“Don’t say that.”
“But I am,” she says.
I don’t know what to say. I was behind when I first got here, and I’m sure most of us feel overwhelmed, pressured, and, yes, stupid.
“I feel stupid too,” I say. “This school is crazy. Why would she think I could help you?” I want to say that just because I don’t have many friends doesn’t mean I’m smart.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Probably because odds are that you’re smarter than me, and I guess my dad said you were astound nuts in your interview and testing.”
So everyone but me knew that her dad got me in. Rad. I don’t mind, I guess—it’s just weird to be told your whole life that hard work pays off, but really you need connections.
“I guess I should thank your dad,” I say. “I think he got me in more than some test scores.”
“Yeah,” she says. “He really likes you. Or your mom or whatever.”
“Yeah,” I say, at a loss, yet somewhat comforted that we both may feel this way. I think the Kahlúa is making me care less about it, though. The sky is dark now, and the pool lights and landscape lighting come on.
“Maybe I should prove her wrong,” I say. “Your mom.” It takes her a moment to understand.
“You should!” she says. “Prove her wrong and corrupt me further. That would be a riot.”
I want to know why she used the word corrupt. What does she do that’s bad? I want to do it too, and for a moment I see her as a portal into another world, or at least a different plane.
She sits up and gets another mug off the table. “This was for Danny,” she says, pouring me some and taking the rest. She’s a good hostess. It seems like she’s almost obligated to show off all the things she has and the things she’s allowed to do.
I hold the mug in my lap. “What are you having trouble with, anyway?”
“French, I guess. And math, English. I like to read, though. I love it, actually. I just don’t want to have to talk about what I’ve read, and I don’t want to write about it. It kills the whole experience for me, you know?”
“I know,” I say. “I feel the same way sometimes.” A trickle of languor moves throughout my body. “It’s weird that in French dogs say ‘ouah, ouah’ instead of ‘woof, woof.’”
I’m looking up at the palm trees when I say this, then look back at her and see that she’s laughing.
“Ouah, ouah!” she says.
I laugh too, and we go through all the sounds of French animals, a rooster crowing (cocorico), a cow lowing (meuh), a duck quacking (coin, coin) and the one that becomes our favorite: a pig rooting (groin, groin). I tell her in Chinese a duck would say ga ga. We laugh and laugh, and she reaches down and brings out a bottle, refilling our cocoa without any cocoa this time.
“You’re tutoring me already!” she says.
“And I take Mandarin,” I say. I lean back and glance at my legs out in front of me. I tilt my head to the dark sky.
“Oui, oui,” Whitney says and then a silence comes over us, a nice, comfortable silence.
10
DANNY IS ACROSS THE COURTYARD UNDER THE TREES by the library steps. I walk toward him, self-conscious as usual, even with the understanding that no one is looking at me. I tug my skirt down. It looked good when I was alone, but has suddenly become heinous.
I get closer. He’s talking to Barrett Dillingham. They’re both holding the straps of their backpacks and nodding. Boys always seem to communicate without using words. I could walk by and see if he stops me, but then I reconsider. One of the things I absolutely need to do is what I want, especially when it’s something this trivial.
“Hey,” I say.
“What’s up, Little Donkey?” Danny says. Barrett looks me over, but keeps talking to Danny.
“Do you know Lea?” Danny says.
“’Sup,” Barrett says.
“Hello,” I say, because if I said “’sup,” I think I’d hate myself forever.
“This is Barrett,” Danny says.
Yeah. I know. He’s in my history class. He plays water polo. He drives a black Ford F-150.
“I hear the pattern is A, D, C, E,” Barrett says. “And if you stick to that, you won’t, like, ace it, but you’ll do okay.”
“Yeah, or you could just, uh, study,” Danny says. “It wasn’t that bad.”
Barrett adjusts his backpack and grins. “My lifestyle is seriously becoming compromised.”
“There you go. That’s a big word,” Danny says.
I laugh to participate somehow, and Barrett looks at me like I have Tourette’s or food on my face. I keep my hands down by my sides. I will not check for food on my face.
“What about you?” Barrett asks. “Are you taking the prep course?”
“No,” I say. “And if I did, it wouldn’t compromise my lifestyle in any way.”
No one responds. Please, ground, consume me.
“So glad that’s done with,” Danny says. “Just wait, little juniors. Senior year cruise.”
Danny raises his arms over his head. He’s so damn comfortable. I’d raise my arms and not know how to bring them back down. What will I do here without him? With him going to Berkeley, it feels like we’re switching places. Why can’t we just line up?
Barrett looks over my head. “Hey, girlie,” he says.
I turn to see Whitney. She walks up behind Danny, dipping her knees into the back of his legs. He collapses way more than he should. “Hey, now,” he says, laughing. Barrett greets her with a hand slap, then pulls her into a hug.
“What about you?” Barrett asks. “Saturday prep?”
“Are you kidding me?” she says. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder T-shirt with a long skirt. “Too early,” she says. “I’m hungover now—how would I deal on a Saturday?”
“Such a party girl,” Barrett says.
“Party, party,” Danny says, and I see a flicker of something—curiosity or disapproval? Something.
