatically think. My mom is so much more beautiful, so much more chill than you.

“Eddie?” Melanie says. “Eddie!”

I hadn't noticed him since his chair is facing the ocean. He glances at me, then fixes his wife with a steely yet bewildered gaze.

“Yes, what?”

“This is Lea,” Melanie says.

“Hello.” He almost stands up, then seems to decide against it.

“Hello, nice to meet you.” I walk with my mom toward him. I hate saying “hello” instead of “hi,” but my mom has coached me to do it, and to her credit, adults totally respond to it.

He doesn't look like he knows why I'm here, but also seems as though he's used to not knowing the kids who come over.

“This is Ali's daughter,” Melanie says. “Lea.”

“Oh.” He grins and laughs, then looks at me again, and something in his eyes clears, as if he'd removed the lens that makes all of us kids look the same. His grin is slightly crooked, and he squints as though he's having trouble seeing me.

“Lea,” he says. “Sorry, I thought you were one of Whitney's friends.” He speaks slowly, looking at my mom, then back at me. “Great to see you. All grown up.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“She's going to Punahou with Whitney and Will, remember?” Melanie says, almost as though she's talking to a child.

“Yes,” he says, and he and my mom exchange a brief glance. “I know.”

“It's great,” I say. “I love the school.” I'm smiling like a maniac
at this powerful man, who is being forced to talk to me. He must be almost seventy years old, but is fit and handsome. He has small, straight teeth, very white against his nut-brown tan. He wears a silk aloha shirt and long dark blue pants. There are little bags under his eyes—like pouches—that have the effect of making him look kind.

“It's good to have you and your mom here,” he says.

“Yeah, you guys go way back!” I say, then look down and clear my throat.

He gives me a quick smile that's almost like a signal for me to relax. I return the smile, identically, and feel immediately bonded and comfortable. I expected him to be some kind of stiff, lush tyrant, but something about him and even Whitney, when I was with her yesterday, gives me the sense that they're similar: thoughtful, expected to be someone they're not, and maybe a little tired of hosting.

“Where's Willie boy?” he asks Melanie, and looks prepared for disappointment. I bite my lower lip.
Willie boy
.

“He should be here soon,” Melanie says in a singsong voice. “Can I get you anything to drink?” she asks me. “We have soda, Perrier, milk, kombucha?”

“I'm okay for now, thank you,” I say.

She is smiling, but her eyes look frantic, like she's entertaining people more important than us. I see a guy walking out from the kitchen and realize he's a waiter, carrying a tray of appetizers. I thought we were just coming over for dinner. I didn't think it was an event.

“Wow, look at this,” my mom says when the waiter walks outside.

He holds the platter of wontons in front of me first. It's weird because he's cute, maybe college age. I want to tell him,
You don't need t
o serve me.

I put the wonton into my mouth, a mistake because of its awkward shape. I must look like I'm chewing on a lychee, and I quickly work it down to a mush. He waits there, holding the tray in front of Melanie.

“How do you like it?” Melanie asks.

“Yum,” I say, chewing and gasping for air. I finally swallow. My mom has taken one and eats it quickly, talking while she finishes.

“Is it poke in a wonton?” she asks.

“I believe so,” the waiter says.

“Really good,” she says. “Just a little hard to eat.”

“That's what I told them!” Melanie looks like she wants to fry someone. “It gives you blowfish face, right?”

“Right,” I say, pretending to be appalled.

“The one thing I detest about pupus is they're so hard to manage! You can't talk and walk and eat these things. I'm not going to order them for the party.” She looks over my head, all crazy-eyed. “Oh, there's Gloria. Gloria! Come in! How are you?”

A woman walks in, dressed as if this were a party. Melanie grabs my mom's shoulder. “Gloria, this is Ali! Gloria just moved here from LA.”

“Nice to meet you,” my mom says, with her habitual warm smile.

“You too,” Gloria says, looking my mom over and blinking her eyes as if adding something up.

“Gloria's husband owns a tour bus company in LA, and now
they're buying the Wiki franchise!” Melanie says. She gives my mom a look, which reminds me of the ones my mom gives me—the
speak
look.
Conv
erse.

“Wonderful,” my mom says.

“And this is Ali's daughter, Lea,” Melanie says.

“Hello,” I say.

She gives me a closed-mouth smile. “Hi, there.”

Then Gloria and my mom both exclaim and say all the shit people always say: “So nice to finally meet you, I love that dress, where do you live, isn't it wonderful here? How old are your children?”

“Ali and Lea are staying in the cottage while she's filming,” Melanie says.

“It's been wonderful,” my mom says.

Melanie nods and presses her hand to her chest. “I'm so glad. Have you evened out all the quirks?”

The k
inks,
I want to say. And it doesn't need to be air quoted.

