Juniors (17 page)

WHEN I GET HOME,
I WANT MY MOTHER TO
BE THERE SO
I can ask her what happened with Melanie, if she told her or not. Other than grounding me, she hasn't said a word about that night; she's using the power of scary silence.

She seems to be waiting for me when I walk in. She's standing in front of the counter, sorting through the mail. She smiles, then looks down, probably remembering that I'm grounded and shouldn't be encouraged to smile. It must be a nuisance to have a grounded kid after a while—it's like being happy to see a friend, then remembering you aren't speaking to each other.

“I'm sorry about the other night,” I say, which feels funny to articulate because it seems so long ago. “I've had all week to think about it . . . so . . .”

She sighs and leans on the counter, then pats her palm down hard, which has the effect of a judge using a gavel.

“I'm sorry too,” she says. “I haven't been home. I haven't been here for you. I've been traipsing around town—”

She's about to cry. I put my backpack down and walk closer to her. She smooths my hair, and I sit down on a bar stool next to her.

“It's okay—it's not like I need you to be here all the time or anything. I wasn't rebelling or—”

“No, I know,” she says, and she's regained the strength in her voice. “And I'm not excusing your behavior, and me being gone doesn't give you license to raise hell.”

“I really raised hell,” I say flatly.

“You know what I—”

“I know. I know. I'm sorry, I got—”

“Caught up,” she says, and I let it go with that. I don't feel that's what it was. I didn't feel pressure to do the things I did—I wanted to drink. I want to go out, I want to do things with Whitney to pave the way for more adventure. I want to go to the hotel and party. I like it. I like kissing Will.

Still, I'll pretend to be caught up in someone else's desires, someone else's poor judgment, even though I'd think she'd understand me, respect me for my curiosity and yearning. She was young too. She must know. But then again, I'm glad she's not too lenient.

I remember in San Francisco going to Tanya Rowley's house. Her parents let us drink, and she had a guest cottage, which basically served as a romper room. She had a party one night, and tons of people came. The music was loud; there was a keg, and her parents were there, standing in the kitchen, hitting the joint that was being passed around. I nursed a beer, feeling prudish, the thought
who will take care
of us?
ringing in my head. Her parents were laughing with the other kids in the room, and Tanya's mother was sort of the center of attention with a story she was telling. I thought she looked pathetic, that
the kids' laughter was tinged with a kind of pity and politeness. I guess I prefer the mom who says no.

“So now what?” I ask. “Am I still grounded?” I look up at her and grin, showing my teeth.

Her hair falls in front of her face, and she leans over and swoops it up into a ponytail high on top of her head, looking like a cheerleader. I think people assume she's a mom not quite like Tanya's, but someone who'd abide more. Because she's an actress. She's cool and pretty, and maybe when you're a pretty mom, people assume you're lenient.

“I'm not a very good grounder, am I?” she says. “Grounding you during the school week.”

“You're great,” I say. “I like the way you ground.”

“Well, then, you're free,” she says, then at the sight of my smile adds, “Free to make good choices.”

“Did you tell Melanie?” I ask.

“No.”

I'm relieved, and yet it puts a twist on things. Whitney has no reason for having excluded me from the hotel. Maybe it's just because she hasn't had the opportunity to tell me.

I stand up, bouncing a bit. “Can I go over to Whitney's?” I almost said
Will's.

“Okay, but I want you to think,” she says. “To respect and take care of yourself.”

“Deal,” I say.

And it is a deal. I'll take care of myself. I am good, I'll be good, but I also want to get a new job.

NOW
, THIS IS SPRING BRE
AK. SUNNY, NO ONE HO
ME.
Will's car outside. I will make my own plans and maybe make him clarify his own.

Will? For brea
k you're hanging out
with Will West? Tha
t guy is, like, drea
mboat, like, dream y
acht; he's, like, Ke
lly Slater kind, and
his body is ohmahha
w-mazing.
As soon as I think this, though, I rethink. Will isn't the tan surfer type. Danny's the one who looks like the pro surfer. Will is classy, sophisticated. I imagine him taking off a suit jacket and putting it over my shoulders.

