Juniors (12 page)

MONDAY M
ORNING, I WALK BACK
FROM THURSTON
Chapel alone, but migrating with the group. I don't mind chapel—the stained-glass windows, everyone singing, the time it allows you to do nothing. Sometimes I tune in to the chaplain, or watch Ms. Freitas playing the organ, her spastic energy and the way she seems unaware of anyone else in the room. The music thunders through the cool space and makes me feel like I'm taking part in something ancient.

When I signed in this morning, I noticed Will's signature and looked down the row. He was slouched on the hard pew, eyes closed, mouth parted, chin tilted up to the ceiling, a cap on his lap. Just blatantly asleep. I couldn't imagine doing the same. His seems to be a life without consequences. I keep expecting to see him around campus, wondering how he'll greet me after our night on Friday, but I haven't run into him yet.

The air is humid and voggy, stifling. I don't recognize any of the people I'm walking alongside. There are so many faces here. Even if I had started in kindergarten I doubt I'd know them all. I'm almost to the other end of the Olympic-sized swimming pool when I hear Whitney calling my name. I turn back and see her with Danny. He's laughing at something in that Woody
Woodpecker way of his. I slow down a bit and nearly get crushed by the other students headed to their next class.

“Hey, guys,” I say.

Whitney is wearing a maxi dress, which she pulls off despite her smaller stature. I've always wanted one, inspired by all the Japanese tourists in Kailua, who look stylish yet super comfortable at the same time. I tried one on at Fighting Eel, loved it, but looked like I was drowning or playing dress-up.

“What's up?” she says, with a nice note of familiarity.

“I like your dress,” I say.

She lifts a side of it. “My hausfrau dress. Love these things. You should borrow it.”

“Want to come surf with us?” Danny asks. Today's Monday, the day he usually can't surf, and shouldn't the question be rephrased? Shouldn't we be asking Whitney if
she
wants to surf with
us
?

“I can't,” I say. “History exam.”

“Boo,” Whitney says. “Join us after, then, at home?”

“Yeah, maybe,” I say.

I expect protests, begging, or just a simple “come on,” but there's nothing. I begin to veer off toward class.

“See you guys,” I say.

“Late,” Danny says.

“Bye-eee,” Whitney says. She always drags out the
e.
She's got all these language tics, like word special effects.

“Oh, my mom says you're coming for dinner tonight, so I'll see you for sure,” she calls out.

“Okay,” I say, knowing nothing about it.

“Meet earlier for cocoa, 'kay-eee?”

“Okay, already,” I say. “My arm has been twisted.”

She makes a victory gesture, pulling her elbow down and mouthing, “Yes.”

I bump into someone during this exchange. “Oh, shit, sorry,” I say to a girl with thick glasses and hair that goes past her butt. She apologizes profusely and has a look about her that says this was some kind of fun incident.

“Hard knocks,” she says and laughs nervously.

I don't disguise my confused look, and I walk away.

When I get to the library, I wonder if that's the way I acted when I first got to Punahou, or even until recently—needlessly apologetic, fumbling, and, well, lame.

After history and Chinese, I'm done. I walk toward the exit by the pool and see Will, farther up the hill by the bench-encircled tree. I almost turn and walk the other way, but don't see why I should. Still, I slow my pace, but he's moving slow as well, so I have to go even slower. He has a girlfriend and treats me like a kid. I need to get it together.

He turns then, sees me, and hesitates, maybe deciding whether to stay or go. He turns back, facing away from me, then stops walking until I get to his side.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say, not meeting his eyes. I look at his 808 Skate hat, and he lifts his eyes as if to see what I'm looking at. You skate and golf? I want to ask. 'Cause that goes together like wrestling and synchronized swimming. Or maybe he just wears it to look like he skates. We walk slowly, as if through thick sand.

“This vog,” he says.

“I know, right.” Volcanic ash and fog. It makes my eyes itch and water. I swear it affects your mood and energy too. You can just feel it in the air.

On the walkway, he turns toward the road. “You going this way?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Are you going anywhere for break?” I ask. Spring break starts next week.

“No,” he says. “I've got this tournament thing. You?”

“Nowhere,” I say.

We walk out of school, stopping in front of the rock wall to wait for the light to change. The wall runs alongside the campus, so you can only see the tops of the buildings from the street. I always feel like I'm in a different world when I leave, like this wall shelters us from the real world, and then our real world is surrounded by the ocean, like a castle's moat, guarding us even further.

“Have you been here at night?” Will asks.

