Juniors

by Kaui Hart Hemmings

  We walk around the side, my heart beating as if we’re stealing something. It’s like passing a police car and feeling guilty when you’ve done nothing wrong.

  “This place is really nice,” Danny says. We’re on a little stone path between a rock wall and the side of the house. He stops walking, admiring I don’t know what. The garbage cans? Maybe it’s because we’re on the side of the house, the place that most homes use as a storage area for things that shouldn’t really be stored. It’s where the junk is kept, where things turn black from dampness and mold, where beach gear and toys and odds and ends are rarely seen and never organized.

  I’ve noticed this before in the homes of super-wealthy friends—everything is so clean, and some worker is always there cleaning it. Not that my mom and I are messy, but cleanliness is hard work. I feel like I sweep, do dishes, scrub, sponge, mop—only to see more ants creeping in or more dirt accumulating. This house is probably always immaculate, even in the nooks.

  We walk onto the yard in front of the house, and I look down, hoping not to see anyone. The ocean beyond is cast with a peaceful orange and silvery afternoon light.

  The waves are washed out, but it still looks good, especially since it’s all ours. I look back at the house behind us. Again, my first reaction isn’t in response to the beauty and grandeur of the place—it’s to the maintenance of all the windows. I feel the wet salt on my face.

  “Shall we?” Danny says, looking out to the surf.

  I see steps to the far right of the property that lead to a gate.

  “Four, two, three, two,” a voice behind us says.

  We turn to see Whitney.

  “The combo to the lock.” She’s on a daybed on the patio, fanning herself with a magazine. She’s in jean shorts and an orange bikini top.

  “Thanks,” I say, seeing the lock on the gate, though it’s short enough to hop over if I wanted. “I hope it’s okay that we’re out here. We could always use the beach access if—”

  “Why wouldn’t it be okay?” she says. She’s chewing on something—a stick of some sort. Sugarcane?

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t really know the rules.”

  “There aren’t any rules,” she says.

  “Awesome,” Danny says behind me.

  “Hi, Danny,” Whitney says. She smiles while biting on the sugarcane. She looks so comfortable, not adjusting or fidgeting, just lounging in her own body.

  “What’s up, Whit?” Danny says. I look back at him and notice his Adam’s apple bob up toward a flirtatious, perhaps nervous, grin.

  I look down at my suit and legs, wishing I had shaved. Whitney’s eyes are still on Danny, then move back to me.

  “I just didn’t know if your parents want privacy on this side or—”

  The place is so big, with so many different places to enter, I wonder if they even see each other.

  “It’s not like you’re confined to your quarters,” Whitney says. “No line in the sand. Or the grass or whatever.” She waves the stick as she talks. “Seriously,” she says. “Of course, it’s fine. It’s encouraged.”

  “See?” Danny says. He winks at me. “It’s encouraged.”

  I shrug my board higher up into the nook of my underarm. I follow Whitney’s lazy gaze out to the ocean, then realize she’s looking at Danny again.

  “That’s another thing,” I say. “It’s great I’m allowed to use this area and whatnot, but is it okay if I have friends—if I have Danny—around?”

  “Jeez, enough with your worrying,” she says. “It’s fine, it’s good. And whatnot.” She purses her lips and smiles. She looks like she’s on vacation or has just gotten a massage.

  “All right, all right,” I say, making light of it all.

  “Come surf?” Danny says to her.

  Of course she’ll say no. Her hair looks perfect, the water looks cold, plus she’s reading about fashion and sucking on a stick.

  “Sure,” she says.

  She stands, then takes off her shorts, under which are light blue bottoms. She’s thin, but fills out the suit in all the right places. Her inner thighs don’t touch, and her legs are like a dancer’s. I’m aware of Danny behind me, watching the same thing.

