Juniors

by Kaui Hart Hemmings

  “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 #winning. 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.

  “It’s great,” I say.

  “That is so nice of you to say,” she says, as if we’re politely accepting the conditions of an old cabin.

  “It’s a funky place, so I just wanted to make sure you knew the ins and outs.” She looks around like she’s checking things off. There’s something intense and searching in her eyes. “I don’t know if you’ve run the dishwasher yet, but there’s a switch under the sink, and if the washer isn’t working, then just flip the switch.”

  “Got it,” my mom says. “Thank you so much for everything. The fruit, the wine, the house,” she says laughing. I cringe.

  “It’s nothing,” Melanie says and looks up. “The ceiling fans are silly, aren’t they?”

  I look up at the fans. They’re like revolving banana leaves.

  “They were sort of the trend back in the day.” She gives “back in the day” little air quotes, and I can tell she’s one of those people who probably air quote a lot, and in all the wrong places.

  “They’re beautiful,” my mom says.

  Melanie’s eyes dart around the room and I wonder if she’s going to comment on every object, every appliance, every cushion.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?” my mom says.

  Not a second goes by before Melanie says, “I’d love one!” She walks expertly to the kitchen and retrieves a glass from the cupboard over the microwave. “That’s so nice of you.”

  “I love this kitchen,” my mom says, walking to the counter with the bottle of wine and filling Melanie’s glass.

  “Oh, thanks.” She looks around her kitchen. “Basic, really. I’m so sorry all these things are still in here. We use it as a guest cottage, so whatever you don’t want, just let me know. Robbie’s coming this week to fix the light outside your garage. If you want him to box up anything that you don’t—”

  “We’re fine,” my mom says. “Unless we shouldn’t use them—”

  “No! Please use everything. I just didn’t want it to get in your way, or if it’s not to your taste.”

  “No, it’s all lovely.”

  This is so tedious. I look back and forth, back and forth. Can’t they just drink their wine and be quiet?

  “We actually ended up keeping a lot of our boxes packed,” my mom says. “We’re leaving them in the garage if that’s okay.”

  “If you want, I can have them moved to our storage,” Melanie says.

  “Oh no,” my mom says. “Don’t bother. Everything is perfect. Cheers.”

  “Cheers!” Melanie says, and they clink glasses and take a sip. “I’m so happy you guys are here!”

  “We’re so happy we’re here,” my mom says.

  Is this what friendships are like when you’re grown up? Is this what I have to look forward to? My beautiful, fun mother seems like a different person. She’s standing awkwardly too, with her hand holding her elbow.

  “I’m going to go do my homework,” I say, even though it’s Saturday.

  “I wish Whitney would do the same,” Melanie says, then touches my mom’s arm and launches into a conversation about how her housecleaner can come to the cottage unless my mom has her own. We do not have our own. We are the housecleaner. My mom gives me a look, a kind of good-night nod. I know she’d prefer to be with just me, how we were at the table, making our home.

  I walk to my room, running my hand along the white wall. Do Whitney and Will know their dad helped get me into Punahou? Should I care? It’s the way the world works, I guess. No one can do things on their own when it comes to stuff like this. The Wests are probably used to giving favors. They’re probably used to determining someone’s good fortune.

  7

  WHENEVER I PUT THE BLINKER ON TO PULL INTO THE Wests’ driveway, I have a feeling of pride, like the person behind me or heading toward me must be wondering who I am. I wonder if my mom feels this way too—if she becomes the woman who lives here.

  Today, Wednesday, I do the same thing I’ve done all week after school—open the gate, drive right up to our cottage, click the garage open, then seal myself in. No exploring, no meandering. I don’t want to run into anyone, but today I stop on the first step and look at the yard between our houses—a vast divide I haven’t yet crossed. I don’t feel like I can. Since Saturday, I’ve heard and seen cars coming in and out, lights going on and off. Mainly, I see the yardmen. I have yet to meet Eddie or Will.

  “Hello, hello!” I hear. Melanie comes around from the back of the cottage. “Sorry!” she says. “We’re in your space.”

