Juniors (26 page)

“Yes, I was with Will,” I say.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” I think she's holding her breath, not wanting me to talk about this but knowing we need to.

“Did he take advantage of you?” she asks, her face tense like she's ready to pounce.

“No,” I say. “I don't know. What do you mean?” God, this is so awkward.

“Did he try to have sex with you?”

“Oh my God, no, I don't know,” I say, my voice rising, even though I'm trying to control it.

“I am so angry right now!” she says.

“Mom,” I say, “no . . . it's just . . . he didn't do anything I didn't want him to do,” I say quietly and look at my lap.

“What?” she says.

“It's not like he forced me to like him. He wanted to do . . . some things, and I went with it. Just kissing, though—”

“He's dating Lissa,” my mom says. She moves closer to me. “They were at the event the other night together. Her mom is always talking about Will. They're going to Stanford together and everything, honey,” she says and looks at me with so much sympathy.

“Okay,” I say. “Stop. It doesn't matter.” It matters more than she'll ever know. I was so willing to be lied to, and it was so easy for him to lie because I had been so willing. I remember thinking of
Sab
rina
when we first moved here. I was thinking
of it in the voyeur sense, poor me gazing across at the fabulousness. I wasn't thinking of the brothers—and in my movie, there is no nice brother and no love at the end.

Why did Will even bother with me? Because he could, because I was there and so convenient? Because I was new.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I had no idea you liked him.” She looks stricken and guilty.

“He told me they were done,” I say. “I'm not a bad person.” My voice quivers at the sound of this, half statement, half fear. I wonder what I would have done if we had gone up to his room. I imagine Mike and Whitney. That would have been me.

“He reminds me of your dad,” she says. “I didn't want to see anything else when I was with him. I didn't have a lot of respect for myself.”

She hesitates—maybe she worries that she's revealing too much.

I think of my grandmother, loving her when I was little—baking cookies, playing Hanafuda, making Rorschach's inkblots while listening to my grandpa play guitar. She was never an actual person, though. She was Grandma—there and existing for me.

After she died, I learned that she had gone through a period of depression.

She went to some kind of rehab facility in California. She also smoked cigarettes and was engaged to two men before my grandpa—one, a descendant of Thoreau who now owns a cattle ranch in Wyoming that sells the sperm of black Angus, and the other, an East Coast banker she met while backpacking in France.

Whoa there, Tutu!
I thought when I first heard all of this. It's something you don't tell the grandchildren, of course, and yet it was wonderful to have her colored in. I wish I could have known those things about her when she was alive, when I was her granddaughter. To see that version of her. I guess things don't happen that way, and maybe they can't. It's like time zones, people existing at different hours. When someone else is thriving and living, you're fast asleep.

“Maybe we don't need them anymore,” I say. “The Wests.”

“We just need to get through this,” my mom says. “Melanie has this party planned for the premiere—”

“So what?” I say.

She looks like she has an answer, but is holding back. I want to say,
You th
ink I was duped by W
ill? What about you?
Melanie's using you
, and Eddie's basica
lly buying your comp
anionship.
But I think my mom knows all this—it doesn't need to be said.

“If she's going to blame Danny and me for what Whitney did to herself, then how could we possibly stay here? What if she tells the school about Danny?”

“That's not going to happen,” she says.

“I wanted to punch her when she brought Danny into this,” I say. “Like, something came over me.”

She laughs at me popping my fist into the air. “Of course,” she says. “You love him, sweetie. You guys would do anything for each other.” She places her hand over my fist. I close my eyes. We will be so small when it goes back to just the two of us, which it will. This has to come to an end.

I WAK
E TO A BRIGHT, HIGH
SUN, THE SMELL OF GA
RLIC,
and the noise of a blender. I walk out while the blender's going and am startled by the sight of my mom and Danny working in the kitchen. He's using the blender, his back to me. My mom has a light step as she moves around the kitchen, as if everything were normal.

“What are you doing here?” I ask when the blender has stopped.

He turns his head, scans me in my pajama shorts and T-shirt. “I don't know.”

“What are you making?” I put my hair up in a high ponytail.

He turns again, this time fully facing me. “I don't know.”

“You know,” my mom says, elbowing him. “Snap out of it.”

“I forgot,” he says. His eyes are vacant, as well as his voice. He also looks paler than usual. I don't want Melanie to see him. She'll think he's on drugs. I wonder what's in store for Whitney today, if she'll be grounded or totally exonerated, the blame thrown over the Ko'olaus to the boy from Waimanalo.

“Sichuan,” my mom says.

“Sichuan eggplant,” Danny says. “For the roasted ono.”

“Our roasted ono,” she says. “Danny is staying for dinner.”

“Dinner's kind of a long ways away,” I say.

In his eyes there's a little anger, like I've betrayed him. It's a wrong thing for him to be feeling. Ever since I brought him here that first day and he bonded with Whitney, he's been cold toward me, and I think I handled it well. I let him go.

“I thought we could hang out,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. I look down, aware I'm not wearing a bra.

“I'll let things marinate,” my mom says. “You guys go play. I'm going to talk to Melanie. I'll take care of everything.”

