Juniors (19 page)

“I like the pattern,” I say. “But honestly that band bottom thing I see everywhere. It's not the most flattering.”

“I know,” she says. “Kinda played. 'Kay, I'm going to go with the bunched one. You know the ones that bunch in the butt?”

We both laugh. “That sounds so wrong,” I say.

She goes to her room, and we change back into our own suits. When we come out, she asks if I'm going to get anything.

I tried on four sets of suits. “Nothing really worked,” I say. “Except the one.”

She looks forlorn or pantomimes the look of it. “Let me get it for you,” she says. “It was so cute. And you drove today.”

“No!” I say. “It wouldn't cost me two thirty to fill a quarter of a tank.”

“Come on,” she says. “We had the best day ever.”

I shake my head.

“Yes,” she says, using a businesslike decisive tone. “I'll get one too. We can be twins.”

I notice in her pack of suits she has also tried on an Acacia, though the pattern is different, and the style is slightly different too. I guess I can now officially recognize the brand.

I'm touched and follow her to the counter, part of me dragging, part of me feeling like I do when my mom brings home
swag—getting to have something I'd never buy for myself. We did have the best day ever, and it's still going strong, yet it's the recognition of this that makes me say, “No. I'm not letting you get it for me.”

“Aww,” she says, “boo.” But I wonder if she's partly relieved.

She goes to the counter and hands over her suits to the young, dark-haired woman who has a friendly plumeria tucked behind her ear but a not-so-friendly face.

I wander around the clothes section of the store, looking at airy dresses and their accompanying price tags. I said no because I don't want to be—or worse, feel—indebted, but also because I don't want to set a standard. Like how the snot bubble came out of her nose the first day we talked—it set a tone for us, and this would set a tone too, but the wrong one. I like that we're different but can still be ourselves. I didn't hold her hand surfing, and she's not going to hold my hand now. I think about her seventh-grade birthday party, how she became known for providing a good time. I'm sure she's set herself up for this with her other friends, that they expect her to cover things for them.

I walk back over to the register and see she's buying just one suit. She has put the Acacia to the side and I wonder—no, I know—that she's not buying it out of respect for me.

Transaction complete. We walk out of the store to a cheerful
ding
and the bright sunshine and music coming from Island Snow next door.

She holds the little plastic bag with her finger and makes it spin.

“Butt buncher,” I say. “Let's get shave ice.”

• • •

Lilikoi, li hing mui, guava for me. Vanilla, coconut, li hing mui for her. Before we head back, we go to Fighting Eel, HIC, Twin Islands, then finally Mu'umu'u Heaven on our way out of town. I try things on along with her and buy a Samudra clutch at Fighting Eel. I don't want her to feel guilty about buying things in front of me. I tell her when things look good and when they look bad, and she does the same for me. She buys something at every store except Mu'umu'u Heaven, a store I loved and that had tons of Japanese tourists saying “Kawaii!” after every dress they touched.

On the way to the car, she tells me she thought the dresses were way too expensive and they looked like cut-up muumuus.

“That's what they are, genius!” I laugh.

“Oh!” she says.

“They're like, old-school, vintage muumuus cut up, then redesigned.”

We get into my car and drive out of town, and she looks deep in thought.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“It's just kind of sad,” she says.

“What's sad?”

“To cut up old Hawaiian dresses. My grandma had the prettiest muumuus.”

“So did mine,” I say, and we're quiet for a while, both thinking about our grandmas, perhaps, or thinking about each other, having never really considered each other's roots or lives as little girls.

“But they're using the past and making it . . . I don't . . . something we'd wear. Young, you know? New school.”

“Yeah,” she says. “That's true.”

We drive back over the Pali, listening to music and looking out, alone with our thoughts together.

