Juniors

by Kaui Hart Hemmings

  “Yeah, this morning after Rebecca Beach we stopped at Whole Foods. She was going to pick something up for you guys, so I just offered to make something. I had time.”

  You did? I want to ask. It seems Melanie, the one with no job and a housekeeper, would be the one with the time.

  “It’s not a big deal. You know I like it.”

  “What do you mean, for us guys?” I ask, now seeing Melanie come from the kitchen with a huge, floral-printed handbag. I register my mom’s outfit and realize she isn’t dressed to stay put.

  “They want to take me out again, so I thought why not?” She runs her tongue over her teeth and twists her braid.

  “Why don’t they go out with their whole family?” I ask.

  “I’m sure they do,” she says.

  Will appears in the living room, and I wonder where his room is in this house. What does it look like? What are on his walls and shelves?

  “’Kay, bye, have fun,” I say.

  She follows my gaze to Will. Her eyes narrow briefly. “Be good,” she says.

  • • •

  “My mom killed my buzz,” Whitney says when she comes out with plates, napkins, and forks and starts to set the outdoor table.

  “That’s what moms do,” I say. I walk over to help her, but since there are just three settings, she doesn’t need much help.

  “How could your mom possibly be a buzzkill?” Whitney adjusts the centerpiece, a white wide vase with short-stemmed tulips. I smile to myself, thinking that she looks like her mom in this moment.

  “Your mom is so cool,” she says. “She’s an actress! She at least does something with her life. She doesn’t breathe down your neck about everything—homework, college, tennis, my bill at the club, my table manners, fuuuuck,” she roars and throws up her hands. “Rum and Coke. That’s what we need. Diet Coke. We’ll rebuzz.”

  “’Kay,” I say, eager to have fun.

  “’Kay,” she says and heads back in.

  Will comes out with two platters of food, so I refold the brightly patterned cloth napkins to have something to do. My heart beats fast.

  “Hello again,” he says.

  “Hello,” I say, and my throat is dry.

  He places the platters on either side of the centerpiece, and it feels like prom, like we’re mimicking the customs of our elders or getting a head start on becoming the people we’re bound to be.

  “Where’s this food from?” he asks.

  “My mom.”

  “Your mom cooked again?”

  “Yup,” I say, embarrassed.

  “Nice,” he says. “I was wondering why Maya isn’t here.” He puts tongs on my mom’s spinach salad, scattered with raspberries and caramelized chipotle pecans.

  “And what’s this?” he asks, putting a serving spoon next to the main dish.

  He’s just showered, but still has stubble on his face, which, again, makes him seem so much older than me. His skin is lightly tanned, his damp hair a soft brown like his dad’s. He catches me looking at him, and I quickly say, “Ham. It’s ham.”

  He smiles, and I’m taken aback, the way it changes his entire face and seems to occupy most of it. His eyes brighten, and his cheeks color. He has a dimple on the left side.

  “You sure don’t try to dress it up, do you?” he says. “First you can’t stop talking. Now all I get is ‘ham.’”

  I laugh, relieved to let it out. “Well, that’s what it is. Ham.”

  “I guess there’s nothing you can say about a dish when all roads lead to that.”

  I speak in a posh voice. “This is dressed in a lovely pomegranate reduction and served on a bed of roasted leeks. And what is the meat?”

  “Ham,” Will deadpans, then laughs, his shoulders moving up and down twice. “I guess you could always say jambon.” He clears his throat. “Vog’s still getting to me.”

  “We should swim it off,” I say, and hold my breath.

  “We should,” he says, a response I never like. Should could mean now, or in the near or distant future, or never. “Or we can take out the boat sometime. I could take you for a sunset cruise. Can’t wait to hear what you’d have to say about it.”

  “Oh my God, you need to drop it.”

  “Cave art,” he says.

  “What are you guys talking about?” Whitney says, coming out with drinks. She looks different, smaller, like there’s been a reversal and she’s the outsider. She hands me a glass. I shake it to hear the ice cubes rattle and have a sip that I nearly spit out, the rum is so strong.

  “We’re talking about jambon,” Will says.

  “What the hell is jam bone?” she says.

  Will and I exchange brief glances, and I think to myself that out of the three of us here, she’s the only one taking French.

  “It’s ‘party’ in French,” I say, then look down. That was mean.

  “Well, let’s get this jam bone started!” Whitney says and sits at the head of the table.

  • • •

  It is all very civilized. Platters get passed, napkins are put onto laps. I wonder if they’re used to this, if it’s ritual, the two of them eating alone after Maya has cooked for them.

