Juniors (13 page)

“Acacia,” she says, snapping one of the bottom straps. “You can borrow. Unless you're grossed out by your vagina parts touching the same place as my vagina parts.”

I start to laugh, and she does too. “Vagina parts,” I repeat. “Vag areas.”

“Vagarea!” she yells, and we let out some serious honking laughter.

“Oh, shit, there's our 'rents,” she says.

I turn and see my mom. She waves, and I wave back.

Whitney stands up. “Let's do this,” she says, and we walk to the lanai.

• • •

My mom has on a flowing dress, almost like a beach caftan. Her hair is in a braid to the side. She looks gorgeous and chic. “This is so nice,” I say, touching the fabric.

She looks down at it, as though unsure. “I got it at Rebecca Beach. At the Royal Hawaiian.”

“You have to go,” Melanie says. She wears a similar dress, but it's short and her heels are too high. “I took your mom today. Everything there would look so fab on you.” She walks inside, then calls, “Whit, can you come in here for a second?”

“Okay.” She rolls her eyes. “Homework, mark my words. Hi, Ali.”

“Hi, Whitney, how's it going? You guys having fun out there?”

I cringe.

“Fun, fun!” Whitney says and walks inside.

My mom looks at me almost guiltily. “You have a good day?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Same old.”

“God, it's nice out,” she says. “Look at those clouds.”

“I know,” I say. “Believe me, I've said my piece.” I look inside. “I'm starving. What are we having? You didn't even tell me we were eating over here.”

My mom takes a sip of her white wine. “I was going to tell you when I got home, but you were gone. I didn't find out until this afternoon. Dinner's ready if you're hungry,” she says. “Simple. I made ham—”

“You made dinner?” I ask. Eddie is walking into the kitchen, holding a cocktail glass. He's dressed in silky pants and has on black sunglasses.

“Yeah, this morning after Rebecca Beach we stopped at Whole Foods. She was going to pick something up for you guys, so I just offered to make something. I had time.”

You d
id?
I want to ask. It seems Melanie, the one with no job and a housekeeper, would be the one with the time.

“It's not a big deal. You know I like it.”

“What do you mean, for us guys?” I ask, now seeing Melanie come from the kitchen with a huge, floral-printed handbag. I register my mom's outfit and realize she isn't dressed to stay put.

“They want to take me out again, so I thought why not?” She runs her tongue over her teeth and twists her braid.

“Why don't they go out with their whole family?” I ask.

“I'm sure they do,” she says.

Will appears in the living room, and I wonder where his room is in this house. What does it look like? What are on his walls and shelves?

“'Kay, bye, have fun,” I say.

She follows my gaze to Will. Her eyes narrow briefly. “Be good,” she says.

• • •

“My mom killed my buzz,” Whitney says when she comes out with plates, napkins, and forks and starts to set the outdoor table.

“That's what moms do,” I say. I walk over to help her, but since there are just three settings, she doesn't need much help.

“How could
your
mom possibly be a buzzkill?” Whitney adjusts the centerpiece, a white wide vase with short-stemmed tulips. I smile to myself, thinking that she looks like her mom in this moment.

“Your mom is so cool,” she says. “She's an actress! She at least does something with her life. She doesn't breathe down your neck about everything—homework, college, tennis, my bill at the club, my table manners, fuuuuck,” she roars and throws up her hands. “Rum and Coke. That's what we need. Diet Coke. We'll rebuzz.”

“'Kay,” I say, eager to have fun.

“'Kay,” she says and heads back in.

Will comes out with two platters of food, so I refold the brightly patterned cloth napkins to have something to do. My heart beats fast.

“Hello again,” he says.

“Hello,” I say, and my throat is dry.

He places the platters on either side of the centerpiece, and it feels like prom, like we're mimicking the customs of our elders or getting a head start on becoming the people we're bound to be.

“Where's this food from?” he asks.

“My mom.”

“Your mom cooked again?”

“Yup,” I say, embarrassed.