I
T FEELS A BIT AWKWAR
D WHEN WE GET BACK,
LIKE
we don't know how to part. I drive up to the main house, realizing that I've completely forgotten about the possibility of Danny being in her room, and I've forgotten about Will. What happened with Will had just recently consumed me, entertained me, but today all thoughts of him vanished. The whole event seems like it happened long ago, or even to a different person. And what now? I just wait until he comes around again? And when he does? I hate that I can't talk about this with Whitney.

I park near her room, but keep the car running as she gathers her stuff.

“Fun,” she says. “Thanks for today. For driving.” She opens the door and gets out. “Oh, my board,” she says. “How do I—” She looks up at the racks.

“I'll get it,” I say.

I turn the engine off and get out, then stand up on my car to undo the straps. She gets up on her side, and I edge the board to her.

“Can you carry all that?” I ask.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says.

“I'm going to go rest,” I say.

“I know,” she says. “I'm beat.”

We both stand there. I'm going to ask her about the hotel. “I'm just going to watch a movie or something tonight if you want to—and—”

“That sounds so good,” she says. “But I told Mari and the girls—”

“Cool. See you later, then!” I say. I
enthuse.
I can feel myself enthusing all over the place. Mari, the very person she was complaining about over hamburgers. All her friends, in fact, who she can't be herself with—she's always playing a role. Quote, unquote. Is that why she didn't invite me? 'Cause I fit with her, but I don't fit with them? I'm not sure what's more insulting. The fact that her friends won't accept me or that Whitney's not making any efforts to include me. Is it like my mom and Melanie? I'm only allowed to hang with the others when I've done something right?

Whitney shrugs the board up onto her hip, then makes a sound of enthusiasm, a half
woot,
to sum things up. She closes her door with her foot, and I drive back to my house, seeing her in the mirror struggling with her board and the bags.

I was having so much fun, but now the whole day feels crossed out. I wasn't a friend, I was a tour guide, a frickin' sherpa or something. These West kids are making me go up and down, up and down, and it hurts.

• • •

That night I pace and I snack, all while enduring the blaze of headlights that indicate people leaving, going somewhere, doing something with friends, having destinations on this Saturday night. One flash must be Whitney, one flash must be Will,
one belongs to the parents who have taken my parent with them. The cast of my mom's show is attending an event for the Hawaii International Film Festival, and of course the Wests are also going to the very same event, so Melanie exclaimed, “Why don't we just go in the same car?” I imagine Melanie there now, edging close to my mom whenever the photographers come around.

After such a long day, I'm still wired, as if waiting for guests to arrive at my long-planned party. I'm even dressed cute, in a long, low-riding cotton skirt that hugs my thighs and a tight top that tucks into the skirt, fitting like a one-piece bathing suit. All dressed up and nowhere to go. All dressed up and hoping (though not admitting to hoping) that someone will come over. I wait for Will while telling myself I'm not waiting for him.

And then I think of Danny, how I haven't really hung out with him in so long. I want to tell him that we can all be friends even if he's hooking up with or likes Whitney. There's room.

I call him, and he actually answers. “Yo,” he says.

“Yo,” I say.

“Where you at?”

“I'm at home,” I say. “Like a rock star.” I look in the fridge at the same things I saw when I looked in the fridge just moments ago. That's what tonight feels like. Like I'm expecting something to change, for some kind of treat to suddenly appear.

“Did you have a good day?” I ask. “We haven't hung out forever.”

“Stellar day,” he says. “You?”

“Same,” I say, picturing him standing there, running his hand through the tips of his hair.

“Let's cruise soon,” he says, and I hear some guys in the background and know he's drinking and having fun like every other kid in the whole wide world. I liked picturing him alone.
Aha!
I think, and pour some wine into a cup from my mom's open bottle in the fridge. I take a big sip.

“Yes, I want to,” I say. “When?” I ask after I take a huge sip and then another. “When should we cruise?” I'd like to think that the drink is loosening me up, making me assertive.

“Whenever!” he says. I hear the music in the background, and I walk to the stereo to put something on. Ideas all over the place. I'm virtually partying.