Wil
l West? Golf pro. Th
at guy is such a bos
s.

I know! And he is
so sweet and sexy.

I'm on the daybed again, reading the script. It may be a setup, but I'm going with it.

I hear music coming from inside, and I cross, then uncross my legs. I will lounge. I will be cucumber coolness.

And then I sense him there in the doorway, and when I look over, I act as though I was in deep concentration.

“Oh, hey,” I say. “Thought you'd be off spring breaking.”

“I'm here spring breaking.”

We smile at each other, and it's as if we've both agreed to bypass the shyness and admit something.

“I'm glad,” I say.

He holds his hands out in front of him, framing me. “I think we need to do a retake. The light is perfect.” He looks down, then back up, his face coy and confident.

“Take two?” I say.

He sits next down on the edge, and I sit up and move my legs so they hang next to his. “I haven't seen you this week,” he says. “This is a nice surprise.”

“I've been busy,” I say.

“Hey,” he says, his face close to mine.

“Hi, there.” I almost reach out to touch the stubble on his face, his hard square jaw. I want to bury my face in his shirt that smells good and worn. His body looks strong beneath it. I move back, not wanting to be looked at so closely.

“You look nice,” he says, in a way where it seems as if he's still deciding on it.

“Are you in character right now?”

“Maybe,” he says.

Something has changed. It's as though we've skipped ahead or something happened off-screen. This feels so easy.

He looks at the script and reads a few lines in a jokey voice.

“We could change it up a bit,” he says. “Improvise.”

I swing my legs back and forth. “Okay, Dr. Jenkins,” I say.

He reaches for my hand. “Okay, Samantha,” he says. It's sweet, the way he's holding my hand, like we've done this before.

“We could start where we left off,” he says, and before I can think about anything, his mouth is on mine.

It's more urgent this time—not a test, inquisitive kiss. This kiss lands and stays to explore. We do this for what seems
forever and could be forever. I could do this all day and night.

“What about Lissa?” I ask.

“What about her?” he says.

“Are you with her or not?”

“No,” he says. “I told her I had other things on my mind.” He lies back and takes me with him, pulling me between his legs. I can feel him. His hand moves up my shirt, one on my back and one on my breast. He groans a bit into my mouth. He moves us so we're facing each other on the bed and presses his body between my legs, and I imagine us having sex this way. There's so little fabric between us, I feel like we already are.

We haven't stopped kissing, and a breeze moves my hair over our faces. He pushes my hair away, then presses me on my back. He begins to bring his hand under the buckle of my shorts and part of me is mortified, anticipating what he'll find, the evidence of my total desire. He finds it and sighs, “Lea,” and though I'm a virgin and want to be one until the time is right, the way he's moving his fingers and the naked desire on his face make me want to throw caution to the wind. I move into his hand, closing my eyes, but seeing us here with the ocean, the wind, the ripples on the pool. The time seems beautiful.

I open my eyes, and we lock gazes, then kiss again. I reach for his buckle to feel him too, and his hands find mine, helping me. I feel I need to give him fair warning that I'm a virgin and while my body wants to swallow him, my brain, my being, would like a first date.

“I think . . . ,” I say, but don't get anything else out, hoping my hesitation conveys everything for me.

He holds my hand again, then brings it to the outside of his boxers. He kisses my neck. “We can go in,” he says.

A car door slams, and we jump. Will faces the ocean, getting himself together. I sit up, then get off the bed.

“I'm going to go,” I say.

“Yeah, okay.” He turns, and there's something distant in his eyes, like nothing happened just now. “That was a good take,” he says with a laugh.

It takes me a moment to understand what he's talking about. “Take two,” I joke again.

He walks over to me and ruffles my hair, making me feel like a Labrador or, worse, a shih tzu. “See you soon.”

“Right,” I say. Is this my cue, then? Will there be a take three?

