Juniors (27 page)

“Poor little octopus,” Danny says. “Tickled out of his hole just for us.”

“Sucks,” I say, and he laughs, and it is and it isn't like old times. Something has changed, and he's treating me like a girl he wants to know more about, not like a girl he's known forever.

I tell him about Eddie and how my dad is back to square one—a person who may not even know I exist. Strange this is conceivable for men—that there could be remnants and versions of themselves walking the earth without their knowledge. It seems to me a very sad thing.

“You're having a hell of a time in Kahala,” he says. I look at his profile, strong as though chiseled from rock.

“I know. But I'm handling it pretty well. I don't have daddy issues. Too bad for you,” I add.

“What does that mean?”

“You know—people with daddy issues sleep around a lot. They're kind of wild.”

“So why too bad for me?” He looks over at my legs, then up at my face with those same questioning, flirtatious eyes.

Really. He's going to force this out of me. I need to somehow reconfigure it all—make myself into an everygirl and him an everyboy.

“Well,” I say, finding a grip, “rumor has it that boys like girls, and so when girls offer themselves up easily, this makes boys happy.”

“Now, that's crazy talk,” he says. He squints and sniffles.

“I'm going to talk to Eddie,” I say. “I guess I do have daddy issues after all. Sugar daddy issues.”

“Lucky me,” he says, and the flirtation is almost too much to bear. I remember when he was in the outdoor shower, my urge to kiss him, an urge that peeked out suddenly, only to quickly retract.

“What's going on?” I say, looking straight ahead, a slight smile on my face.

“I don't know,” he says.

I trace back to when I moved here, the amount of time we spent surfing and hanging out at Kalama's, or hiking to the top of the Pali or the Lanikai pillboxes, making fun of tourists below as they struggled with big yellow kayaks. We'd go to Habachi to get poke and boiled peanuts, the farmers' market to get pho at the Pig and the Lady, then listen to the kids' rock band, the Random Weirdos, playing the White Stripes and Heart in the parking lot. It was always just the two of us—it's like you need other people around to show you what you are.

“Food coma,” Danny says, then gets up, standing over me and extending his hand. I take it, and he pulls me up. We stand close now, whereas we wouldn't have done this before; we stand so that the sides of us are touching.

“Should we jump?” he asks. “To wake up?”

“Yes,” I say.

We walk to the edge, and before we jump, I look up at colorful Shangri La, the beautiful whites, blues, and ochers, how the ocean pool below seems to absorb these pigments. I imagine Doris Duke in this house, basking in the beauty or maybe saddened by the task of loving something alone. Danny takes my hand. I don't want to be anywhere else.

A few tourists stand at the railing, their cameras trained on us, and when we jump at the same time, I wonder what we look like, what they've captured, and how magic it seems, that we—that all of this—is in their tiny machines.

AFTER OUR LONG GETAWAY, WE GO BACK
TO THE
cottage so Danny can help my mom in the kitchen. I walk over to the big house. It's cool out, a nice trade wind, which seems to make the clouds march across the sky. When I go around back, I hear music coming from the house, and it transforms the familiar setting, elevating it to something momentous. I love the way Hawaiian music can outfit something or act like an undercurrent, carrying us all along, making me feel like I've been here before and will be here again.

I don't see Eddie at first, but then I see him by the gate, looking out at the ocean where a low froth of cloud has settled on the horizon. Bright orange sunlight shoots up and down.

He turns then and nods his head when he sees me, an approving, observant look, as if I were walking down a runway. When I get to his side, he says, “Your mom said you wanted to talk to me. I'm told you've been brought up to speed.”

“Yes,” I say. “She told me everything.”

“About what now?” he asks. “I've forgotten.”

My mouth is open. I need to fill it with words somehow. After being with Danny today, I was prepared to go in strong with my shoulders back. Instead I stand, hunched.

“I'm kidding with you,” he says. “I'm still here. Still got it. I'm like a vampire. It comes at night mostly. As of now.”