“Nice,” he says. “I was wondering why Maya isn't here.” He puts tongs on my mom's spinach salad, scattered with raspberries and caramelized chipotle pecans.

“And what's this?” he asks, putting a serving spoon next to the main dish.

He's just showered, but still has stubble on his face, which, again, makes him seem so much older than me. His skin is lightly tanned, his damp hair a soft brown like his dad's. He catches me looking at him, and I quickly say, “Ham. It's ham.”

He smiles, and I'm taken aback, the way it changes his entire face and seems to occupy most of it. His eyes brighten, and his cheeks color. He has a dimple on the left side.

“You sure don't try to dress it up, do you?” he says. “First you can't stop talking. Now all I get is ‘ham.'”

I laugh, relieved to let it out. “Well, that's what it is. Ham.”

“I guess there's nothing you can say about a dish when all roads lead to that.”

I speak in a posh voice. “This is dressed in a lovely pomegranate reduction and served on a bed of roasted leeks. And what is the meat?”

“Ham,” Will deadpans, then laughs, his shoulders moving up and down twice. “I guess you could always say
jambon.
” He clears his throat. “Vog's still getting to me.”

“We should swim it off,” I say, and hold my breath.

“We should,” he says, a response I never like.
Should
could
mean now, or in the near or distant future, or never. “Or we can take out the boat sometime. I could take you for a sunset cruise. Can't wait to hear what you'd have to say about it.”

“Oh my God, you need to drop it.”

“Cave art,” he says.

“What are you guys talking about?” Whitney says, coming out with drinks. She looks different, smaller, like there's been a reversal and she's the outsider. She hands me a glass. I shake it to hear the ice cubes rattle and have a sip that I nearly spit out, the rum is so strong.

“We're talking about
jambon,
” Will says.

“What the hell is jam bone?” she says.

Will and I exchange brief glances, and I think to myself that out of the three of us here, she's the only one taking French.

“It's ‘party' in French,” I say, then look down. That was mean.

“Well, let's get this jam bone started!” Whitney says and sits at the head of the table.

• • •

It is all very civilized. Platters get passed, napkins are put onto laps. I wonder if they're used to this, if it's ritual, the two of them eating alone after Maya has cooked for them.

“Seriously,” Will says, taking a serving, “what is this? Does it have . . . you know . . . a title?”

“Ham Impossible,” I say, and I see a smile almost blooming, but it doesn't quite get there. He twists his mouth to the side.

“It's one of those dishes everyone ate in the seventies,” I say. “Ham and cheese, Bisquick. My mom makes it with cottage cheese, sour cream, Parmesan, and she uses smoked Gouda. And cornbread mix instead of Bisquick.”

“Gouda.” Whitney laughs. “That sounds funny.” She takes another drink, tilting the glass all the way back.

“Jesus, Whit,” Will says.

By the sound of the cubes, I can tell her drink is gone. She acts the same buzzed and sober, so I never know what state she's in. I take another sip.

“What?” she says. “Why are you always Jesusing me?”

He doesn't answer, just chews his food, and I take another sip, trying to be discreet, but the ice falls onto my face and Whitney laughs. She takes our glasses and goes back in.

“This is good,” he says, still looking down. “Impossibly good. Tell your mom. I mean, I'll be sure to thank her, but—”

“I will,” I say. “She likes it. This one's easy. Comfort food.”
You need to descri
be a dish in a way t
hat won't scare Repu
blicans,
she has said, the tip of her tongue touching her bottom lip, something she does when she hopes to have sounded funny. The thought makes me smile. I think of her tonight with Will's supposed in-laws. She'd be the better in-law. I look quickly at Will, then take a bite, savoring the cheeses and dough. Whitney comes back out and places the glass in front of me.

“Mmm,” I say. “There's nothing better than—” I stop myself, thank God. I was just going to say
than warm cotta
ge cheese on your to
ngue,
which sounds absolutely vile.

“Than what?” Will asks.

“Than a rum and Coke. Want?” I move the glass toward him.

