Juniors (5 page)

MY MOM AND I HAVE DINNER TOGET
HER IN OUR NEW
house, at our new table. She has given me a section of the shooting script for tomorrow.

EXT. HUT—DAY

EX
TREME CLOSE-UP ON Sa
mantha, deep in conc
entration. A mosquit
o lands on her cheek
. She flinches, trie
s to peer down at it
, then slaps her fac
e.

RICK

If I could b
e a bug on that face
.

SAMANTHA

Then you'
d be dead, idiot.

RI
CK

Oh. Right.

PAN OU
T to the arid land.
A Jeep is seen in th
e distance, driving
closer to them, and
very recklessly.

RI
CK

Are we supposed t
o get in that thing?

SAMANTHA

If you're
afraid of a Jeep, th
en we're in for a lo
ng ride.

RICK looks
her over, unabashedl
y. She's wearing a l
oose, white tank top
, damp with sweat. H
er legs are golden a
nd glistening.

SAMAN
THA

Can I help you w
ith something?

RICK

Actually, I was going to offe
r to help you with s
omething.

Her eyebro
ws arch, intrigued.

RICK

Your breasts.

S
AMANTHA

Excuse me?

R
ICK

I'm the breast i
n the west. I can gi
ve you a discount wh
en we get back to th
e States.

She is dis
gusted, but he doesn
't notice. He's seri
ous, and really look
ing at them now, as
if presented with a
medical problem.

SAM
ANTHA

(mumbles)

You
've got to be kiddin
g me.

RICK

(using hand gestures)

A stro
ng C would suit your
frame. I like 'em a
little spaced apart
, not so uptight, yo
u know, and with the
nipples

(more hand
gestures to illustr
ate his thoughts)

p
ointed diagonally.

S
AMANTHA

Just shut up
right now.

The Jeep
is almost to them.

RICK

What?

SAMANTHA

Just be a bug on my face.

The Jee
p pulls up in front
of them. They stand
and dust themselves
off. They are stunne
d when they
see the
ir driver, a GIRL wh
o looks to be about
twelve. She is sitti
ng on pillows.

GIRL

Howzit! Welcome to Molo
kana.

She smiles, re
vealing a few gold t
eeth.

GIRL (CONT
'
D)

Come on already, slo
wpokes. I got work t
o do, people to see,
eel to eat.

RICK

Di
d she just say eel?

SAMANTHA

She just sa
id eel.

• • •

I give the script back to my mom. “Can you say ‘nipples' on TV?”

“I guess we'll see,” she says. “It's bad, isn't it?” She takes a sip of wine. A soft light descends through the trees.

I eat the zucchini that's fallen out of my burrito. “It's fun. I like Samantha, and Rick is so awful that he's kind of awesome. And your legs are golden and glistening.”

“Remember my friend on
Lost
?” she says.

“Of course. Can you pass the sour cream?”

She passes me the little white bowl. Even when it's just us, she always plates things in serving dishes.

“She got twenty thousand an episode when it first aired, and then when it became a hit, two hundred and fifty an episode.”

“That's so cool.”

“This isn't
Lost
,” she says, tapping the script. “But here's to hoping for a back nine for twenty-two episodes!” She raises her glass, then leans in for a messy bite. Back nine is an order from the studios if they like the series, bringing it from thirteen episodes to twenty-two. I raise my glass of water. Here's to hoping. I look down at the script.

“Of course they made the local girl silly,” I say.

“I know,” she says, with a full mouth. “Just wait—later, Jenkins—the main guy—gets in a fight with the local doctor because the local wants to cure a patient by chanting.”

“That's so loathsome. But this is so good,” I say, chewing. “Spicy.”

“It's the chorizo,” she says. “And do you like the sweet potato in it?”

“Love,” I say.

“So,” she says, and I immediately know she's going to ask about Whitney. She finishes her bite. “How was this afternoon?” She says it casually, as if she hasn't been dying to ask me this question for hours. “What did Whitney have to say?”

She has a hopeful glimmer in her eye, and this time I know it's a real question, unlike “How was school?” She wants to know everything.

“Nothing, really,” I say.

“She had to have said something.”

I take my time with my next bite. I shrug my answer. “Not really,” I say.

“Nothing?” She takes a sip of her wine. “God, this wine is good.”

“Nothing that stands out,” I say.

“Well, do you like her?”

“Jeez, Mom, relax.”

“I'm relaxed. Very relaxed. Pass the cream back. My mouth is on fire.”

We continue to eat, bluegrass playing, the sun gone.

“Did you guys make plans to—”

I let my fork clang against my plate. “No, we didn't make plans!” I yell.

She laughs. She loves riling me up, and I like pretending I'm riled—it's our little rhythm.

“I think it's fun, that's all,” she says. “We both have friends who live by us. Maybe you guys can carpool.”

“Oh my God, Mom, she's not my friend, and I'm sure she carpools with her actual friends or her brother.”

Some of her friends I can't believe are in high school. They look like supermodels and act like twenty-year-olds. It's strange to feel so much younger than people your own age, something I never felt at Storey. I'm in classes with a few of Whitney's friends, and what surprises me is that some are really quiet and some are really smart. Brooke Breene, for instance. When we sit down in history, she whips on her glasses and takes notes in a plain Moleskine notebook. It made me rearrange my thoughts when I got here. The pretty girls can be the smart girls too.