“At school?” I ask. “No.”

“Or driven past?”

“I don't know,” I say, trying to remember if I've driven this way after paddling.

He looks over at me, then past me. “These flowers.” I look at the spurts of white among the cacti that run along the entire rock wall. “They open at night. Night-blooming cereus.”

“Serious?” I say.

“Yup,” he says, and I hide my smile, since he didn't get my joke. He steps off the curb, and I walk alongside him in the
crosswalk, conscious of wanting someone to see us. “Little trivia for you,” he says. “It must be hard coming to this place so late in the game.”

“It is,” I say. “But I'm liking it now.” I touch my neck.

“Let me know if you need anything,” he says. “I can give you more tours.” He looks straight ahead.

“I like your tours,” I say. It's requiring a lot of energy to maintain this even walk. My arms are relaxed, but my fingers tap nervously against my thighs.

“Yo, William!” I hear from behind us.

“Thaddeus!” Will says. “Give me a ride up the hill. I'm in bumblefuck.”

“Shoots,” Thad says. “We can smoke a bowl!”

Will shrugs his backpack off. “Need a ride to your car?” he asks.

We're standing close to each other. He looks at me, waiting. Yes. I want to hang out, want to be with the boys, want to smoke a bowl, but my nerves make me respond, “I'm good.”

“Okay, see you at home,” he says, and we both smile a little. I wonder if it's because he feels the same way I do: like we've been caught playing house.

AFTER STUDYIN
G, I CHANGE INTO SHO
RTS AND A LOOSE
top stamped with anchors. I put my hair into a high bun, then swipe on some lip gloss and head out for après-surf.

I walk across the lawn with less hesitation today. Danny's truck is parked in front. I go around the house to the pool, but no one's there, so I go to the gate to look out onto the ocean. I scan for bodies, but no one is out there either. A strong breeze comes up off the water, and I can't help but see myself from afar; in anyone's eyes this scene would look majestic. I don't know if Will is here or not, but it seems that everything I do, every pause or glance or move I make, is done just in case he's watching.

But now I'm the one watching him. He's by the pool house with his mom and one of her friends. I linger here, admiring his dapperness and the way he talks to his mom's friend as if he's on her level. I realize I'm smiling all alone while looking nakedly at him like an admiring girlfriend.

They notice me then, and Melanie yells, “Lei!” Then they all make their way back up, the women holding glasses of white wine. I walk to the lanai to meet them.

Melanie introduces me to her friend, a beautiful woman with
high cheekbones and Disney-girl eyes. Her boobs couldn't possibly be real—and with her tight yoga gear on, I keep thinking of the words
prison bre
ak.

“Hi, sweetie,” Melanie says and kisses me on the cheek, something I don't think she'd do if we were alone. “This is Vicky, Lissa's mom. Will's future mother-in-law.”

They both laugh, and Will rolls his eyes and scratches his ear.

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

“Ah, hello,” Vicky says, and she looks at me differently, like she's trying to understand something.

“So fun to have Hollywood here with us every day!” Melanie looks at Vicky searchingly. Vicky doesn't seem that impressed.

“Mel, you're like a patron of the arts,” Vicky says. “So have you met Alex Crane yet?” she asks me.

Here's where I recite, “Yeah. Really nice guy.” And it's true. He's always been nice to me, kissing me on the top of the head and asking me about school and actually wanting to hear about it, like it's some fascinating foreign world.

“I'd love to have him over for dinner one night,” Vicky says. “We should set that up.”

“Yes!” Melanie says. “Absolutely.”

Why is it that wealthy people just assume an actor will come to their house, or even want to? Alex would rather be at home, drinking beer and watching basketball.

“Oh, say, hon?” Melanie says to Will. “Do you happen to know whose truck that is out front?”

“That's my friend Danny's,” I say. “I hope that's okay. He's out surfing with Whitney.”

“Absolutely!” Melanie says. “I've never met Danny, I don't
think. But of course, you can have anyone over!” She moves toward Will and says something to him. Vicky and I smile at each other, then look away. She's like Lissa. Smiles come off as expressions of annoyance.

“You're at Punahou?” Vicky asks. She takes a sip of her wine and looks me over.

“Yes,” I say, and I smile again—how I hate smiling for politeness—then look out at the sun going down with a harsh glare.

“These sunsets never get old,” she says.

“I wonder if cavemen thought the same thing,” I say and am appalled that I let that slip.

“What, sweetie?” Melanie says, walking to us with Will.