  9

  WHITNEY AND I STRADDLE OUR BOARDS, WAITING for the next set. Danny has already caught one in. Beneath me are the dark shapes of reef and bright strokes of sand. The water moves, glossy and glassy, making the reefscape look like an oil painting. At Ocean Beach or Pacifica, I never looked down, not wanting to know what was beneath me.

  I look at the homes along the beach and detect no signs of life. I’m homesick, but I’m not sure what home I’m sick for. Do I miss the smallness of the San Francisco apartment, the noise of Panhandle Park, the rudeness of the cashier at the Cole Street bodega, who always treated me like I was going to steal something? Do I miss the Enchanted Lakes condo, the neighbors barbecuing in their carports, Dr. Rocker and his sexually frustrated wheelchair-bound clients, or the cars driving by, vibrating with bass and top forty? I seem to love places intensely, but only after I’ve left them.

  Whitney lies down on her board. Surf is flat. I lie down too. The sun feels good on my back.

  “I could do this every day,” she says. “My mom thinks I need more activities. She wants me to join a school club. Says it will be good for college applications. You in one?”

  “No,” I say. “But I paddled.”

  “Have you heard of these clubs? I mean, shitballs, they’ve thought of everything. Anime club, environmental surf club, military history, civil engineering, global grinds.”

  “Happy club,” I add.

  “Really?” she says.

  “Yes, it already makes me sad.”

  She laughs.

  “Nihonjin, mud, and lemon clubs. What are those all about?” I say.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe I’ll join the Bible study club,” she jokes.

  “You totally should,” I say.

  The easy conversation makes me feel like I’m not at the bottom of a huge ladder.

  “Go!” Danny calls. He’s paddling toward us. We look back, remembering why we’re here. We start to paddle.

  “We can put surfing on our applications,” I say.

  I paddle hard, feel the swell lift me, move back a bit so I don’t nosedive, then stand up. On the wave I look over, then back. Whitney didn’t make it on.

  • • •

  I can only see Whitney and Danny when the swells dip them down or raise me up. They’ve drifted out of the lineup and aren’t making any attempts to get back. She’s lying on her stomach, her arms propping up her chest, which makes her lower back arch. She’s on full display, her low skimming bottoms showing butt cleavage. Not that my suit is any different. In Hawaii everyone pays a lot for very little fabric, yet somehow my suit comes off as athletic and hers comes off as sultry, Brazilian. I slide my finger along the seam of my suit, making it go in a bit, seeing what that feels like. I look back at myself, and I guess I like the result.

  I prop myself up on my forearms, trying to catch Danny’s eye, but it’s impossible from this distance. I wonder what she’s saying that’s got him so interested. What are they talking about? School, clubs, the cost of bathing suits? How rich she is, how pretty she is, how weird it is that I live on her property? I can’t imagine what it is. If I’m so curious, why I don’t just paddle out there and join in?

  I can see an island in the distance, a thick slab on the horizon, and I imagine a girl, floating off its shore, looking this way, imagining me. I lick my salty lips and straddle my board again. The sun is beginning to set, the yolky blob of it running down the sky. They don’t even notice that they’re drifting away.

  “Shark,” I say out loud, warning no one. It’s crazy that there might be one under us and we’d never know it unless it mistook us for
a turtle and bit. The ocean is darker now. Who knows what’s under my legs, dangling in the water. I must look like a jellyfish.

  A wave rolls under me, and I look back to see the set that’s coming.

  “I’m going in!” I yell, and the wind must have carried my voice, because Danny lifts his arm in acknowledgment. I let the next wave roll under me, then paddle to catch the next one, which I think I’ll get before it breaks. I’m with it, and I stand up and ride. You can’t help but smile when you’re moving fast over the reef, afloat, the spray of water hitting your face, your body able, strong, free. I try to ride the wave to shore, leaving the shark bait behind.

  • • •

  Whitney shows us the outdoor rock shower on the back side of the pool house, and the three of us get in, elbowing for position under the hot stream of water. I am so cold, and the water is so hot. When I get under, I never want to get out. Hot water makes me lazy.