“You okay?” he asks. “We cool?” He wipes his hands on his pants.

We cool? I think so. I'm cool, I'm hot—flushed, fiery. I'm cold. A little sour, but, ah, what happened—this moment—I'm a little sweet too. I'm all over the map.

“I should go,” I say, and am left feeling both exhilaration and shame. I walk to the side of the house, where the garbage cans are, so that whoever's coming in won't see me.

THE WIND C
AME BACK AND, ALONG
WITH IT, RAIN,
which is rare in Kahala. I miss the rain in Kailua, the way it cleans the slate and makes it okay to stay inside. In Hawaii you always feel you have to be outside doing something.

The sound of the rain is faint. In the cottage, we are too sealed in to really hear or notice it. There are no glass jalousies that let the outside in. I can see the rain, though, through the kitchen window, and a rectangle of night sky softly illuminated by light from the coconut trees.

I tried to read in my room, which is to say, I had a book open and was looking at the words and reading sentences over and over because I couldn't focus. I looked out at the main house, wondering what Will thought, if he even thought anything at all. I was straight-up mortified right after everything happened, but now that time has passed, I find myself smiling at the memory, smiling at my mortification, smiling at the event of it all, the way he touched me. The script was an alibi. Whatever happened I chalk up to Samantha, so it was all a wonderful fiction. I think of his hand. I would like more fiction. I close my book because it's not nearly as good as my own story.

I go to the living room and switch on the TV, which is giving
me something to look at, but I'm not really hearing what anyone's saying, and when my mom comes out from her room and asks what I'm watching, I tell her, “I don't even know.”

She stands by the couch, watching.

“You're not grounded anymore, you know,” she says.

“I know,” I say. I guess I'm grounding myself. Friday night of spring break. Girl gone wild.

“Want to watch this Netflix?” she asks, and I see the envelope in her hand. Her face is so open and eager. She'd be so disappointed if I said no.

“What is it?” I ask, moving my legs, inviting her to sit.

“A documentary about African lions.” She walks up to the TV as if she's been waiting to do this all night.

“Really? Why do you get every animal documentary ever made?”

“I love them!” she says, and the thing is, once they get started, I usually do too. Still, now I'm adding documentary to the list following
Friday
and
first ni
ght of spring break.
I am so punk rock. Just when I thought I liked my own story, the reality settles in. I am home with my mom. And yet, the residue of today still lingers, and I realize no matter what I'm doing I have the memory and the sensation in my reserves. My face warms, and that string pulls, and I feel like I can't move. I'm like a wildebeest near a lion; my mom will find me. She'll detect something new and awful about me, like alcohol on my breath, something she'd be able to smell.
Breath
e in my face.
She'll sense dirtiness, inappropriateness, or maybe just something adult. I want to be an adult, but not with her. The things in my reserves that are making my body pulse are mine.

“Popcorn?” she asks, after setting up the movie.

“Yes!” I say, feeling kind of spoiled that she's making it for me, even though I know she wants to.

After she pops the corn, she sits down with the bowl, puts the blanket over our legs, and we move into a broad shot of the Sahara.

We reach into the bowl at the same time, grabbing our handfuls. I feel that this will always be what I think of when I think of home. This is something we do together and have always done. I can remember the movies we had when I was little, all on rotation—
The Soun
d of Music
,
The Pare
nt Trap
,
Whale Rider
. There were
The Perks of
Being a Wallflower
,
Emma
and
Clueless
,
Annie
and
Fantastic
Mr. Fox
. And of course, animal documentaries. I know everything there is to know about penguins.

The cubs are playing, pawing one another. The mother licks a cub, lifting it off the ground with her tongue. We both laugh. “Love it,” I say, feeling so myself and absorbed. When the film nears its heartbreaking conclusion (one of the cubs taken, devoured), both of us cry, but that's what happens out there in the wild. Why can crying feel so good? I'm happy to feel something, sad and tunneled out, convinced it makes room for something else.