Juniors (15 page)

“It's been a smiling day,” I say. “I've been caught twice.”

“Just twice?” he says. “That's not enough.”

“It's still early,” I say, surprised by my ability to talk smoothly.

“You reading for a role?” he asks and brings his arms down.

I feel misplaced on this bed now. I don't know what to do with my legs. I sit up straighter, cross-legged, and regret my choice. “It's my mom's. She likes me to read them over.”

“And read with her?” he asks. “So she can practice her lines?”

We never do this. “Yeah,” I say.

“Cool,” he says. “Maybe you'll be an actress one day.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Why not? You've got the look.” He grins, and I don't know whether he's being sincere or polite, or if it's just what you say next to keep things going. He steps out and ducks a bit to see the ocean. The light catches his eye. I want to tell him that
he's
got the look. He could be an actor. There's really no difference between him and the guys on screen everyone thinks of as heartthrobs.

“Kind of windy for the boat,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Surf was nice last week. I only got a day in, but—”

“Longboard?”

“Short.”

“Sweet.” He looks at me as if I've said something that has changed his perception of me, and for a second, I wonder if my ability to surf has lessened me as a girl in some way, or at least
a girl he would like. I can't imagine Lissa doing it. Or him, for that matter.

“Must have been nice to grow up with a surf spot right out your door,” I say.

“Yeah, it was great. I'm not really a water guy, though.” His confidence in saying this makes me think of surfing as immature. Unsophisticated. I wonder what Danny would think.

“Golf's your thing,” I say.

“Yup. Love it. Today was great.”

He tells me a story about today, and I shake my head, I open my mouth, I say “really?” and “oh my God,” all those things you do when someone is telling you a story. Boys do this all the time with sports—they'll talk about a canoe race in detail, or a wave they caught, and after the first sentence, you want to say, “Okay, you paddled a canoe. Can we leave it at that?” They occupy your ears for way too long with sports tales.

I don't have the same sensation with Will because I love that he's talking to me, and I like watching him. It's just that I feel like I'm performing, and I'm running out of lines and gestures and don't know how long I should hold his gaze, which is making my throat dry. I look down, I look up. I cover my mouth in wonderment, I nod in understanding. It seems I'm almost in the end zone. I think he's about to wrap things up. He shakes his head, and I do the same. I put my legs out in front of me and glance down at the script.

“Sorry,” he says. “You're working.”

“No, not at all. This is . . . nonsense. I'm just . . . nothing better to do.” Loser.

“What's nonsense about it?” he asks.

“Oh my God,” I say. “Read it.” I hand it up to him, but he doesn't take it. Instead he sits down and leans toward me. I scoot up and, in the same movement, slightly away. I can smell him—sunscreen and that cologne of his—oranges, sandalwood, laundry detergent.

He reads to himself, but out loud at some points. He laughs sometimes, not unkindly, but in a sort of wonderment. “This is great!” he says.

Our heads are so close. I feel like it would be so much easier to jump on him than sit here. It's like someone pretending to tickle you—they're not touching you, but you feel it anyway, and it's unbearable.

“Okay,” he says. “Let's do this.”

I didn't notice the sun was behind a cloud until it comes out and lights up the lanai, heating my hair.

“Do what?” I ask.

“Let's read it.” He flicks the script. “Out loud.”

“Oh. Okay,” I say in a funny voice, my default-setting voice to hide behind. I'm rolling my eyes at my own damn self. I flip through the pages, looking for a scene, but then I indicate that I'll randomly open to something, not wanting to be responsible. I turn to act 3, scene 2.

“So,” I say, “I'll be Samantha.”

WILL ADJUST
S HIMSELF, SITTING U
P, AS IF HE'S REALLY
about to audition for something. He clears his throat, then reads as Jenkins:

“‘Wow. Look at that . . . asset.'”

I've turned to the same scene my mom and I had read in the kitchen, but we have the version where we see the back of the girl bending over and waxing her board.

“Go on,” Will says. “Your line. Say it like you mean it.”

“‘You're an animal, Jenkins,'” I say, sounding like my mom when she read the line to me.

“‘Well, yes, by definition. I am an animal.'” Will looks at me and winks. “‘And so are you.'”