“Um,” I say and laugh and catch Will's eye. “I was just wondering if cavemen liked to watch the sunset. I mean, I wonder if they appreciated beauty and watched the sunset with cave cocktails or whatever. Animal blood. Ha, like cheetah Bloody Marys.” I may as well keep going with this weirdness. “Or if they were just practical. Like—oop, there goes that light, time to mate. But they did art, right? Cave art. So they must have had an eye.”

No one speaks for a moment.

“That's right!” Melanie says. “Cave art.” She looks at me as if it's something I've invented.

“Though maybe that was more of a form of communication,” I say, then sigh. “Anyway.”

“Go on,” Will says. He looks like he's holding back a laugh, and yet his look is conspiring, like he's entertained and charmed by me. I get stuck for a second, looking back into his green eyes, his long lashes. He bites his lower lip.

“Maybe the art documented their migrations or just told the daily news,” I say. “Jojo caught a fish. Fi Fum killed a bear.” Holy what the face am I talking about? Melanie keeps looking at me like I'm saying something incredible, and yet these are expressions, not actual reactions, I think. Things she pulls from her social reserve.

“You are so wise,” she says. “So soulful.” She looks at Vicky. “Well. We should get going.”

“Okay, nice to meet you!” I practically scream.

When they've said their pleasantries and left, I look at Will, and he's covering his mouth with his hand. His eyes are bright from grinning. I reach out and move his hand away from his mouth.

“‘Fi Fum'?” he says, laughing. “That was hilarious.”

“I am such a shitshow,” I say. “Sorry.”

The gate by the ocean opens, and Danny and Whitney walk in. Danny looks up at us. They cross the lawn toward the shower.

“You make me laugh,” Will says, as if a funny girl were something he doesn't know how to operate.

“I'm glad I can do that for you.” I'm also glad I'm not exploding right now, because it kinda feels like it's going to happen.

He looks toward the pool where Danny's standing.

“I'll let you go,” he says.

“Oh no, I'm—”
Don't let me go.
I hope he'll be at dinner tonight.

He turns to go in, but then says, “Not a big deal at all, but my mom likes when people park over by the big tree on the other side of the pool house. If you could let Danny know?”

“Oh.” Melanie could have just told me that, but then I realize
Vicky was there. Just like a kid, she didn't want to seem uncool. “Totally,” I say. “I'll tell him.”

• • •

Whitney's in a different bikini; it's coral and blue, with string straps on the sides of the bottoms. Her top is brown and strapless, and I don't know how she manages to keep it up when she surfs, but maybe she and Danny didn't surf and just lay there like last time. I walk to the pool where she's bending over to flip her hair. She's wearing low-grazing bottoms, the back narrow, revealing a round, lifted ass, flecked with sand.

Danny is standing—strategically, I believe—behind her, and I feel foolish for thinking my prior scene was majestic when the sight of her in front of this pool is by far, in anyone's eyes, the more magnificent.

“You still got sand,” Danny says.

“Where?” She straightens up and turns her head to look down at herself.

“Right there,” Danny says and slaps it away.

“You can't slap my ass!” She laughs.

“I just dusted it,” he says. He seems lit up, and I want to flip a switch, turn him off.

“You dusted my ass?” She laughs again. “I'll dust your ass.”

“Be my guest.” He juts his ass toward her.

She gives him a spank, and he says, “That was nice. Could you do it again?” And I'm uneasy, feeling like the younger sibling they've had to drag along.

Danny stretches his arms toward the sky, showing his armpit hair. It's weird when you know boys when they didn't have any armpit hair and then, suddenly, they do.

He brings his arms down, one almost hitting my shoulder.

“Don't come near my ass,” I say.

“Wasn't planning on it,” he says, hitting the side of his head to get water out of his ear.

Why is it sometimes more insulting
not
to be harassed by a guy? And why won't he look at me?

“I'll get some towels,” Whitney says and walks to the cabana while securing her hair on top of her head just like mine.

“Did you guys actually surf this time?” I ask.

He stretches out on a lounger, and I take the one beside him.

“Little bit.” He rubs circles onto his stomach. “Kind of choppy.”

“I heard east side is supposed to be good this weekend.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I might check out base.”

He's talking about the military base, where you need to sneak on or know someone with a pass.

“Maybe I'll go to Flat Island,” I say, hoping for an invitation to base or for him to change locations.

“Cool,” he says. He finally looks at me. “So how's the old sport up there?”