“Yeah, you totally missed our après-surf cocktails,” Whitney says and acknowledges me.
Again I see that look on Danny’s face, like he’s trying to seem indifferent, but isn’t. I think I’m expected to talk now, and so I say, “Yeah. It was good. We—”
“Got wasted!” Whitney says.
“For reals?” Barrett says, looking pleased, suddenly reevaluating me. I go with it and don’t say anything. I didn’t think Whitney was drunk at all last night. I wasn’t, but maybe she poured more Kahlúa into her own drink or imbibed without me, alone. But why would she want to include me this way?
“Danny, join us next time?” She grins with an open mouth as if posing for a picture.
“Sure,” he says. “Next time.”
“What about now?” she says.
“Now?” He laughs. “You’re crazy.” He looks toward the library. “I’m on brother duty tonight.”
“Your stepmom should get a nanny or something,” she says, and I cringe, but Danny just smiles.
“Yeah, she totes should,” he says in a girly voice. “Nanny, driver, gardener, guest cottage . . .”
Barrett laughs, even though he probably has or could have had all these things and more. The theater here at Punahou has his last name on it.
“Mari!” Whitney yells. “Yo! Wait up.”
Mari Ito turns. “Yo!” she yells from across the quad.
“See you tonight?” Whitney says, looking back at me. Barrett leaves too, tilting his head in farewell.
“Right,” I say. Dinner. I almost ask her what I should wear.
Danny watches her go. “You got drunk with Whitney?” He almost sounds jealous.
“Not really,” I say.
“Not really?” He looks past me.
“We had a few drinks, that’s all.”
“Well, well, well.” He smi
rks and shakes his head.
I recognize his look: fake relaxed. He wants to know more, see more, do more, but doesn’t want to appear like he wants anything at all.
“She’s a trip,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say and look down, and then I ask, “How so?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Crazy or . . . interesting.”
“Interesting,” I say. How so? I want to ask again, but I can see it. She’s beautiful, composed. She’s interesting because she’s fully herself.
He looks deep in thought, and now I’m back to where I was with my fake-relaxed face, wanting to know more while not looking like I do.
Am I interesting? I want to be interesting. I want to be crazy. I want to be fully myself.
“Like I’ve always known her as a group,” Danny says. “All her little party friends. But alone, I don’t know, she’s cooler than I thought.” He smiles to himself.
I’d be cool too if I had a house like that, a pool like that, a life like that. These thoughts make me feel small, but it’s true. She’s pretty, but it’s as though money gives you bonus points; it makes you prettier. Because if she weren’t Whitney West—if she were, say, Gina Crumb from Kaneohe—then she wouldn’t be as compelling, as cool, even if her looks remained the same. Money seems to work like yeast, raising people to the top.
“She’s . . . irreverent,” Danny says, his thumbs tucked into his backpack straps.
He looks like he’s still thinking about how to describe her. Is it that complicated? I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. Is she that much more irreverent than us? Than me?
“There’s your other roommate,” he says.
I look across the quad, and Will’s walking slowly with Lissa Sand, a senior who looks like she’s twenty-five. She’s tall and, in a way, sandy—the same coloring as ground-up coral, cowrie, and the exoskeletons of sea creatures. Ms. Yamada would be so proud of me, the way I’ve applied school lessons to the real world. She also has sandy-colored hair, highlighted, wavy, and long. She’s beautiful and rich-looking, though she seems pissed off about it. In paddling she stroked, the first seat in the canoe, due to the length of her limbs. She’s aloof and intimidating, and seems to be always looking at her nails or the ends of her hair. I’m jealous of her and Will, the way they’re walking so intimately, like it’s no big deal. I’m horrified that he’s forced to leave that tonight in order to have dinner with this.
“Now he’s interesting,” I say. “Can’t wait to have dinner with him later.”
“His girlfriend coming too?” he asks, using a sarcastic and slightly bitter voice, which is unusual for Danny and has the odd effect of making me want to hear it again.
“Not invited,” I say, making it up, suddenly feeling like we’re competing against each other. If you’re going to pay attention to Whitney, then I’ll pay attention to Will. Except it’s not just a game to me. I genuinely can’t wait to see Will tonight.
11
WHEN I WALK INTO THE HOUSE, MY MOM IMMEDIATELY says, “We’re going over to the big house for dinner, okay?”
“I know,” I say. I close the door, drop my bag, and run my hand through my hair. “I’m very aware of that.” I pretend to be burdened by this plan and the constant reminder of this dinner, when really I’m thrilled to have something to do. Something to dress for.
“How was school?” she asks, and begins to make tea. Her hair is in a topknot, and she’s wearing all Lululemon exercise clothes.
“Fine,” I say, too tired to give her my rambling answer. “How was work?”
“Awesome,” she says. “I spent hours in makeup just so they could make me look bad.” She tears open a tea package and drops it into the hot water. “I could have worn no makeup and not washed my hair.” She takes her mug to the couch, then waves me over. “But they need to make me pretty ugly,” she says. “Cute ugly. That’s the key.”
I sit down and put my legs up, pushing my feet against her thighs.