“Or I'll see you at the hotel,” he says, then sings, “Hotel, motel, Holiday Inn, say what?”

Before I can say,
Um
. Yeah. Not invited
'cause I'm a rock st
ar,
Danny says, “Whit said you're coming. I just talked to her.”

“I haven't heard a thing about it,” I say.

“I'm sure you'll get the four-one-one.” Why am I even hearing this from Danny? Why does she tell him things? I was just with her.

“When did you talk to her?” I walk like a toy soldier across the room.

He shouts to someone, “One for me too, 'kay shoots!” then says, “Like just now. Downstairs. We're at Mari's house.”

I take a sip of the wine, then another. Why wasn't I invited to Mari's house?

“'Kay, it's too loud,” he says. “I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Were you at Whitney's last night?” I ask, moving my hips side to side.

“Say what?” he says, but since I can't see him, I can't read him.

“Are you guys going out, or what?” I ask.

“No, we're not going out. Aren't you with ill Will, anyway?”

The question is phrased weirdly.
Any
way,
meaning if I weren't, then . . .
An
yway,
meaning why should I care about Danny?

“Where'd you hear that?” I ask, glad he can't see me smiling.

“I don't know,” he says, sounding annoyed. “Around. The coconut wireless. Watch out, though, Little Donkey. Lissa's bigger than you.”

“Whatever,” I say. “They're not together.”

“Yeah, when you're with him, they're not together. That's true.”

My heart beats something fast and ugly. I want to talk, milk all the details. Do people know about me and Will? And am I totally embarrassed or totally proud? Proud. Happy. I love the idea of him talking about me.

“What else?” I ask. I do a pirouette.

“What else about what?”

“Like exactly who—” The music goes up on his end, and I hear guys yell in unison as if someone scored a goal. I want Danny to be here so we can talk about the things we're experiencing without each other, and so we don't have to talk in riddles. We've never spoken to each other this way before.

“Are you there?” I ask.

“Yeah, I'm here,” he says and I'm surprised how near he is, like he's been just listening to the phone and nothing else, thinking and waiting just as I had been. I hear someone call his name. I'll let him go.

“Hey, what's the song you were just singing?” I ask. “The hotel motel one.”

“‘Rapper's Delight,'” he says. I smile and imagine him doing the same.

“Okay, I'll talk to you later, then,” I say.
Let's just be like we've always been.

“Bye, Lei Lei,” he says, and a warmth rises in me. He hasn't called me that since we were little.

• • •

I search for the song on Sonos. There it is. “Rapper's Delight.” Sugarhill Gang. The name itself already makes things better, and when I play it, the beat and funny lyrics automatically cure what ails me. Forget Mari's house and the hotel and the fact that I'm alone. Forget waiting for Will. Though I do wish Danny were here, because he'd be doing what I'm doing—rapping and dancing like an idiot. I wouldn't have to hold anything back.

I WAKE UP TO THE SO
UND OF MY MOM MAKING
breakfast. I had fallen asleep on the couch. I sit up. My mom's back is to me. On the low coffee table in front of me is my empty cup with the telltale redness of wine lining the bottom. Well, I guess the more telltale sign would be the empty bottle itself, which is on the counter, to the left of my mom.

Holy majorly busted.

Has any teenager in history been so stupid besides the ones whose parents allow them to be? What do I do? Tiptoe out like a cartoon character? Make a joke? Weep at her ankles?

She turns her head. I raise my hand, say, “Hi.”

“What the hell is going on?” she asks and slams the spatula down on the counter.

I look around, as if for someone to blame . . .
The Sonos made me
do it.

“Should I be worried?” She faces me with her arms crossed.

“No,” I say. My head is pounding like surf. I put my fingers to my temples, then think better of it. She knows, though. She knows everything; every move I make she is adding to the roster. I decide to be honest.