Mom doesn't push the carpooling question any further, maybe not wanting to bring attention to the obvious: Whitney
has her own friends and doesn't need any more. No one needs more friends at the end of her junior year.

“Okay,” she says, holding up her hands. “Anyway, Friday they've invited us over for dinner. So we can all get to know one another.”

“Fine,” I say.

“Think you'll be happy here?” she asks. “So far, so good?”

“So far, so okay.” I wonder if life will always be this way—the weight of good things sinking in, creating space that needs to be filled with more. Will I always feel guilty for having enough yet still wanting to tag on additions? Or is it good to keep wanting, because that means you feel worthy of more?

“This is our house, you know,” she says. “You need to feel at home.”

But I can't. Our house feels like the staff house.

“Give me a chance, then,” I say. “Are you happy? Is this what you want?”

She looks me in the eye while she chews. She makes to speak, then wipes her mouth with her napkin.

“You need some roadside assistance?” I ask.

“What?”

“For your stall.”

She laughs. “I'll always be happy with you around.”

“I could make maple syrup out of that sap.”

“That wasn't as funny,” she says.

“Yes it was.” I lightly bang my fist on the table for emphasis.

“I'm just trying to make this work,” she says. “Make our time here work.”

“But we can't stay at this house the whole time, can we?”

“Until you graduate?” She looks toward the kitchen window, then around at the room. “No, I doubt we would.”

“Good,” I say. “Because it's weird.”

“It will be less weird,” she says. “We'll get used to it, and you may really like Whitney, and Will seems like a nice boy.”

Will West does not seem like a nice boy. He's even more intimidating than his sister. He seems surrounded by a velvet rope—like you'd have to have a certain look to join him. He wears polo shirts and probably hashtags everything with
#winni
ng.
Still, he is pretty fine. If he talked to me, I'd talk back.

“Yeah, a nice kid who probably guffaws instead of laughs,” I say.

“Oh, come on,” my mom says. “You don't even know him. Give them a chance.”

“Stop pushing,” I say.

I remember when I was younger, I'd eat quickly, then get up to play piano while my mom finished the rest of her meal, serenading her. I stopped when she started dating a man who'd give me advice after each piece I played. He was the manager of a suit store and acted as if that were the epitome of success. He had a daughter—I was ten and she was thirteen at the time. She talked like a Latina gang member and told poorly constructed lies.

I enjoyed ripping the seams out of them, but hated the way she stood by the lies for so long, blinking her eyes rapidly and moving her head from side to side like the pit bull bobblehead in her father's leased Hummer. Once, she actually had the gall to think I'd believe that her dad was so rich that for her thirteenth birthday they flew to the Congo on a private jet to party “jungle-style.”

I don't know what brought me to this memory, maybe the way my mom seems to be forcing the Wests on me, just as they had forced the daughter and me together, two people from incompatible habitats. Except in this case, I feel like the other girl, the lamer, the lesser.

“It's just that . . . I know you can be abrupt and grumpy, and I just want you to be nice and positive—”

“Oh my God, Mom, stop.”

“Punahou's a very hard school to get into.” She looks down at her plate, moving her fork around.

“I know, but I got in.”

“They helped us, okay? Eddie helped us. He helped you. Even with a record like yours, it's almost impossible to transfer this late. He made it happen. And now we're here, and this is helping too. It's a good place to be until we know what the show will do.”

“I see,” I say, sitting back. A messy picture gets cleaned up. “So we need them,” I state.

“Fine, Lei, yes.” She puts her fork down and sits back, her face set with confidence. “Yes, we do. We need them.”

Does a short name like Lea really need a nickname? It's never bothered me until this second. Don't be lazy! Say my name! A flush travels from my face, then down through my arms.

“So are you saying I wouldn't have gotten in on my own?” I ask.

“Sweetie,” she says, “I don't think anyone could get in this late on their own.”

I take a bite of the coleslaw, which was once delicious, and now I can barely taste it. I hear a light knock on our door. My
mom and I exchange glances. I take a sip of water to wash my anger down. “Come in,” she says.

Before either of us gets up, the door opens slightly and Melanie West steps in or, rather, sticks her head in.

“Hi!” Melanie says, and my mom squeals back, “Hi!”

“I didn't want to intrude, but—”

“No, no, come in!” my mom says, getting up. I follow, grinning and nodding like a geisha.

“Lea, this is Mrs. West. Melanie.” She gives me that Mom look. The be-well-mannered-so-I-look-good look, and I keep my end of the bargain—I won't be abrupt or gloomy—though I refuse to squeal.

“Hello,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, I've met you before,” she says. “You were just a little girl. Look at you!”

I can't.

“I've heard so much about you!” she says, and her smile reminds me of mine when I'm waiting for someone to hurry up and take the picture. “God, Ali, she looks just like you.” People have said this so many times before, but I just don't see it. Melanie has on a floor-length, silky dress. Her hair is long, sleek, and thick like a pelt. I keep a smile plastered on my face, even though I know it's as fake as hers.

“I don't want to intrude—”

“You're not intruding at all!” my mom says.

“I just wanted to make sure everything was okay here.”

“Oh my gosh,” my mom says. “Are you kidding me? We feel like we're on vacation.” My mom gives me another prodding look.