  “My turn,” Danny says, pushing me aside.

  “Mine,” Whitney says, pushing him.

  We stand in front of her, trying to get splashes of heat. She tilts her head back, letting the water run down her hair and back. She looks slippery. Her bathing suit is the smallest suit I have ever seen. There’s nowhere to hide in it.

  “’Kay, done,” she says. “Meet by the pool. I’ll get towels.” She walks out, twisting the water out of her hair.

  I shoulder him out of the stream, and he pushes back.

  “What were you guys talking about?” I ask.

  “Life,” he says.

  “What about it?”

  “She’s not doing well in school, she’s tired of her friends, she wants something exciting to happen, blah, blah, blah.”

  “‘Blah, blah, blah’? But you seemed riveted.”

  “She’s a good-looking female. Of course I’m riveted.” He shivers a little. I move out of the water to let him in.

  “School, friends, ennui—seems like you covered a lot. Did you get any airtime or was it all about her?”

  “I got air,” he says. “Come.” He pulls me in next to him, halving the water. I close my eyes and let the water run over my face. He tilts his head back and crosses his arms over his chest.

  “I voiced my concerns about the lack of diversity in the Kahala neighborhood,” he says, “then moved on to the subject of literacy in Hawaii, our crystal meth problem, GMOs, supporting local farmers.”

  “Cool. What did she add to all that?” I look down, detecting an ugly tension in my jaw, and a restlessness all over. “Did she even know what you were talking about?”

  “Yeah, she said there was a lack of diversity in the Waimanalo neighborhood too. Had me there.”

  I thought he was kidding with those discussion topics, but maybe they really did have this conversation. I look him over while he has his eyes closed. Though Danny is just a friend and I’ve never wanted him to be anything else, at that moment, I get the urge to press myself against him, kiss him under the hot water, the ocean lapping nearby, the home like our estate, our paradise. It would be a lot different than the time we were twelve.

  I don’t know what I’m drawn to more—the whole scene itself and kissing Danny, or the thought of him opening his eyes to me, the ability to surprise someone. The ability to act. Like Whitney, I can be riveting. The urge passes when he turns around and pulls out the top of his shorts to let the water in.

  “How’s the chafe?” I ask.

  • • •

  Whitney is lounging by the pool on a big, circular chair that looks like a throne. When she sees us, she picks up a towel with her foot.

  “Thanks,” I say, then realize it’s not a towel, but a white, fluffy bathrobe.

  “Thanks,” Danny says, taking one off the chair, but he doesn’t put on the robe, just uses it to dry off. She watches him, amused, and I don’t know what I’m feeling right now, but it’s something unattractive. A jealous kind of possession.

  I put on the robe, then wish I hadn’t, since no one else has. She’s still in just her suit, her legs curled under her, looking relaxed and so much older than me.

  “I gotta jet,” Danny says. “Picking up my brother at T-ball.”

  “What the hell is T-ball?” Whitney asks.

  “It’s a sport with a ball,” Danny says.

  “What sport doesn’t have a ball?” she asks.

  “Gymnastics,” he says. “Running. Kayaking. The list kind of goes on.”

  “I hate running,” she says, sitting up, like she’s about to get into a good debate.

  I feel stupid standing here, not contributing to anything right after I asked if she added anything to their talk out in the surf. Clearly, they have a rapport. I almost want to take a step back. Then another and another, until I reach my room.

  “T-ball is like an intro to baseball,” Danny says. “For young kids.”

  “How young is he?” she asks.

  “Four.”

  “Shit, that’s young.”

  “Second wife,” Danny says and shrugs, as if it’s not a big deal, but I know he misses his mom. “Her turn.”

  I feign interest in the setting sun.

  “Four,” Whitney says, shading her eyes. “That’s a fun age. That’s what mothers in Kahala say. What do moms in Waimanalo say?”

