Juniors (16 page)

ON THE WALK B
ACK HOME FROM WHITNE
Y'S TONIGHT,
I trip on a sprinkler, fall, and laugh hard under the moon. I immediately want to tell Whitney, then think how nice it is to have someone to tell things to. We ended up having a really fun night, and I have the sensation of finally clicking into something. While it's been a little unplanned—like I'm a doctor on call—it's still satisfying. How was I ever hesitant? What about Kailua was I homesick for? It doesn't miss me.

I continue across the grass, the cool night blowing through my clothes, a smile on my face from imagining Will driving through the gates, seeing me in the moonlight like an innocent heroine in the fields or the moors.
Lea
in the Lawns
by Leahi Landscaping. He has come back for me. He couldn't wait to leave the dinner. I play the loop of our encounter, both the real one on the daybed and the imagined one, until I get to my front door.

At home, I watch a cooking show on TV and eat a huge piece of the cake Melanie got for us. I may have drunk too much. Drunk? Drank? I stand up to test my skills, balancing on one foot, then the other. I laugh, keep balancing, then lean forward, arms out like Superman, one leg extended behind me, and of course, that's when my mom walks in.

“What are you doing?” she says. “It's eleven thirty and a school night.”

“Then I should probably stop doing my yoga routine,” I say, articulating each word, which is kind of hard.

I sit back down on the couch, little stars blinking around my head.

She puts her keys on the counter. “Did you have a good time?”

I watch the television. I can tell she's looking me over.

“I wouldn't call it a good time,” I say, because I want her to think that I've sacrificed something.

“What would you call it, then?”

“Call what?” I should have escaped and gone to bed earlier.

My mom stands across the room by the kitchen, then slowly walks toward me. She looks so composed and beautiful, it scares me.

“I asked if you had a good time,” she says. “You said you wouldn't call it that, and so I—”

“Just a time,” I say. “I had a time. We ate, that's all. Devoured your meal like savages. And the cake.” I shove my hand toward the cake. I am the savage. I had a little delicate piece with Whitney, then a much larger one alone. “Whitney said to bring it back here. Her mom got it at Diamond Head Market—”

“Yes, I know,” she says. “As a way to say thank you for the dinner I made, and for all I've done.” There's a strong note of tiredness in the way she says this, as if she's repeating something that's been said to her over and over again.

She gets a fork from the kitchen and walks over to the table. She looks at me curiously, then sits down and takes a bite from the cake without cutting a slice.

“Did you have fun?” I ask. “Doing whatever you were doing?”

“I was at the club,” she says. “Dining.”

“Dining at the club,” I say in a posh voice that doesn't quite deliver. “Didn't you go there last night too?”

“No,” she says. “We were going to, but then we went to some food and wine festival. Tonight was just a casual dinner with some of their friends.”

“Sounds lovely,” I say and put my feet up on the coffee table, which makes one of the magazines fall. “Ouch,” I say, and don't know why.

“It was lovely,” she says. “It's so pretty down there. And good to meet people outside of work.”

She's like a new girl at school, finally making friends, and I don't know why I can't be happier for her. She's feeling the same way I am, experiencing that same satisfying click.

“Gloria's great, and this one girl, Pi'i?” She laughs to herself. “She's hilarious. You should meet her. She's just so witty and out there. She says these outrageous things—”

“Like what?”

My mom puts the fork down, still smiling over the memory, still sailing on the buzz created by connecting to someone. “I can't think of anything on the spot. Just everything. I guess—”

“I had to be there.”

I've brought her down from her flight. “Yeah,” she says. “I talked all about you. Mostly everyone there has kids who go to Punahou. You probably know a lot of their daughters. Whitney's friends . . .” She looks up at me, and I can see something awful: pity. “A woman named Vicky said she met you. She has a place on the Big Island she said we could use.”

“Vicky Sand?” I say, much too loudly.

“Yes, on the Kohala coast. I guess it's this super-private—”

“God, she's horrible! She's like Boobzilla. She wants to be on that Real Housewives show. They're filming it here, you know. That's why they're nice to you in the first place. They want you to help them get on the show or have you introduce them to Bradley Cooper or some crap.”

My mom gets up and takes the cake into the kitchen. I look ahead, but can hear her doing dishes, putting things away. It all seems to take forever. I should have stormed out, but I feel glued to the sofa. I can see out of the corner of my eye that she's walking my way, and then she sits down next to me, making the sofa dip.

“Breathe,” she says.

“I am.”

She puts her face right up to mine. “Breathe in my face. Blow out air.”