  “Oh, no problem.”

  A man is by her side, a tool belt around his waist. His face is red and dusty. “This is Robbie. Handy Robbie.” She touches his back delicately, as if he might be a germ.

  “And Will—where are you? Will?” She leans back to look for him.

  Oh God. Will walks out from behind the garage, looking at his phone, then ends a text or something, looks up, and smiles. I’m shocked by the way his whole face lights up. She touches his shoulder and, I think, sort of pushes him toward me. She waves me over, and I walk down the steps while they wait, feeling their eyes on me.

  “Hi,” I say, at the bottom.

  “Hi.” He scrunches his nose, which is super cute. It’s kind of like he’s telling me that this is a little awkward for him too.

  “Do you know each other?” Melanie asks.

  “We don’t,” he says. “Nice to meet you.” He sticks out his hand, and I shake it. It’s smooth on the outside, callused on the inside.

  “You too,” I say. “I think I’ve seen you around Punahou. I’m going to high school there.” Why did I say high school? Why not just school? “I’m living in the cottage now. With my mom.” He grins as though I’d said something far more interesting, or maybe he totally misheard me. We’re living in the cottage. I’m totally high and cool.

  “Welcome,” he says, looking down, then back up at my eyes.

  “Yes,” I say, for some stupid reason.

  “Will was just leaving for the golf course,” Melanie says. “Hon, maybe show Lea the club and the neighborhood before you go?”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” I say. “I’m fine. I don’t want—”

  “Can you do that, hon?”

  Melanie doesn’t have a job that I know of, yet she’s wearing a nice dress, along with big earrings and thin gold bracelets. I feel like she’s always either very dressed up or wearing exercise clothes. She’s different from the other women here—the paddlers, loud and confident, the moms in their bikinis and caps. I can’t imagine her in the ocean.

  “Um, sure, I have some time,” Will says, glancing again at his phone.

  “Thanks, hon,” she says, then goes back to talking with Robbie.

  “Ready?” Will asks. He seems to scan me, toe to head.

  “Yeah,” I say, at once mortified that this is happening, yet inexplicably grateful to Melanie for making it seem as though I don’t have a choice.

  • • •r />
  I feel self-conscious sitting next to Will, even though he’s looking ahead. I lift my thighs so they don’t splay out on the seat. We drive down Kahala Avenue, and the day has become even more beautiful. It hasn’t gotten hotter. Just clear blue skies and a crisp air.

  “So,” Will says, “this is the ’hood.” He looks quickly at me, then back at the road and smiles. “Waialae’s down thataway. Great golf course and tennis program.”

  “When do you need to golf?” I ask.

  “About an hour,” he says.

  “Sorry,” I say. “You don’t really need to show me around. I’ve been here before so—”

  “It’s fine,” he says and looks over at me and down at my legs. “I don’t mind.”

  He drives with one hand on the wheel, looking so much like a man, like someone who could take care of you your whole life. For some reason, I don’t want to like him or think he’s cute. Maybe to set myself apart from everyone else. He looks like someone who’s never been refused.

  “You can drop me somewhere if you want,” I say.

  “You want me to drop you on the side of the road?”

  I look at the mansions on the side of the road, some that put me in mind of Tuscany, others Greece, some . . . who knows? Beverly Hills in the eighties? What’s up with the lion statues and the turquoise turtles on iron gates?

  “I meant if you want to get to golf earlier, it’s fine. I could just sneak back to the cottage.”

  “My mom would see the gate opening,” he says. “She’ll be doing yoga in about a minute on the lawn.” He changes the station on the radio, landing on an R&B love song. I hope he’s not leaving it here because he thinks I like this sort of thing.

  “She got an idea for me to drive you around,” he says. “It’s best just to go with her ideas.” I’m put at ease, comfortable with the fact that all mothers are so similar—friend pushers. Social curators.

  “She does yoga at a certain time?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” He laughs. “She hires this girl from the studio to do it with her and her friends.”

  “Why don’t they just go to the studio?”