I smile back, even though I'm not supposed to. I'm supposed to be disgusted. I look back at the script. A local surfer is coming out of the water, his ripped body glistening. My character takes the binoculars from Jenkins and looks at the surfer.

“‘Yes, I guess I am,'” I say.

Seen through the binoculars, the girl is standing now. She stretches before going out into the surf. She twists and reaches and bends and is very flexible.

“‘I guess it's your turn,'” I say as Samantha, and pantomime handing him the binoculars. Samantha looks down at the book on her lap and feels his gaze. He isn't looking at the hot girl in her bikini. He's looking at her.

“‘What?'” I say, and feel what Samantha is feeling—a kind of flushed yet empowered kick.

Will says, “‘Nothing, I . . .'”

“‘What?'” I say. “‘Spit it out.'”

“‘It's just been nice hanging with you, that's all. I know at work we've been all over each other, our egos colliding and—'”

“‘No, no, no,'” I say, liking our timing and rhythm. “‘Your ego colliding with your own ego and sending shrapnel into everyone's hearts.'”

In the script, Samantha looks shy after saying this. The word
heart
was too much.

I take a breath, get my emotions under control. It doesn't say she does this, but it feels right. “‘Our heads, I mean.'” I tap my head, improvising. Will, or Jenkins, sits up a bit, pulls away.

“‘Now, that's no way to speak to your elder.'”

He's kidding, but his voice has softened.

Will is good at this, or we're good at this together. It's almost easier this way, and I wish I always had a script at hand. I feel like myself even though I'm not myself. I've warmed to the script as well, as if saying the words out loud not only brings Samantha to life, but makes Jenkins more likable. More than that. As Samantha, I want his attention.

“‘I know what you mean,'” I say. “‘About hanging out. It's nice to get out of the so-called office.'”

“‘I don't mean to be a jerk in there,'” he says. “‘Is that what people think?'”

I put my hand on Will's leg, then take it off as if it burned me.

It's what Samantha does in the script, and yet it's what I would have done if I were her too, and I even probably feel the way she's supposed to feel—embarrassed but good, and needing a response, needing him to say something to erase the awkwardness and fill the silence. Then I realize it's my turn. It's my line.

“‘I take it back,'” I say.

Will laughs. “‘You can't take it back.'”

“‘No, but I do.'” I glance at the next line, then look at Will as I say it.

“‘You should act exactly how you do in there. That's what makes you a great surgeon.'” I look back down and read, “So whatever you're doing, or however you're behaving, it works, in the long run.'”

Samantha turns to him, and Jenkins looks back at her.

“‘It works?'” he says. “And there's a long run?'”

“‘It works,'” I say. “‘And there's always a long run.'” And then he kisses me. Will kisses me, and I kiss back. Our lips are parted, our tongues touch, and I wonder if it will turn—

“‘Sorry,'” he says. “‘I shouldn't have.'”

“It's okay,” I say. “That was . . .” I look at his lips and let my sentence trail off because I can't think of anywhere it could go. My body is working overtime—my head grasping for coherent thoughts, my heart walloping me from the inside. I feel a connection like a string running from my stomach to down between my legs. The string is taut and keeps being pulled.

“I guess we should call it a scene,” Will says, looking down at me.

“Sounds like a good plan,” I say, relieved by the steadiness of my voice. It will be okay. It's better than okay. This is a good kind of crazy.

“That was fun,” he says, his voice light. I realize what a good actor he is, how his Jenkins voice and demeanor were so different from his own. He inhabited the character so well that I wonder if, when I actually see it on television, I'll be able to believe in that version. Ours was so real. It's then that I realize the possibility of something, which gives me the feeling of being on an airplane that's dropping from turbulence.

Will gets up. “It got beautiful out,” he says, and goes to the edge of the lanai, looking out at the ocean. “Look at that light.”

I don't look at the light. I look down at the script, at Jenkins kissing Samantha, then pulling back and saying, “Sorry. I shouldn't have . . .”

I had said, “It's okay,” but Samantha says, “You're damn right you shouldn't have,” then gets up and walks away.

Will turns back toward me, and I flip the script over.

“Do you know when Whitney's going to be home?” I ask. Anything to squash my mortification.

“No,” he says. He walks toward me, and I hold my breath. I wish I could get off this damn bed, or at least adjust my position.

“I have to go,” I say. “Write a paper.”