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“Don't say you're sorry.”

“I'm not sorry,” I say, meeting his eyes.

“There you go,” he says. “Now, that's refreshing.”

But I am sorry. My mom told me that it could happen so quickly. I imagine him being swept off in a flood, but managing to stay afloat in its rapids for years, barely thinking, just grasping for air and solid ground.

“Thank you for taking care of me all these years.” I'm losing control of my voice, and he looks at me quickly, detecting it.

“What have I done?” he asks, then I grin. He's kidding again.

“Thank you,” I say, “for helping my mom.”

“She deserved to be helped.” He clears his throat, then takes a sip of his clear drink. “I'd like to keep helping if it would be of use to you.”

Of course it would be of use.

“We don't need your help anymore,” I say and hope it's true. “And then you won't have anything to hide. Why did you do it?”

He sighs, as if I were his own incorrigible child. A slice of his hair lifts in the wind, then falls like a wing.

“Because I could,” he says.

I let that sink in, see if it satisfies. It does, mainly because of its simplicity and directness. Maybe it wasn't so complicated—just habit, like paying the electric bill.

“Are you in love with my mom?”

He laughs in a quiet and resigned way. “No,” he says. “Maybe. When you're this old, you're in love with everything
that happened a long time ago.” He makes a diamond shape with his hands as if capturing a shot. “That's all set in amber. Easy to be nostalgic about old shit.”

“Right,” I say. “You don't have to be old to know that.”

He looks my way as if someone new had appeared beside him and points his finger at my nose.

“I don't want Melanie to know that you've helped,” I say, thinking that the information will make it onto her show if she ever makes the cut. How
wouldn't
she be able to make the cut? She's a perfect housewife. She's like a robot, looking at people and expertly scanning them for their worth and capabilities, their potential and their roots. She should really have a job. She'd be so good at it, anything from interior designer to venture capitalist. But she has taken this role as mother and wife and social entertainer like someone out of the past. She belongs in a different era.

“I don't want her to know either,” he says, out to the ocean, a blue canvas, brushstrokes of whitecaps. “But sometimes I can't shut up.”

Because she blamed me, blamed Danny, because she snared my mom like a bluefin tuna, because she basically casts her children's friendships and love lives, I boldly ask, “What does Melanie want?” I don't know how to say,
Wh
y is she the way she
is?
I truly want to know: how does one start out as a girl and become a woman like Melanie? Or a woman like Vicky, or the countless types who never seem to have sand between their toes. And why do their children seem to replicate them exactly?

I'm about to add to this when Eddie faces me with a hard look in his eyes. “We're who we are because of each other.”

His tone is stern and unforgiving. It reminds me that I'm talking about his wife, the mother of his children, the woman he fell in love with. It also reveals that her faults, whatever I see them to be, are partly due to him. She became the woman she is while being married to him. At least I think that's what he's telling me. He seems done with the conversation now. Something has dulled in his gaze. He turns to the house and scans the yard lazily, contentedly, surveying a place he knows deeply. I do the same, for the first time realizing that I can be comfortable anywhere.

“We're moving out,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “But have your mother remind me,” he winks. “And go find Whitney. She's lucky to have you.”

He doesn't know a thing, I realize. About our falling-out, about Will, about dramas at the hotel, or dramas in his own backyard, and not because of his health but because it's not his job. Melanie does it all. Men like him are off the hook.

I walk with him back toward the house, but slowly make my way apart from him. “Thank you,” I say again.

“You don't owe me anything,” he says. We're at a distance now where we have to raise our voices. “Unless you want to,” he says. “Make you work harder.”

Something in his face kindly dismisses me, letting me go. He raises his hand in farewell.