Danny looks both contemptuous and afraid.

“I'll go change,” I say.

• • •

We drive down the avenue toward Diamond Head. It's good to be in his truck, on the warm, salty seats, listening to hip-hop. I love riding in his truck, the way it makes me feel like I've lived here all my life.

“You've been to to Doris Duke's, right?” I remember Will's forced tour and how he never went to the beach below it because it was so local. “To the beach below the mansion?”

“Cromwell's. Of course.” Danny nods his head to the beat.

“Let's go there,” I say.

• • •

We park and walk down a hill to the coast, the breeze carrying a scent of hot mock orange, fish, and that distinct smell of a garbage can at the end of a beach access. We reach the sand, and it's very nice, but there's hardly a beach at all—just reef and a slab of sand near the garbage can. I walk to the right, but when I look back, he isn't following.

“This way,” he says. He nods toward the rocks. Houses are
perched above, clinging to the wall as if trying to escape a shark. He takes his backpack off his shoulders. “I'll hold your slippers,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say, putting them on top of his towel.

I follow him, walking on crags of rock. It hurts my feet, but I kind of like having to think about every step.

“Have you talked to Whitney yet?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “But her mom called my dad. To let him know there was
an inci
dent.
” He uses a mocking voice.

I have to walk faster to keep up so I can hear. The sharp rocks don't seem to bother him at all. I have haole feet.

“What did your dad say?”

“‘Yes, ma'am, uh-huh? Is that right? I think you may be mistaken.' Then he hung up and worked in the garden. He knows I wouldn't do that and isn't going to argue unless he has to.”

“I can't believe Whitney said you gave it to her in the first place. Why don't you just say it was Mike? Nothing will happen to him. His dad's a trustee. And isn't the middle school named after him?”

“No,” Danny says. “Steve Case.”

“Well, something! Matson Language Lab, I don't know.”

Waves begin to come in faster sets, splashing against the wall. A black crab skitters up and then into a crack. I use the wall for support, my hand running across opihi shells suctioned to the rocks.

“Let's wait out this set,” he says.

We watch the set of waves crash against the reef. There's no wall now, just a slope of rocks. The ocean spray is cold. I lick the salt on my lips.

“Your mom said she'd take care of everything,” he says. “I'm not going to rat out Mike for a stupid pot brownie like some narc spank.”

“So what happened last night?”

He runs his hand through his hair and, for the first time, grins.

“You and ill Will left,” he says, and something catches in his voice. “On your little date, and Whitney's mood changed. She got all bitchy, and she was kind of getting on my nerves, then Mike busted out the brownies. Not to me, selfish knob. I think he just had one for her and one for himself. He probably thought he'd get her all loose, but the dude couldn't even move. Looked like he was wearing a straitjacket. He was watching the movie—”

“What movie?”

“Just some movie,” he says, but by his expression, I can tell that something's up.

“What movie?” I ask again.

He says something, but a wave crashes, splashing water all over us and drowning his voice.

“What?” I ask, watching for waves.

“
Grease
,” he says. “So then—”

“
G
rease
? You guys were watching
Grease
?”

“Yes, okay?” He is trying not to smile.

“Like a porn version or—”

“No, not a—what's wrong with you?” He grins, the dimple appearing, and pushes my shoulder. We're both on the same rock, so I have to grab him for balance. His skin is hot.

“Well, I heard she was freaking out.” I laugh. “How do you
freak out about
Grease
? I mean, the ending doesn't make much sense. There's no magic whatsoever, and all of a sudden, the car flies—I mean, what's up with that? But other than that, what was she tripping on?”

“Brownies, evidently,” he says. “The girls were all singing along.
Tell me
more, tell me more.
”

He sings these lines, which is hilarious, and now I can see them all watching this movie—it's something Whitney and I would have done alone, and now I feel like that's all gone.

“You guys are so hard-core,” I say. “Meanwhile I thought you'd be getting shit-faced and having twerking orgies or something.”

“You are a sad, sad teenager,” he says, taking a step up to the next rock.

“Um, you spent a night in a hotel room without parents and with unlimited funds watching
Grease
, so don't be calling me a sad teenager.”

He looks back and scratches his head and twists his mouth, that gesture he makes when caught. He extends his hand. I hold it, then jump onto his rock, bumping into his warm body. He wipes his eyes, using our hands. I think of a time when we were kids. Danny has beautiful long lashes, and one time our babysitter put mascara on them. His mom was so pissed when she got home. I let go of his hand, realizing I'm still holding it.

“Where is this place?” I ask.

“Almost there,” he says. A huge wave slams against our rock, soaking us, and he puts his hand on my back.

“After this one,” he says and bounces a bit as if to usher in the wave. After it crashes, he moves off the rock and I follow, my
heart beating fast, trying to keep up and liking the way it feels to be close to him. I trail his steps, wary of what seem to be more waves about to hit us. He looks back at me and waits.

“What set her off about the movie?” I ask. “I thought you were watching a horror movie or something. I was prepared for chainsaws or creepy dolls.”

“Rizzo was freaking her out,” Danny says.

“Rizzo?”