I inhale and blow, moving my lips so the breath goes to the side.

“You've been drinking,” she says.

“So have you.” I try to scoot away from her without her knowing.

“I'm allowed to drink,” she says. “Put your feet down.”

“Why?” I say.

“Because it's bad manners, that's why.”

“No one's here.”

“Lea!” she says—the hard emphasis on the
e
like she always does when she's angry, which isn't often.

“What?” I say. I put my feet down.

“Where were you drinking?” She looks both angry and worried.

“At your friend's house,” I say, emphasizing right back. “Where you put me.”

“That is totally unacceptable.”

“Yes, I know,” I say. We are locked in angry stares, and I can tell she's out of her element. She doesn't know what to do with me, having never been in this situation before. Tears are beginning to glaze her eyes, and her weakness makes me bolder, meaner.

“I only drank because Whitney offered it to me,” I say. “Just trying to have good manners.”

“Cut the sass,” she says. I scoff, and she looks tempted to smack me. Her hands are in fists, and I imagine her heart is racing. Mine is.

“You cannot drink here,” she says. “Or anywhere. If Whitney does it, or offers it, it doesn't mean you have to take it. If she jumps off a bridge, you don't have to jump off a bridge too.” Even she looks disappointed with this statement.

“But I would,” I say. “If it was into deep, clean water. That's my favorite! And you do whatever Melanie does.”

She closes her eyes and takes a long breath, and I take one too, in imitation, but then I get tired. Tired of my own behavior, tired of this fight. I know I will cry when I get to my room.

“Help Whitney out, okay?”

My anger comes racing back. “What do you mean, help her out? What is that? One of your job requirements? Cooking, socializing, and outsourcing me?”

She looks toward the television. “I don't want . . . tension. These people are being very nice to us, and—”

“What does that have to do with anything? So I owe them something too? Is this part of the deal?”

“There is no deal,” she says. “Stop saying that. There's no obligation. We don't have any obligations. I want you to have friends. I'm happy you're getting along so well, but now I'm in an awkward position. I'm going to have to tell Melanie.”

Now I wonder what's made her angrier: that I was drinking or that she'll have to tell Melanie, putting an end to both my playdates and hers. I shake my head and smirk when she looks at me.

“So tell Melanie,” I say. “Maybe she'll replace you with someone better.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” my mom says in calm way, which makes me feel just that, like I don't know anything.

“And I
will
tell Melanie,” she says, challenging me right back. “I don't want to, but I will. We talk, and . . . I know Whitney is a bit distracted in school. She's going through things. Her dad—”

“Whitney's probably going through things because her parents just leave her home alone all the time and her dad's losing it. You're the one who's put me in this environment.”

“Don't speak that way about Eddie,” she says. “It's horrible what he's going through.”

“Sorry,” I say, ashamed. How hard it must be. “I know.”

“I realize I've been out a lot. I . . .” She stops, and I look at her. “I don't think Melanie accepts the severity of it all.”

Before I can ask her to explain, she continues, “And the kids are having a hard time with it too. It's a big weight. I think Melanie was looking forward to having someone sensible around. Someone with her head on her shoulders.”

“I'm not the nanny,” I say. “And who says I have my head on my shoulders?” I want to go wild. Drink and drink, never come home, have guys touch my body of work. I'm tempted to start now—strut right out of here, find Will, and tell him to get all Jenkins on my ass. Though I wouldn't know where to go. And I'd be afraid an alarm would go off at the gate. And he's with Lissa, who I thought he was tired of! He's supposed to go forth and bring back frickin' knowledge!

“I think you should get to bed,” my mom says. She looks so tired. “We'll talk tomorrow. We both need to get up early.”

I think of Spitzer and his assignment.

My job is to help my mom look good. It's to be her junior, her daughter, to be the daughter of someone who will always be bigger than me. My job is to be a good houseguest, a good recipient.

But right now I want nothing more than to be an owner, a giver, a person who has her own fabulous life, wearing heels on a Tuesday night. I want nothing more than to quit my job.

“Maybe I'm having a hard time too,” I say. “Maybe not having a dad is a big weight for me. Ever think of that? That I have my own issues?”

“I think of that all the time,” my mom says. “You've always said you don't, but I've wanted you to admit that you do. You care. You feel things.”

I'm stunned that she threw this back on me, almost like a trap.

“I love you,” she says. “I'm proud of you.”

Don't s
ay that.
That's what makes the tears come, and I'm glad I'm facing the other direction.