“I was bored,” I say. “Everyone was at a party I wasn't invited to. I was just trying to . . . make my own fun.”

She scoffs, but right before she does, I see a glimmer of recognition. I, too, can tally up the moves.

“There are other ways to have fun,” she says. “Go . . .” She falters. Score for me. “Go play!”

Oh my God, triple points.

“Go play?” I say.

She turns back to the stove to save herself. “I mean, if this is what you do when you're not invited to parties, then we have a problem. A big one.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Because that would be a lot of bottles.” Oh my God, I'm killing it.

“That's not what I meant,” she says. “I don't drink every time I don't get invited somewhere.”

“You have wine every night,” I say. Her shoulders lift then lower as she lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Because I like wine, not because I'm trying to escape!” This still doesn't sound very good. She clenches the spatula, her hand shaking a bit. “And stop. Just stop. You cannot drink. You are grounded. Again, or still.”

“Okay,” I say, indifferent, since I have nothing better to do. Besides, she's never home at night. To ground me is to ground herself. “Are you going out tonight?”

“Yes!” she says, and now I think she might cry. “I have to. Something for autism. The show is donating us”—and she breaks—“you know, 'cause that will really help autism! A dinner with us! Or a golf package at Koele!” She weeps, and I get scared.
I don't know what to do. Her shoulders tremble, and she lets out little high-pitched bleats.

I get up and turn off the stove, where the scrambled eggs have become a solid patty.

“I'm sorry,” I say. I touch her shoulder. “Mom, are you okay? Honestly, you don't have to worry. I got carried away. I was dancing—” I look around the room. “And playing ukulele, evidently. There are worse things.”

She sniffles and laughs. “It's not funny, and, yes, I'm fine. I'm just tired. Tired of smiling.” She smiles.

We stand side by side, leaning against the counter.

“I'm sorry you were lonely last night,” she says. “This seems to be a pattern.”

“No,” I say. “Last time I was with Whitney.”

“I meant the pattern of you drinking, me yelling, then me feeling guilty that this is somehow all my fault.”

“I can go with that,” I say.

She elbows me, and we stand in silence for a little while, which clues me in to the sounds of mynah birds squawking outside. I wonder what she was like when she was my age. I think she was much wilder.

In her stash of photos, I've seen her posing with friends in low-riding bikinis, the boys in tight short shorts. In some she holds a cigarette. In one she is joyfully yelling on the Hanalei pier and raising a can of Budweiser. In another she's asleep, her head on a guy's lap (again with the short shorts) while he plays guitar.

“I tried to tell Melanie,” she says, “about the first time.” Her eyes are zoned out, not focusing on anything. “I told her you
girls were drinking, and she just interrupted me. She said that she buys those drinks for Whitney—they're kombucha spirits,” my mom says, imitating Melanie's pushy voice, “which are very healthy, but have a little alcohol in them. Healthy alcohols.”

“Are you serious?” I ask, disbelieving, amused, and envious all at once. What would it be like to have such a dumb mother?

“I don't know if she's oblivious or if her kids just run all over her,” my mom says.

“I'm a good girl,” I say. “Despite it all.”

Her eyes come back into focus, and she looks me up and down. “I can't believe you were in me.”

She always does this, reminisces about me as a baby and being in her womb. She'll tell me the same stories sometimes—my first laugh, my belly button falling off, having to use Pez to bribe me to leave the park—and I'll laugh every time, as if hearing it for the first time, fascinated by myself, by this life I don't remember.

She hands me a fork, and we eat out of the pan.

“Look,” she says. “You can do something during the days, but at night I want you here.”

I don't answer.

“I don't want to do this on your spring break, but I can't just let it go.”

“Okay.” I leave it there, not adding anything, afraid I'll say the wrong thing or she'll figure out how lenient she's being. I can't help but feel like I'm getting away with something. It's weird to be trusted. I've always been trusted, but I've also always obeyed until now.