“Yeah, the slutty, tough, pregnant chick. She kept saying, ‘I'm going to end up like Rizzo. I'm Rizzo,'” and she finally ran off, and no one went to find her for a while. We figured she was being dramatic since we wouldn't change it. And that's it. It was only, like, seven at night.”

“Then a worker found her?”

“Yup. The worker found her, called her mom, who sent her to the hospital.” He laughs. “We all thought it was small kine hilarious, but then her mom . . . you know the rest. She flipped out, thinking Whitney OD'd on heroin or spice or something.”

We scamper across the next set of rocks. Up ahead, it just seems to end.

I follow him, trusting his steps, and we round the point I mistook for a dead end. And then . . . it's like we've walked through a portal and into another world.

Danny looks back at me, prepared for and sweetly satisfied with my awe-filled response. It's as though someone took a tablecloth, flicked their wrist, and—voilà—magic and light unfolds. I look up at Doris Duke's house, Shangri La, and what appears to be a magnificent pool house with intricate tiles and earthy hues. I don't know where to look—the estate above or
this ocean pool below, a rock-walled cove filled with water clear as glass. It doesn't even seem like ocean water, more like a clear cold lake, something you'd find on a hike in the mountains of Yosemite, bordered with a rock wall. Beyond the wall is the ocean wild.

And then Danny, beside me, jumps into this ocean lake, and I laugh, startled, touch my face, then bring my hand back down again. He surfaces, then immediately looks up at me. He wanted to make sure I was watching. He climbs back up the seemingly flat wall, then stands and shakes his body and head to get the water off him. I remember when I saw Will's body at the hotel pool yesterday I tried to shoo away the thought that he looked like those mainland guys on Waimea rock—not very tan, not very sculpted. He looked perfectly suited to a hotel in Waikiki.

“Nice form,” I say.

“Your turn,” he says, taking quick breaths.

I look at the other side of the cove for an exit. “I don't know if I could get out like that,” I say. “How did you even get a hold?” The wall seems so flat.

“I'll help you,” he says.

He turns away when I start to take off my clothes. I remember my suit, what happened the last time I decided to jump off a rock, and I'm nervous, mortified by something that hasn't even happened.

“Ready?” he says. “I'll go with you.”

“It's deep, right? Should I—”

“Just go,” he says. “You know how.”

He counts to three, and I jump into the chilling, breathtaking water.

• • •

We do it over and over again, at first swimming across the way so I can climb the rocky embankment, but then I give the flat wall a shot and find that I can do it. Danny shows me how to wait for a push from the ocean, which gets sucked in and out by a tunnel in the rocks. When the ocean comes in, you move with it as it rises and reach for a hold. A few kids are playing in this tunnel. They crouch, then wait for a wave to spit them out.

When I reach the top, I see that Danny has put a towel out and containers of food. There are more people here now. Locals with coolers and music and beer.

“So cute,” I say, sitting down next to him. “You packed a picnic.”

“I grabbed things from your fridge,” he says. “Forgot forks, though.”

He opens the containers—pasta salad, crackers, and slices of roast chicken. Perfect. We lean back against the rocks, watch the guys do flips off the wall, and eat with our hands.

“How's my picnic?” he says.

“Super,” I say.

“You cold?” He places his hand on my leg for a moment.

“I'm fine.”

“I'm popping this pasta like it's candy,” he says. I look over at him, his body so different from Will's. Water glistens on his stomach.

“Why did Whitney blame you in the first place?” I ask.

He looks ahead and squints. “I kept asking about you,” he says. “You and Will. I think she thought I was thinking about you too much. She tried to kiss me. I kind of shut it down.”

I don't say anything. I'm still feeling his hand on my leg, and I'm nervous in a way, but it's a nervousness charged with something else. We look like boyfriend and girlfriend sitting here in this idyllic place, and the anonymity makes it even more real, like this is a scene on a canvas we have magically walked into. We have an audience above, a group touring Shangri La, their presence making me feel in the know, as if we're doing something we always do.

“I guess I was worried about you,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say, bumping my shoulder against him. “I've learned my lesson.” I remember thinking wealth was like an artificial additive for girls—making them prettier or more interesting—but I did the same thing with Will, gave someone not nearly as attractive as Danny a boost.

“I'm not with Will,” I say.

“And I'm not with Whitney,” Danny says.

“And here we are,” I say.

“Friends,” he says. He has a shy smile and questioning eyes.

A man walks up from the other side of the rocks, carrying a spear that's skewering an octopus over his shoulder.

“Whoa,” Danny says.

“That's awesome,” I say. “I want that for dinner. Grilled—”

“A little butter, miso—”

“Or Greek style, with olive oil, basil.”

“Figs,” he says. “That would be nice.”

We pop the pasta into our mouths, our hands brushing against each other's in the bowl.

“Maybe we should try to make it sometime,” I say.

“We should,” he says.

The dreaded “we should.”

“Or we could go out to find it one night,” he says. “A restaurant would do a better job than us.”

Now it's in my court. I almost say, “We should.”

“Let's,” I say instead, and we sit there against the hot rocks, our eyes heavy, watching the man with a spear, carrying the catch over his shoulder like a bandana bindle sack.