“What quirks?” my mom says. “It's a smooth-running ship. It's paradise.”

“How nice,” Gloria says.

“It's nice for us!” Melanie says. “We get to live with a famous person.”

My mom looks down and smiles, and I can tell she's uncomfortable.

“So what's Alex Crane really like?” Gloria asks.

“Oh, he's wonderful,” my mom says. I always sympathize with her when people ask this. She needs to be gracious, feed them an anecdote, perform.

“Have I seen you in anything?” Gloria asks.

“I highly doubt it.” My mom laughs. “Unless you watch Lifetime or have an uncanny memory and remember me from . . . let's see . . .
Law and Order
,
Parents
, lots of canceled shows—
Grownups
,
616
,
Chas
ers
. I've been on . . .
24
,
CSI
, a cable series about ancient Rome—”

“I've seen that!” Gloria says. “It was . . . well, it was like a porno version of Rome.”

My mom laughs, genuinely laughs, and I do too. I didn't expect Gloria to say something that could possibly be offensive. “Exactly!” my mom says, and looks at Gloria in a different way.

“I don't know how
Chasers
was canceled,” Melanie says. “Now, that was a great show.”

“It was horrible,” my mom says, touching both sides of her face and laughing. “That's why it was canceled.”

“The one about the attorneys?” Gloria says.

I nod. Gloria makes a comical kind of grimace. I like her.

“It was genius!” Melanie says, trying to recruit Eddie into agreeing with her, but he shrugs and turns away. He's not part of this girl talk.

“Anyway,” my mom says.

“
No Borders
will be a hit, though,” Melanie says. “Ali is genius in it.”

My mom makes a dismissive sound that's a bit halfhearted, maybe from having to do it so often. I wonder how many people Melanie says the same thing to—how many geniuses there are in her world. Another woman is walking through the living room. Her nose looks flattened by surgery, a bold necklace nestles into her cleavage, and she's being trailed by a guy who's looking at his phone in a way that makes me think he's fake-looking at his
phone. Melanie imitates this woman's thrilled expression as she walks outside. I don't know what the shit is going on, but my mom looks just as surprised by the company.

I turn to the ocean, noticing Eddie still sitting there, ignoring everyone, but the woman's husband comes by, shakes his hand, then awkwardly backs off to the bar like Eddie is some kind of head boss. My face is tired. I stop smiling.

“Punahou's a great school,” Eddie says as if we're talking about it for the first time. “I'm glad you're there.” He looks out to the ocean, shakes his glass and takes a long sip.

“I love it there,” I say and laugh, even though nothing he said was funny. “Thank you for . . . everything.”

He looks disappointed in my answer. He doesn't want to be thanked. I see this immediately.

“Sit down, relax,” he says, gesturing to the chairs and daybed.

I don't dare sit on the daybed. I sink into a lounge chair. The waiter guy comes back with a different platter. He serves the women who are by the sliding doors, then walks over to me and Eddie.

“Thank you,” I say. I take a chip and dip it in a gray substance.

“Smoked ahi,” the waiter says.

It's really good. I could eat the whole bowl. I wish Whitney and Will would come out or that I hadn't come so dorkily early. I bring my legs under me so I don't look like I'm sunbathing in jeans. Though now I probably resemble the small Alice in Wonderland. I sit alert, like I'm going to be interviewed or tested.

“I hate that daybed,” Eddie says. “It's ridiculous.”

“Hard to get adjusted, I bet,” I say quietly.

I put my hands on my knees.

“It's a good test,” he says. “When I have guests over. If a guy sits there, it means he's a pompous ass.”

I laugh and can see exactly the kind of man he's talking about. Polos, sockless loafers, big white teeth, kind of like the guy who just walked in.

“I hope this isn't hard on you,” he says. “Moving all of a sudden.”

“I wouldn't call it
hard,
” I say, gesturing to the things around him. He looks at what I've fluttered my hands toward, then gazes back at the ocean.

“I like having your mom here.” He seems saddened by this, but it may just be the way his face naturally falls.

I don't know how to respond, so I remain quiet, something he doesn't seem to have a problem with. It must be hard for him to talk to people, like he can't totally trust his words and expressions anymore. He glances at the guests behind him, then back to the quiet view.

Whitney has finally come out of her room. She walks out to us, and Melanie trails her closely, looking vexed.

“You didn't even start the paragraph?” Melanie says softly. “It's just a paragraph. It should take no time at all. What have you been doing all afternoon?” Melanie shakes her head and looks bewildered.

“If it's
jus
t
a paragraph, then I can do it after dinner,” Whitney says. “It should take no time at all, and it's the weekend!”

Whitney looks at me as if we're in on something together.

“Do you procrastinate?” Melanie asks me. Her friends are out of earshot, lingering by the bar.

Whitney snorts.