FRIDAY
AND SPRING BREAK IS
HERE. HOPEFULLY, I W
ON'T
still be grounded for it, though compared to everyone else, I may as well be. Everyone on campus seems ecstatic, and I'm only pretending to be. It's like New Year's or Halloween, something you're supposed to be excited about, but if you have no plans, the holidays seem to be making fun of you.

All day there's been chitchat across the campus. I overhear the same people talking about their plans and using the exact same lines.

Malia Lautenbach: “My mom's making me go with her to Tahiti. She dives for shells for her jewelry line? So . . .”

Chris Watanabe: “Tavarua, baby.” Followed by a high five. “Let's do this.”

There's a bunch of guys going on this surf trip, apparently, and it's something they've done before. They surf all day, then return to their own island and drink kava, whatever that is. “Do you all jack each other off, too?” I hear Coco Kettley ask.

Celeste Baldwin will go to her cabin on Molokai; Isabelle Kehau's going to her family's house in Vail; Emma Emerson is off to Park City. Everyone has GoPros to put on their boards, just in case we want to see pictures of them shredding.

Skiing in Vail/Steamboat/Park City. Going to the Molokai/Maui/Big Island house/cabin/condo. Surf trip: Tavarua/Indo/Kauai. The variations on the lines.

What are you
doing, Lea?
The question I've been dreading every day this week before realizing no one really cares. Just chilling here, I say when someone happens to ask. Or I say that I'm planning on surfing a lot. The most common reaction to my plans is that the person I'm talking to sometimes just loves staying home. “It's just so easy.” Then they'll look at me as if I'm doing something they envy, but I know they don't.

The school day feels illegitimate, a charade that even the teachers are playing at. I walk out of math at the same time Danny gets out of his class. We bump into each other, a silent hello and agreement that we'll walk somewhere together.

I take off my sweatshirt that I keep for classes and remove once I hit the humid air. Danny sniffles. “Fuckin' vog,” he says, and hocks a loog.

“Only a guy could do that,” I say. “Can you imagine if I just spat?”

I try to make the sound he just made and sound like a hissing cat.

“It would be cool if you spat.”

“No, it wouldn't,” I say.

“What are you doing for break?” Danny asks. We stop by the steps to the library.

“Nothing,” I say.
I just want to
hang with you,
I don't say, mainly because the thought surprises me. I miss this. Being with someone who knows me, someone who knows both my strengths and weaknesses.

“I'm not doing anything either,” he says. He puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans and clears his throat again, then spits. “Sorry,” he says.

That's another thing about guys—they can get away with this behavior and look good doing it. I don't wish I were a guy, but I love being around them—their humor, their wildness, and how these traits seem to lend themselves to me in their company. I don't feel this way with Will, though, not yet. I'm more reserved with him, still nervous, and yet the true parts of me seem lit up, or at least like they have the potential to shine with him.

Laura Sherman walks by, a cute girl with freckles as big as papaya seeds. She's in practically all of my classes. Months ago, I'd have considered her a friend.

“Hey, hey,” she says.

“Hey, hey,” I say, matching her tone.

“See you in Chinois.” She walks past us.

“Can't wait,” I say, in that singsong voice that I realize I only use with other girls and always when I don't know them that well. It's like a shield from awkwardness. It's small-talk voice. I use this voice a lot.

“We should surf over break,” Danny says in a flat voice.

“Oh,
now
we should,” I say, remembering his dis last week. “Now that Whitney's going to.”

“What?” he says. “No.” He looks away. I feel like we're arguing. There's an awkward silence.

I don't want to ask if he likes her, knowing how I'll sound. Why should I care?

“I want to jump off Waimea rock,” I say. I've never done that before.”

“I should take you,” he says. “You're too haole to go by yourself.” He steps closer, peering down at me and puffing out his chest.

“Oh, please,” I say. “You're perpetuating stereotypes. I can handle, Randle. I go huge.”

“Oh my God, Donkey, was that your pidgin? That made King Kamehameha roll in his grave.”

“He wouldn't have spoken pidgin, idiot.”

“Still, he's rolling.” Danny sniffs, something he always does after being cute.

“You're rolling,” I say, and can't help but look around. It's fun to laugh with someone in public. That may be superficial, but it's true, and it feels good to have our rhythm intact.

I take a few steps back so he's not towering over me.

“Don't,” he says. “I like how much taller I am than you. I like looking down on you.”

“Impossible,” I say, rising up on my toes. “That needs to be earned, and not by inches.”

I see a few of his football buddies walking over and know our easy banter is going to be usurped by grunts and high fives that are less high and more like swinging a tennis racquet. I'm not crazy about the football players. They're so serious and stoic, which I think is really a cover for a lack of speaking skills. They're not funny like Danny, or friendly, and they always seem to look at me as if I'm some kind of weirdo.