I realize he's talking about Will. “I like him,” I say. “He's nice.”

“Nice,” Danny says. “Posing with his skate hat. I think a fish could skate better.”

“You don't like him much, huh?” I say, turning to face him.

“He's kind of a dick.” He shrugs and smiles. “Sorry.”

“I don't see that,” I say. “You just don't know him, I guess.”

“And you do?” he asks.

I turn back away from him. “I'm getting to know him.”

Whitney walks over and drops a towel onto Danny.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says, and sits up.

I don't really understand what's going on here. His voice, his entire posture, is different toward me, and I can't think of a single thing I've done wrong. Cool—he likes Whitney, but that doesn't mean I have to get canceled like a shitty show.

“Whit, you want to surf with me this weekend?” I ask. “Kailua side?” She doesn't look at Danny to see if he's coming. She doesn't show any hesitation.

“This weekend is crazy, but next weekend for sure,” she says.

Danny stands, preparing to leave. I touch his arm. “Oh, Will said you should park your truck on the side of the house next time.” I say this like it's a comeback, but I don't know what I'm coming back to.

“'Kay,” Danny says.

“Oh, please. Lissa parks in front all the time,” Whitney says. “So do my friends.”

“I think your mom just wanted—”

“Lissa drives a Range Rover,” Danny says. “Looks mo' bettah.” He says this in a funny voice, no bitterness at all. He has always managed to be this way.

He slaps his hand against his stomach, and it makes a loud smack as if he's hit a piece of wood. It's funny how he does this, as if he needs a slap like a horse to move. “Gotta go,” he says.

“T-ball?” Whitney says, lounging and relaxed, so familiar with Danny and his schedule.

“Yup,” he says. “See you guys. Be good.”

“Bye-eee,” she says, the coyness of her voice making my jaw flex.

• • •

Whitney and I are on our second cup of Kahlúa-spiked cocoa.

“I need to stop drinking these things,” she says and pinches some skin on her stomach.

“I know,” I say, lifting my shirt, but knowing my stomach is flat and strong. Whitney's too.

The sun hovers over a freight ship. I wonder what it's carrying. Ninety percent of our food, Ms. Leinweber would say. We watch the clouds become a vivid pink spray above the horizon, and then the sky gets cast with a sepia light.

“It's so different from the windward side,” I say. “You're more aware of night coming.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

I try to think. In Kailua, after that magic hour of light seeping through the clouds and mountain peaks, night sort of just falls. You don't see the sun's descent.

“Well, in Kailua, the sunset's almost like one of those searchlights, signaling a big event that's far away.”

I expect her to make a joke, like I'm being too deep or not making sense. Why do I keep talking about the damn sunset, anyway, like a total wad?

“That's kind of cool too,” she says. “The Kailua version.” We sit in the cool silence.

“What were you and my brother talking about?” she asks, picking at the towel.

“Oh God,” I say. “Who knows. I get so flustered with him, and I just drop nonsense.”

“Does he make you nervous or something?”

She keeps her gaze trained ahead. She doesn't look comfortable, like she usually does. Her slouch seems forced.

“I'm a nervous person,” I say. “Shy, I guess. New.”

“I remember being new,” she says. She turns to the side, leaning on her elbow. “Seventh grade. I was really quiet. Total bookworm.” She shakes her head and sits up.

“Then my mom threw this party for my birthday—had a rock band, dancing, sushi bar. She invited all the cool kids I didn't even know, and I swear ever since then, I got a rep for being this crazy, extravagant party girl.” She pauses, and I don't say anything. “Then I just . . . became that. Maintained. My friends don't know that about me. They don't know much.”

I'm not sure how to respond to this, all of it. She sits back again, but this time seems relaxed.

“I felt that way about my friends in San Fran,” I say.

“Yeah?” she says and looks over.

I want to go back to talking about Will, but I think this would be a wrong move, a step back.

“It's been kind of nice,” she says. “Not going out as much. Not caring where everyone is. Not doing anything spectacular.”

“Um, hello.” I gesture to myself. “Is this not spectacular?”

She tucks her chin and laughs. “Oh, and postscript, thanks for your help with French. You're welcome to help me anytime.”

“Oh, thanks,” I say. “So nice of you. And postscript, I'll let you write my paper on Virginia Woolf.” I can't believe I need to do more homework tonight. It doesn't seem possible. The freight moves out of the sun's path. Now the clouds look splattered with peach paint.

“I like that shirt,” Whitney says.

“I like that suit. I need a new one.”