This is so awful. So good. It's gawful.

“All right, then,” he says.

I stand up to leave.

“Let me know if you ever need to rehearse again,” he says, turning his head.

I grin, then look up to a face that tells me it's all good. It's wonderful.

“Practice makes perfect,” I say.

THE SAME T
HING THAT HAPPENED L
AST NIGHT HAPPENS
again; my mom makes dinner for us and goes out with the Wests. But this time I don't flinch. I can't stop thinking of Will, his hypnotic green eyes, his expert, dizzying kiss, the way it seemed to reel me in. It was way too short.

When I go over to the house, music is playing loudly, thumping through the living room. Who knew a Tuesday night could be so fun? I find Whitney in the kitchen.

“Hey!” she yells over the music, and I yell back. She's wearing a scarf tied around her head, a bathing suit top, and a pareo around her waist. She gets out the plates—just two, I notice.

“No Will?” I ask.

“What?” She takes her phone off the counter and turns the music down. Now that the music is low, I'm self-conscious of my question. “Just the two of us for dinner?” I ask.

“Yeah, Will's at Lissa's.”

I look down at my jean skirt, not wanting to admit even to myself that I put it on because I guess I have nice legs, if I had to pick a strength, and I was hoping Will would think that too.

“What's wrong?” Whitney asks.

“Nothing,” I say. And it's true. It needs to be true. I like
hanging out with Whitney, and the charge I get from knowing we can talk about what we did the night before in front of her friends. When she's with her friends and I walk by, she'll wave or stop to talk and her friends will give her a look like someone pulled a lever and replaced her. By their expressions, I can tell she must have been different before I came along.

Whitney should be enough.

“Catch up,” Whitney says, handing me a bottle out of the fridge. It's some kind of canned fizzy daiquiri.

“Perfs,” I say, twisting the lid. She sort of smiles to herself, and I wonder if it's because I used one of her words. Oh God, don't let me be that girl who copies the popular girl. I can see the movie sequence: me rising, then burning like frickin' Icarus and, in the end, rising back in my own way, on my own terms. Gag. I take a sip. “Invigorating,” I say, and she laughs.

“Should we eat right here?” she asks.

“Yeah. It's just us.”

We load up our plates and sit at the bar stools. She turns on the kitchen TV. It's funny the way we switch around—pizza on paper plates, then a set table with cloth napkins, and now, eating in front of the television. I guess it's just like the way my mom and I do it.

The spread tonight: steamed miso butterfish and an edamame, corn, and red onion salad with chopped celery and red cabbage, which I know has been tossed in my mom's homemade dressing—a creamy tarragon concoction that I could pour on absolutely everything.

“Oh my God, these chicks are so busted,” she says. “Let's hatewatch.”

On-screen are the Real Housewives of wherever. Must be Beverly Hills or the OC.

“They're like—” I don't continue my sentence, knowing I'm bound to insult someone she knows.

“They're like my mom's friends,” she says. “Look at that one! She even looks like Vicky. Lissa's mom.”

She does look like her, like a human version of a thoroughbred.

“Eeew, and they all talk the same.”

I listen to the women at a cocktail party—complaining about someone who said something to someone else. Their voices are appalled, yet simultaneously delighted: a little drag-queenish.

Whitney is rapt either in the drama or perhaps the familiarity of it all. Melanie comes to mind when I watch these women, which brings along an uncomfortable image: my mom in the mix, leaning in with the other ladies, whispering something unkind, getting caught up in things that never would have interested her before.

“They're going to do one here,” Whitney says. She points to the TV with her fork.

I take a drink, and realize I'm almost done with it. “
The Real H
ousewives of Kahala
,” I say, imitating their oh-mah-haw voices.

“I'm serious,” Whitney says. “They're recruiting the elite of Honolulu. The richest and most fabulous and social, blah, blah, blah, and my mom said she knows tons of people who are trying out but won't admit to it.”

“So funny,” I say.

“My mom and Vicky totally want to be on it. So
embarrassing. They've filmed themselves doing yoga with their trainer and want to film a video of themselves at your mom's premiere. Can you imagine if my mom is on a show like this? I will go into hiding.”

“Shit,” I say. “I hope that doesn't happen. What about your dad?”