Here are Ryan, Luke, Kalani, and Win Wong (everyone calls him by his first and last name—both just roll off the tongue). True to form, they go through the whole hand-slapping, “waddup” routine and then they mumble to each other quietly
and far above me physically, and I just stand there and nod while they form this kind of arc and gaze out at nothing.

Seriously, no one is talking. It's like they're bouncers, looking all tough and flexing. Girls cross in front of us, and if they like them, they'll tilt their heads in hello. If the girls aren't up to par, they do nothing at all. If they're super hot, they'll pass and the guys will turn their heads ever so slightly and mutter things like “chee” and “shaddup.”

These are expressions everyone around here uses when something pleases them. “Chee” is said enthusiastically; “shaddup,” dryly and in response to something that looks good, like a pizza or a girl. “Shoots” means “okay, let's do it.”

Michelle and Liana pass and receive a “damn” and a kind of sucking noise.

I sort of get Michelle—she's all sporty and cute—but Liana Carriage is normal looking. I may even be prettier. It's that yeast additive thing again, her clothes, her voice—that popular-girl, clipped-alto drawl—the fact that her dad owns all the Carriage car dealerships, this retrofits her look, making her hot.

Mike Matson and Maile Beaucage walk by, holding hands and looking like they're strolling the grounds of their kingdom. I consider saying something—commenting on something or asking about these guys' plans for break, but know I'd embarrass Danny or myself. I imagine them not even answering.

“'Kay, I'm out,” I say to Danny. He holds out his hand for me to slap. Really? Must I? I hate high-fiving or low-fiving, and he wouldn't do it if these guys weren't here, but maybe he's helping me out, showing he's down with me and not just letting me shuffle off, muttering spastically. I slap.

“Hit me up over break.”

“Yeah, okay.” I will hit you up. Maybe this is male singsong. I walk away toward Griffiths Hall, and Danny calls, “You're going to the hotel, though, right?”

“What?” I turn back. “What hotel?”

“The Wests' hotel. One of 'em in Waikiki.”

I shrug. I have no idea what he's talking about. “Yeah, um, no,” I say. I want to keep walking, so he doesn't see my irritation, and I need to keep walking to get to class. The quad is emptying, and there's something horrifying about getting yelled at in Chinese.

“I'll talk to you after class,” I call.

The campus looks empty—like everyone's gone, say, skiing or shell diving. I hurry off, seeing Laura heading into the room and am annoyed by the late reveal. We could have been talking about the hotel the entire time instead of grunting like gorillas. What is happening there? I want to know, and I don't want to know. Or, I want to be told, but I don't want to have anyone see my reaction, pretending not to care that I didn't hear it first or, worse, faking indifference to not being invited. Sometimes when you think everyone is doing something better than you are, you're right.

In the classroom it hits me: an idea about why I wasn't invited. Actually, a few theories, one of them being that Whitney is mad at me because maybe I got her in trouble. My mom hasn't told me whether she told Melanie, so I don't know for sure. I haven't spoken to Whitney since Tuesday night. I've been grounded this week, which has pretty much made no difference in my life. I've basically continued on my not-awesome
trajectory. School, home, studying, cheehoo. We're not texting friends—I don't even have her number—so I have no idea what's happening on her end.

Maybe I'm not invited because unbeknownst to Danny, the whole hotel thing is canceled due to her grounding. Maybe I'll be the one who has to say to Danny, “Oh, you didn't know?”

“Lea, will you read the next paragraph aloud, please,” Ms. Chun says.

I look down at my book, searching for
fuyu,
the last word Derek Kwan read. I glance up at everyone in the circle we've formed with our desks, feeling their gazes. I bring shame to the class—everyone teases Laura and me with this saying, since we're the only ones who aren't Chinese. This seems to give us a little leeway to be idiots.

“Um,” I say.

“Um,” Ms. Chun imitates me. “I don't see ‘um.'” Her derisive jokes are never funny, even though by her puffed-up follow-up expressions, she must think they are. She doesn't hold humor right. She's all thumbs.

I place my finger near the bottom of the page. “
,” I say with confidence, then keep reading. I've always enjoyed reading aloud and am glad to have gotten through the paragraph. Ms. Chun looks contrite, or like she's hiding a small bird in her mouth. Why do some teachers seem to want you to fail?

This thought stays with me during the rest of class as I'm thinking of break and plans and friends and why we all can't want what's best for one another.