I MAY B
E THE ONLY PERSON ON
CAMPUS RELIEVED THA
T
spring break's over. I watch Will walk out of money management and stop myself from going to him. He has yet to say anything, do anything. He's staying the course: money management to Jazz Age and the Lost Generation, home to change, then Waialae to golf. He will keep going in life; he'll keep staying out of it. Get into it! I want to yell to him and to everyone. What's the point of us otherwise?

My mom and I packed on Friday, were out by Sunday and back to our old place in Kailua. We drove out of Kahala in silence. The sky was bright and cheerful on the other side of the Pali tunnels, the ocean so vast yet familiar, like a backyard pool. It felt so weird to leave—a kind of sadness, and yet there was a sense of accomplishment. She felt it too, I think, a sweet fulfillment from not needing something anymore, from cutting off ties. There's something satisfying about leaving things behind, something invigorating about hard endings—the way they make you feel like you're growing or something. It's kind of like hiking to the top of the Pali with Danny. When I get to the top, it's difficult to move because of the strong wind, and yet I hike there to feel just that.

Whitney should be getting out of Geology of Hawaii and then I know she has Bollywood Dance for her ASPE credit. I walk toward the track to wait for her. I'll force her to talk to me, even though I don't know what will come of it.

I walk past the groups—the lacrosse boys heading to the field, the manga/anime club kids crowding over something on the bench by the art studio. This year is going by so quickly. When I think of myself as I first started out, I seem like another girl. So quiet and cautious. I acted like I didn't need or want anything, and now I want it all.

I have time to kill so I walk by the lily pond and watch the little kids squatting to see the tadpoles. After school, the campus takes on a second life with soccer and dance, volleyball and theater, all these things to make us well-rounded or tire us out.

Mike and Maile are strolling down from the chapel steps, and I wonder where they're coming from, or if they're just doing the same thing I'm doing. I walk back to the gym, far enough behind them, but close enough to note the way he is with her, deferential, soft, entirely different from the way he was with Whitney. You want to be the chill, cool girl, yet you don't. You'd rather someone just hold your hand.

I veer off at the end of the pool and wait at the bottom of the steps to the studio. I can hear the seniors practicing their graduation song—a song about unity and aloha, the bonds that will remain in their hearts. They harmonize, they project, and it brings tears to my eyes, as a live song will, the way when words are sung, they sound like a beautiful truth that can be lived.

About fifteen minutes later, they file out, and I feel like I'm watching graduation. Soon they'll be at the Blaisdell Arena,
singing their songs, the girls in their white holoku dresses and haku leis, the boys in their suits and long maile leis draped around their necks. Ninety-nine percent of them off to college, off the rock of Oahu.

After they leave I'm alone with the sounds of clanking steel from the weight room next door, shouts and whistles from the track above, and then I hear doors from Forrest Hall open upstairs. A few girls walk down the steps and then there's Whitney walking by herself. She seems to be pondering something, or maybe she's just still in a zone. When she gets toward the bottom, I say, “Namaste,” with a shrug, a smile, a look that says,
Can't we just
get this over with?

The lightness isn't returned. What's returned is a look that's hard and cold and, sadly, indifferent. She walks past me, leaving the scent of sweat and Lycra and that ubiquitous shampoo. I want to point out that I can see the bottom of her butt in those shorts, that if she fears becoming Rizzo, she better cover that ass.

“Whitney,” I say, “come on.”

She quickens her pace, and I do too, but then she ducks into the gym and I run to catch up. When I get there, she has stopped midway across the gym floor. There's a boys' volleyball game on the other side of the partition, so she has nowhere to go.

She looks to the other door, but maybe realizes how stupid this is. We're not going to play chase.

“What's up,” she says, but doesn't pose it as a question. It's a demand:
tell me wh
at you want.

Her outfit makes me feel like I'm at an advantage. In her quick head-to-toe glance I see her approval of my gray skinny
jeans and yellow, off-the shoulder tee. I've developed a bit of style, not from imitation, but by gathering things as I go. I look like I live here now.
I am who I am
because of you,
I want to say, but never will.