  “Seriously,” Will says, taking a serving, “what is this? Does it have . . . you know . . . a title?”

  “Ham Impossible,” I say, and I see a smile almost blooming, but it doesn’t quite get there. He twists his mouth to the side.

  “It’s one of those dishes everyone ate in the seventies,” I say. “Ham and cheese, Bisquick. My mom makes it with cottage cheese, sour cream, Parmesan, and she uses smoked Gouda. And cornbread mix instead of Bisquick.”

  “Gouda.” Whitney laughs. “That sounds funny.” She takes another drink, tilting the glass all the way back.

  “Jesus, Whit,” Will says.

  By the sound of the cubes, I can tell her drink is gone. She acts the same buzzed and sober, so I never know what state she’s in. I take another sip.

  “What?” she says. “Why are you always Jesusing me?”

  He doesn’t answer, just chews his food, and I take another sip, trying to be discreet, but the ice falls onto my face and Whitney laughs. She takes our glasses and goes back in.

  “This is good,” he says, still looking down. “Impossibly good. Tell your mom. I mean, I’ll be sure to thank her, but—”

  “I will,” I say. “She likes it. This one’s easy. Comfort food.” You need to describe a dish in a way that won’t scare Republicans, she has said, the tip of her tongue touching her bottom lip, something she does when she hopes to have sounded funny. The thought makes me smile. I think of her tonight with Will’s supposed in-laws. She’d be the better in-law. I look quickly at Will, then take a bite, savoring the cheeses and dough. Whitney comes back out and places the glass in front of me.

  “Mmm,” I say. “There’s nothing better than—” I stop myself, thank God. I was just going to say than warm cottage cheese on your tongue, which sounds absolutely vile.

  “Than what?” Will asks.

  “Than a rum and Coke. Want?” I move the glass toward him.

  “No, thanks,” he says, and I feel like a disappointment. I wonder if his disapproval is because of his dad. If he doesn’t drink because his dad supposedly drinks too much. And Whitney drinks because her dad drinks too much.

  “Will’s wearing his golf goggles,” Whitney says. “He sees nothing but the hole.”

  She gives me a quick glance, and Will furrows his eyebrows as though she’s said something ridiculous.

  “Big game?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says. “I’ll have one with you after.” I think he winks at me, and I close my mouth and swallow.

  “He’s actually pretty good at it,” Whitney says, which seems to annoy him more than an insult would. He takes a sip of water and looks down,
something my mother does when faced with praise.

  “I want to watch sometime,” I say, suddenly interested in something I’d never consider watching before.

  “Only after he advances,” Whitney says.

  When I think of golf, I think of green jackets and alcoholics, white men, bad pants, and money, but imagining Will play makes me think of expansive greens, blue skies, elegance, and a beautiful precision.

  All of our plates look practically licked clean, but Will and I both go for more of the salad. I’m glad, because I don’t want things to be wrapped up yet. My house seems so far away and lonely.

  “You girls don’t have homework tonight?” he asks.

  “I do,” I say. I want to tell him I’m only having a drink since I’m over here. It’s not something I would have done on my own.

  “Do you?” I ask.

  “Not much,” he says. “But I have some things to do.”

  “I can’t wait until next year,” Whitney says. “Senior slacking.”

  “I think you’re getting a head start,” Will says.

  “You going over to Lissa’s tonight?” Whitney says, glancing at me.

  “I’m helping her with her thesis,” he mumbles.

  “Oh yes, helping with her body of work,” Whitney says.

  My heart beats as if caught.

  “God, even I look smart next to her, but I guess she has other strengths.” Whitney looks at me, and I sort of laugh, wanting to show I don’t care, that I wasn’t misled, that I’m in it somehow, digging on her. I’m the cool, funny friend. But here he is, sitting with me, the soft whisper of palms, the salt in the warm air, the boom of waves, and I don’t want to be his friend. I imagine being in the ocean with him, close together in a ray of moonlight. I shake it off.

  Whitney gets up. “Want another?” she asks.

  “No, thanks,” I say. “I need to study.” She goes in and soon after a song comes over the speakers, an upbeat top-forty song about partying all night. I immediately miss the other music, the trance it put me in.

  “Sorry about the Lissa thing,” he says.

  “What?” I pretend I didn’t notice a thing.

  “Seems like twice today—”

  “I don’t care,” I say. “Girl trouble?”

  He laughs. “Always.” Then he looks at me and smiles. “You don’t look like trouble.” I resist answering, fearing it may sound like some cheesy line pulled from No Borders.