“No, thanks,” he says, and I feel like a disappointment. I wonder if his disapproval is because of his dad. If he doesn't drink because his dad supposedly drinks too much. And Whitney drinks because her dad drinks too much.

“Will's wearing his golf goggles,” Whitney says. “He sees nothing but the hole.”

She gives me a quick glance, and Will furrows his eyebrows as though she's said something ridiculous.

“Big game?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “I'll have one with you after.” I think he winks at me, and I close my mouth and swallow.

“He's actually pretty good at it,” Whitney says, which seems to annoy him more than an insult would. He takes a sip of water and looks down, something my mother does when faced with praise.

“I want to watch sometime,” I say, suddenly interested in something I'd never consider watching before.

“Only after he advances,” Whitney says.

When I think of golf, I think of green jackets and alcoholics, white men, bad pants, and money, but imagining Will play makes me think of expansive greens, blue skies, elegance, and a beautiful precision.

All of our plates look practically licked clean, but Will and I both go for more of the salad. I'm glad, because I don't want things to be wrapped up yet. My house seems so far away and lonely.

“You girls don't have homework tonight?” he asks.

“I do,” I say. I want to tell him I'm only having a drink since I'm over here. It's not something I would have done on my own.

“Do you?” I ask.

“Not much,” he says. “But I have some things to do.”

“I can't wait until next year,” Whitney says. “Senior slacking.”

“I think you're getting a head start,” Will says.

“You going over to Lissa's tonight?” Whitney says, glancing at me.

“I'm helping her with her thesis,” he mumbles.

“Oh yes, helping with her body of work,” Whitney says.

My heart beats as if caught.

“God, even I look smart next to her, but I guess she has other strengths.” Whitney looks at me, and I sort of laugh, wanting to show I don't care, that I wasn't misled, that I'm in it somehow, digging on her. I'm the cool, funny friend. But here he is, sitting with me, the soft whisper of palms, the salt in the warm air, the boom of waves, and I don't want to be his friend. I imagine being in the ocean with him, close together in a ray of moonlight. I shake it off.

Whitney gets up. “Want another?” she asks.

“No, thanks,” I say. “I need to study.” She goes in and soon after a song comes over the speakers, an upbeat top-forty song about partying all night. I immediately miss the other music, the trance it put me in.

“Sorry about the Lissa thing,” he says.

“What?” I pretend I didn't notice a thing.

“Seems like twice today—”

“I don't care,” I say. “Girl trouble?”

He laughs. “Always.” Then he looks at me and smiles. “You don't look like trouble.” I resist answering, fearing it may sound like some cheesy line pulled from
No Bord
ers
.

“Your mothers seem to think it's serious,” I say lightly, the voice of the girl bro. “Is it?”

“No,” he says. “I'm a senior, you know? Time to . . . learn
new things, explore—so I can bring back new knowledge.” He smiles, recognizing his cheesy line.

“Good to be adventurous,” I say, and I think I manage a flirtatious look. We lock eyes and smile at everything we're not saying, and whatever else we're imagining. Whitney's still in the house, and I want her to stay there for a little longer so I can be alone with him. It feels like this is our home. He'll inherit all this one day, I realize. I hope Lissa won't inherit it alongside him. They'd be like Eddie and Melanie the Second.

“Honestly, it's a bit much,” he says, looking down at his plate. “She's going to California for school too, and I just want some solo time, you know?” He glances back up, serious.

“I'm sure,” I say.

“Maybe we can take the boat out or do something soon,” he says.

“Okay,” I say, feeling his leg next to mine. I'm too shy to ask when.

“Maybe without Whitney, though,” he says. “Can't hang out with my little sister all the time.”

“Right,” I say. I can't believe this is happening. He wants to be alone with me.

Whitney comes back out. “You guys are so quiet,” she says.

I take the last bites of my dinner. When I'm done, I put my fork down, and Will gets up and clears my plate. He was waiting for me to finish.

“I gotta go,” he says. “Have a good night, kids.”

“All right,” I say, and add a horribly lame clicking noise. “You too!”