“Talk if you're going to talk,” she says. “I've got shit not to do.”

She looks away, twisting her mouth to hide a smile.

The last time I was in this gym was for our walking exercise with the peer counselors. That feels like ages ago, different versions of us. The sound of sneakers screeching on the floor makes me want to play ball and eat candy.

“So much has happened,” I say. “Let's . . . I don't know. Let's dissect.”

I always hear the expression
That is so high s
chool,
meaning that it's small or silly. I know that what is big now will be
so
high school
later, but I'd like to think that it all matters, that it all adds up to something.

She looks at me warily.

“What happened?” I ask. “What did I do wrong? I'm sorry about Will, okay? But I wasn't using you to get to him.”

She shrugs, widens her eyes, and I can tell she's decided to not relent.

“Come on,” I say. “We don't have to be like this.”

Sneakers screech on the floor next door. Whistles blow. I can hear grunting.

“Be like what?” she says. “I'm not doing anything. I don't want anything. What is it that you want?” She opens her arms, making me want to tackle her.

I take a deep breath. “Why didn't you tell your mom Danny didn't do anything?”

She looks away, guilty. “It's over already.”

“I know, but it's lame you let your mom think that about him. Why him?”

“Don't worry,” she says. “I've already told her I made it up. I told her it was Mike.”

I didn't think she'd ever do that.

Whitney laughs. “But she says I don't have to make things up, and she's now convinced that room service gave me bad fish—all the radiation these days. You can't trust room service.”

“No way,” I say.

She absentmindedly kicks the gym floor. “
Oui,
way,” she says. “She wouldn't dare blame Mike.”

“Why'd you say it was Danny in the first place?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I don't know. It was an answer, and I guess I liked him and felt like shit when he dissed me. And then Maile came and Mike ditched me and . . . I just . . . did . . . and I was off the chain stoned. I thought my mom was a skinny walrus.”

“Oh my God.” I laugh, and she tucks her lips in and looks away.

“Well, thanks for telling her,” I say.

“I was being like you,” she says, finally looking at me. “Always doing the right thing.”

“Obviously not,” I say.

“My brother and Lissa go together like ham and cheese. He was totally using you.”

“Maybe I was using him right back,” I say, believing it. A kind of recognition shows in her expression. We're not pitiful. We have a say in all of this. Stupid but aware. Or not stupid at all. Just testing the waters. All of this can be used. Head to
tail, the whole lot of it. Love, deception, pettiness, pain. Lust, mistakes, regret, triumph. We get to decide how to season and cook it.

“That's not very cool to Lissa,” she says.

“I know,” I say. “Or Maile.”

“I know,” she says softly.

“Well, there. We owned up to it,” I say.

She imitates the peer counselors. “Own it,” she says. “Make your mistakes your rocks. Stand on your rocks.”

I can't help but smile a bit, and she does too, betraying herself.

I use her same tone. “Okay, peeps,” I say. “Walk if you've sold someone out.”

I feel like we're in a duel. I don't look away. I hear the noise of boys, spiking balls, making calls, a whistle, a cheer. I can smell sweat. I want so badly for her to play along.

“Come on,” I say. Whitney looks ahead. “Walk.”

She takes a step, then smiles in a contemptuous way that she can't maintain. She doesn't look at me when she says, “Sorry about Danny, okay? And sorry my parents are . . . whatever. What they are. Just—I know you moved out, and . . . sorry.” She shakes her head, then begins to walk away.

“Walk if you're not your parents,” I say. She stops, her back to me.

“Walk if you feel they're always going to be bigger than you.” I take five steps. “I'm walking, by the way. Just so you know. Now walk if you know they love you and you don't need to live your life like it's your last and you can make your own path.”

“That was a bit much,” she says.

“So what?” I say. “I'm going to get all touchy-feely. Deal with it.”

She leans onto one leg and crosses her arms.