“Then Les, that guy I was telling you about, he can never get things right. Not just his lines, but the delivery, and his ego washes out anything the director says.”
My mom uses big hand gestures. I love hearing her complain—it’s always done comically. “Like, today I had to say—” She starts to laugh and pats my feet. “Today, I had to fend off Jenkins, who of course I’ll probably fall in love with by the end of the season—but I had to say, ‘You need to find a new cereal.’ And then he goes, ‘What’s that, Dr. Lovejoy?’ Then I look at him like this—”
My mom gives me a look that’s both attractive and cruel, then says, “You need to find a new cereal that has more fiber, because you are so full of crap.”
“Oh my God,” I say. “That’s really bad.”
“Really bad,” she says. “Hawaii Five-0’s still going, though, so who knows.”
“And we always have the Wests,” I say.
She doesn’t answer, and I wonder what she’s thinking about. There seems to be this cloud of mystery around her friendship with them.
“Why didn’t we ever do things with them when I was a kid?”
“You are a kid,” she says, but looks at me like she can’t believe it.
“You know what I mean. You did things, but I never really met them.”
“I don’t know,” she says. She seems to be truly thinking about my question. “It’s a different kind of friendship,” she finally says.
“You and Melanie don’t seem to have a lot in common,” I say, and she laughs quickly as though I’ve made quite the understatement.
“She’s part of the package,” my mom says in a soft voice.
“What does that mean?”
“Eddie and I are good friends. Or were. We are, but . . . you’ll see in life that it’s not so easy to maintain relationships with guy friends. You sort of inherit their wives and continue your relationship through them.”
I think of the exclusion I felt with Danny when he was with Whitney.
“Not that I don’t adore Melanie. Although she can be a little intense, God bless her.”
“You always God bless someone you’ve said something negative about,” I say.
“Ha,” she says. “I’ve just tried to put a little distance between us and my friendship with them, that’s all. She always went back and forth with me, so I never knew where I stood. It was better to be at arm’s length.”
“So what changed? They’re kind of within arm’s length now.”
She takes another sip of tea. “I don’t know. Seems like we’re friends now. And I guess I’m returning a favor.” She sighs, then catches me still looking at her. “Don’t worry about it,” she says.
“Is Eddie sick or something?”
She hesitates, then says, “Yes,” and her eyes water slightly. “He’s showing signs of dementia, which at his age usually means Alzheimer’s. He’s slowing down. No one knows what will happen or how slowly or quickly it could go.”
“He’s a lot older than you,” I say. “But you were friends?”
She scratches her head and smiles to herself. “We dated while I was in college and he was working, going back and forth between Hawaii and LA.”
“Oh my God, Mom,” I say. “That was your boyfriend before Stranger Dad.” I imagine her with this mogul.
“He was kind of in love with me but was . . . how can I put this . . . seduced by someone else.”
“Oh my God, this is too much! Melanie?” I sink down into the couch and push my feet against her harder.
“She was manipulative, that one. He got her pregnant, then came the wedding. Really, she was perfect for him and his family. Their wedding was like a meeting of island royalty—the networking event of the century.” Her voice is cheery. “Don’t look so stunned,” she says. “It was a long time ago.”
“Were you sad?” I ask. It’s weir
d seeing my mom peeled back and bare, like a girl.
“I was a little sad at the time, but more mad that he professed his love right before sleeping with a family friend he’d probably been seeing the whole time.” She laughs. “But believe me. It worked out. I could never have been a wife like she is. He’s her job. Socializing is her job. I didn’t want that.”
“And then came the next fine fellow.”
“Yup,” she says, looking down and patting my feet.
I always skip over the sex part, the fact that you exist because your mother and father did it.
“And Melanie’s great,” my mom says, looking at me, as if trying to make sure I understand. “She’s the most generous woman I know. And I’m having fun. It’s fun to socialize with her group. It’s fun to be wanted around. And you and Whitney. Isn’t it fun?”
Yes, I guess what little contact I’ve had with her and Will has, sadly, been the most fun I’ve had since moving here. Even the discomfort, the awkwardness, it gives a charge to my day.
My mom looks lost in thought, but comes to when she notices me staring at her. “I’m going to shower, then head over,” she says.
I look at my phone. It’s four o’clock. “Already?”
“Melanie wants me to come over a little early. Chat. I think she likes the company. Gives her an excuse to break open the wine early. I’ll see you there, okay? Five thirty.”
I move my legs, and she gets up and walks to her room; I’m guessing that she’s just as eager as I am.
• • •
I take a shower, then stand in front of the clothes in my closet. I have tons of clothes and am always feeling like I have nothing to wear. I want to look good without seeming like I’ve put thought into it. That’s how Whitney always looks—carelessly put together, with stylish results. She’ll pair cutoffs with a cropped T-shirt, which would look skimpy on anyone else, but then she’ll top it off with a silk scarf tied around her head, and the result is cool, possessed, unintentionally sexy. If I put a scarf around my head, I’d look like an idiot who thought it would be cool to have a scarf around her head. I couldn’t pull it off and am ashamed that I tried it a few days ago.
Juniors Page 8