“My dad doesn't even get it. But there's no way he'd let them shoot at the house. Who knows when they'll film, though. Could be years away, and . . .”

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“I know,” she says. We watch the show again, but aren't laughing this time. It just seems so awful. I wonder if that's why Melanie has attached herself to my mom. Whitney goes to the fridge and gets us more drinks, but pauses when headlights shine through the kitchen windows.

“It's just Will,” she says, and I try not to adjust my clothes or hair, but end up doing both. She puts our drinks on the counter and sits back down.

“What's up, ladies?” Will walks into the kitchen, his hair ruffled. He wears black jeans and a long-sleeved dress shirt.

“Hey,” I say. I grip my cold drink. I sense him behind me and imagine him leaning down to kiss my cheek.

“What are you having?” he asks.

“A seriously awesome dinner,” Whitney says. “Made again by not-our-mom.”

He looks at the TV. “Hey, it's Mom's friends,” he says.

Whitney laughs and looks at me. “See?”

Will picks up my drink and reads the label. His hands are big, nails short and clean.

“Try it,” I say, and he does, licking his lips after. I move my plate over, making room in case he wants to sit down.

“Not bad,” he says.

“Do you want one?” I ask.

“Uh, sure,” he says after looking at his phone. He goes to the fridge.

Whitney's zoned out on the TV. He comes back beside me and puts his drink on the counter, his hand next to mine. I feel like I'm about to shatter. There are all these things we can't say, and I just wish he could give me some sort of sign that this afternoon happened and mattered.

Someone on the television yells across the pool at another woman, who says, “I'm out of here,” while all her friends plead with her not to go.

“There's your future, Whit,” Will says, and I smile when he looks at me.

Whitney doesn't respond. She looks over at us, and I get a hollow feeling.

“Do you want some?” I ask Will, gesturing to the food.

“Thanks, but I'm on my way back out again. Just came to pick something up.”

“Where you going?” Whitney asks.

“Morimoto's.”

“Ooh,” she says. “Can we come?”

I picture a dog at the beach, shaking off water. That's what my insides do. I have a drink to calm myself and communicate somehow that I don't care about what his answer will be.

“Will, what the hell?” Lissa comes to the doorway. She's wearing a short green dress and high heels. If I got off the bar
stool, I'd fit under her arm. “I'm waiting out there.” She looks down at me, then back at him.

“Hi, Lissa!” Whitney says, in a way that draws attention to Lissa's rude inability to say hello.

“Oh, hi!” she says. “Sorry, but I would have come in if I had known you were going to be taking so long.”

“I just wanted to hang with my little sister and her friend,” Will says jokingly, and Whitney throws a wadded-up napkin at him and smiles.

“Okay, but can we go now?” It's like she just walked out of the television show we're watching.

“Yes, dear,” he says, which makes a nasty vibration go through me, a manic drumming.

“Have fun, girls,” she says, which makes her sound like a mom leaving the little ones behind.

“No love,” Whitney says, after she leaves.

“It's this senior dinner thing the girls have planned forever,” Will says. “Otherwise, it would have been fun to have you there.” He puts his hand on my shoulder so it feels like he's just addressing me. Whitney raises her eyebrows as if she's not sure whether he's being sarcastic or not. She looks back at the TV.

“Bye,” he says. He seems to be communicating so much more than farewell. His eyes, his bearing, tells me he'd rather stay.

“Bye,” I say, hoping to communicate both my disappointment and understanding.

“Lissa's a bitch!” Whitney calls after him.

“Noted!” he yells back. When I hear the door shut, I ask her why she said that.

“She got all close to me so she could hang out with Will,
and did you see that? She doesn't even say hello. I mean, catchphrase, right?” She is smiling, and I manage a small laugh.

On TV I watch the women fight, the husbands in the background in bright shirts and slim pants, sunglasses and sports coats. They're drinking cocktails, and one is laughing like a hyena while holding his hand up for a high five.

“This is not my future,” she says. “More like Will's.” I'm about to ask her to say more, but then she says: “Ooh! I want to show you this thing on YouTube, reminded me of our French animals. So funny.” She looks down at her phone.

Will's headlights shine in, then turn to the edge of the yard. I feel so left behind.

“What's wrong?” Whitney asks, and I realize she's looking at me.

“Nothing,” I say, and for a moment, she looks incredibly annoyed.