“I don't know who my dad is,” I say. “I do know that he had the Outrigger waitresses bring him his lunch while he sat in an anchored canoe. He made them wade out to him with his pork chops and Blue Hawaiian. He slept with tons of women while he was with my mom. He was like frickin' King Kamehameha, conquering a chain. But a total mainland haole. So King Cammie-ha-mee-ha.”

She turns. It looks like she's biting the inside of her cheek.

“He doesn't know I exist,” I say, and saying it out loud is hard. For the first time, I see this as being sadder for him than it is for me, and this makes me feel stronger.

“Sometimes I feel mine doesn't know I exist either,” Whitney says. “I don't think he expects anything from me.”

She plays with the end of her ponytail. It's so loud next door. Voices boom and echo, and we just stand here, quiet.

“Walk if you're ashamed sometimes,” she says. “Just totally ashamed. Totally used. By boys, girls, everyone.” She lifts her shirt to wipe her eyes, then walks, and I do too.

“Walk if you're a virgin,” she says.

I walk. She doesn't.

“Walk if you don't necessarily want to be,” I say, and I take five steps so that I'm closer to her. I continue, “Walk if you're so hot and a super-cute boy couldn't resist you.”

She looks ahead again, walks, then says, “And expected you to keep doing it, and could hardly look at you after, and would always call his girlfriend from your room.” She walks.

“And now you move on,” I say. “Onto something new.”

We're side by side now. I turn to face the same way she's facing.

“Walk if you miss your friend,” she says. I could barely hear her, but I did.

We both take five steps.

“This is so cheesy,” she says.

“I know. Go with it. Eat the
fromage.
Spread it on a cracker.”

“Oh my God,” she says. “You are so odd.”

“Okay, my turn,” I say. “Walk if you want to have a real friendship. No manipulation or lies or trying too hard. No being fake. No giving too much, no taking too much. Just be. We'll root for each other instead of bringing down.”

We walk.

“And we'll never be on Hawaii Housewives,” I add. “Unless you really want to. Then I'll support you. And watch you and make fun of you in the privacy of my own home.”

We look over at each other, laugh, and wipe tears from our eyes.

“Walk if you'll be so embarrassed if someone is watching us right now,” she says. We both jump forward. “And walk if you promise not to be one of those girls who blow kisses in photos. Or post daily bikini Instas.”

“That's so seventh grade,” I say. “Or take legsies by the pool—”

“That's the worst!”

“Or wait for guys,” I say. “Promise we won't be one of those girls.”

“Or be with guys who are with other girls,” she says. “Mike is cut off.”

“Good,” I say. “He had an ugly penis anyway. Not that I've seen a pretty one or anything.”

“Once again, you are a ball of oddness,” she says.

We don't walk anymore—it feels like we're in a ceremony, saying our vows. Vows to ourselves and to friendship.

“Walk if you've OD'd on Betty Crocker,” I say.

She grabs my hand and laughs. “Oh my God, that was seriously bad. I thought the pool was a big mouth. I was freaking the fuck out. Then mama walrus came, and that was the limit.”

I laugh, watching her reenact her freaked-out face, and begin to sing “Summer Nights.”

“Oh my God,” she says. “Stop!”

We link elbows. “Okay, walk if you're bare . . . down there,” I say.

“Whatever,” she says, hitting me with her hip. “Walk if you're rockin' an Afro down there or if you lost your bathing suit bottoms jumping off a rock, rookie.”

“Whatever,” I say right back. “Walk if you scarf five tacos, then have seriously the worst gas I've ever smelled in my life.”

She drags me toward the volleyball side.

“Walk if you've made out with your friend's brother!” she says. “Right in the open, like, moaning and shit!”

“Oh my God,” I say and look down, unlink my arm from hers, and walk the walk of shame.

“So gross,” she says. I feel the grossness, and yet it seems like a long time ago. Totally insignificant.

“His loss,” she says, walking up next to me. “Love him, but he is so me, myself, and I.” We're both quiet for a second.