  “Um,” Danny says. “They say kids is ‘one hassle,’ or ‘one blessing.’ Depends on their mood, I guess. And the kid.”

  My head goes back and forth. Finally, I sit by her feet. The round chair is large enough, and it’s the only way I feel I can insert myself. Danny wipes his face, then hands the robe back to Whitney. She hugs it to her chest.

  “You’re welcome to surf here anytime,” Whitney says. “You know the code.”

  “Cool, thanks. I’m catching the bus.”

  “Da bus,” I say, but he doesn’t react.

  “Mind if I leave my board with you?” He looks at me, sniffles, then runs his hand through his hair, making it spike up.

  I’m about to answer when Whitney says, “Yeah, leave your board on the side of the house.”

  He looks at her and then me as if deciding something. It shouldn’t matter who he leaves his board with. “Thanks,” he says to Whitney. But it does. Why does it feel like she’s winning something? And in a game where I can’t fairly compete.

  “You’re catching the bus?” she asks.

  “Yup. My dad’s using the truck.”

  “That sucks,” she says, and she truly looks pained and incredulous.

  “Not really. I do homework or just check out. I like it sometimes.”

  “I want to try,” she says. I’m surprised he doesn’t make fun of her for wanting to try the bus, as if it’s an activity like kite surfing or something.

  “I gotta go,” he says.

  “Then go already,” I say. He looks down at me as if he just remembered I’m here.

  • • •

  Whitney is less enthused and conversational when he leaves. I get up from her chair, feeling awkward.

  “I guess I should get back,” I say.

  “Get back to what?” she asks. Before I can answer, she hands me a mug from the table next to her.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Hot cocoa,” she says. “Or warm cocoa.”

  I sit down on the recliner next to her. It’s like being at a spa. Afternoon surf, hot shower, and now lounging in a robe. I don’t know whether it inspires me, refreshes me, or makes me feel like doing absolutely nothing ever again. I take a sip, trying to shake off the annoyance I had, the feeling that she was poaching my friend. Poaching with access codes and board storage. I need to let it go.

  “It has a little Kahlúa in it,” she says.

  “Great,” I say, so quickly that she laughs.

  The Kahlúa is creamy and sweet, like a dessert. I take anothe
r sip and already can, or think I can, feel the alcohol. A nice heat forms in my chest, and I feel both heavy and light.

  I only drink when I go out with Danny to parties, which is rare. I usually turn him down, feeling bad that he’s obligated to hang with me since I don’t really know anyone.

  “Makes dinner more enjoyable,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say, and feel false. I’ve never had a drink with dinner.

  “You’re coming over tomorrow, right?” she asks. “My mom said she asked you guys over for dinner, so we had to be home.”

  “You don’t have to be,” I say, so embarrassed that she’s being forced to eat dinner with me, on a Friday night no less.

  “No, it’s cool.” She pauses, as if considering its coolness, which makes me think she’s okay with it, maybe looking forward to it. “Just hope my dad doesn’t get wasted and embarrass me.”

  I’m not sure if she wants me to respond or not. “Like, what would he do?” I ask.

  “Oh, he just drinks and gets angry, or irritable—not like violent or anything. He’s kind of losing his memory, so he drinks to cope with that. He gets frustrated. But he’s cool. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I ain’t skurred,” I say, and thankfully, she laughs. I prop my leg up, so it slips out of the robe. The sky darkens, and behind us I hear faint music. I can also hear the palms—now when they move it sounds as if something’s sizzling. “It’s so nice here,” I say.

  “I know,” she says, and for some reason her saying this is refreshing. Dismissing or not realizing the beauty would be an insult.

  “Also just to warn you, my mom may ask you for help,” she says.

  I turn to face her. She’s closing her eyes, as if sunbathing.

  “Like chores or something?” I ask.

  She laughs, then turns to face me as well. “No. She thinks you might be able to help me. Like with homework and stuff. I’m stupid.”