  “Your mothers seem to think it’s serious,” I say lightly, the voice of the girl bro. “Is it?”

  “No,” he says. “I’m a senior, you know? Time to . . . learn new things, explore—so I can bring back new knowledge.” He smiles, recognizing his cheesy line.

  “Good to be adventurous,” I say, and I think I manage a flirtatious look. We lock eyes and smile at everything we’re not saying, and whatever else we’re imagining. Whitney’s still in the house, and I want her to stay there for a little longer so I can be alone with him. It feels like this is our home. He’ll inherit all this one day, I realize. I hope Lissa won’t inherit it alongside him. They’d be like Eddie and Melanie the Second.

  “Honestly, it’s a bit much,” he says, looking down at his plate. “She’s going to California for school too, and I just want some solo time, you know?” He glances back up, serious.

  “I’m sure,” I say.

  “Maybe we can take the boat out or do something soon,” he says.

  “Okay,” I say, feeling his leg next to mine. I’m too shy to ask when.

  “Maybe without Whitney, though,” he says. “Can’t hang out with my little sister all the time.”

  “Right,” I say. I can’t believe this is happening. He wants to be alone with me.

  Whitney comes back out. “You guys are so quiet,” she says.

  I take the last bites of my dinner. When I’m done, I put my fork down, and Will gets up and clears my plate. He was waiting for me to finish.

  “I gotta go,” he says. “Have a good night, kids.”

  “All right,” I say, and add a horribly lame clicking noise. “You too!”

  After he has gone, it seems so sad and boring. Whitney looks at her phone, texting someone. “Helping with her thesis, what a joke,” she says.

  “So are they going out or what?” I ask.

  “I’m sure she thinks so,” Whitney says. “But he likes new things.”

  I’m about to ask her to explain, but she clearly doesn’t want to talk about him, and I think I already know what she means.

  16

  I WATCH THE SENIORS FROM THE WINDOW OF MY creative writing class. They’re kicking a beach ball. Everyone around here is hyper on spring break, coming up in three more days.

  Nalani Ogawa kicks the ball, following through with her long-ass legs. She makes facial expressions indicating that she’s having more fun than you ever will in your lifetime. From here she’s beautiful, even though up close she has the features of a Siamese cat, but if you put a bulldog’s head on her body she’d still look good from a reasonable distance. She’s one of the Angels—the group of girls who, at the Halloween dance, came dressed as the Victoria’s Secret angels. Underwear, wings, and stripper heels. It might not have been such a big deal if they hadn’t looked so good, like actual supermodels. They got kicked out of the dance, yet as Danny said, “left everyone’s spank bank full.”

  Lissa was another one. She’s sitting a bit behind me, so I can’t look at her, even though I’ve been trying to. She’s magnetic. You’re drawn to her face, her body, everything she’s wearing, even if, like today, it’s just jeans and a white button-down shirt. It would be weird to be the kind of person who’s always looked at.

  “Lea,” Mr. Spitzer says, “stop looking out the window. You’re on the clock.”

  The class laughs, which kind of gives me a thrill, and I look back and lock eyes with Lissa, but can’t tell if her look is congratulatory or annoyed. I wonder if she knows I live in Will’s cottage. I feel like I have so much on her. Will the Explorer. He doesn’t want to be with you.

  “As I was saying, folks,” Spitzer says, “we are a country that makes things like pastrami burgers. A huge burger patty with pastrami layered on top of it. Do you understand the implications of this? Do you get it?”

  I must have spent too much time looking out the window, because I don’t get it at all. Spitzer’s one of the younger teachers here, and he tries to emphasize his youth—talking casually, being provocative, chatting with the boys after class. The teachers I like best here all seem to moonlight as coaches after school.

  “I grinded one of those last weekend,” Raj says. “With cheese too.” Everyone in class seems to look at him shyly, then back at the teacher.

  “Me too,” Jon T. says. “It ruled.” Jon T. is one of those guys who’s a bit overweight, but also super athletic and confident.

  “But the breakfast burger blows it away,” Raj says. “It’s got eggs, sausage, cheese, and then burger.”

  “I’d have to be stoned to eat something like that,” Jon V. says. “Weed is insurance. Movies, TV, food—weed guarantees it will all be good, worth the money spent. I learned that from my dad—the importance of insurance. He sells it. Not weed, but life insurance.”

  The class laughs, though some of the quiet boys seem annoyed.

  “Okay, clearly, you’re not understanding my point,” Spitzer says.

  I want to tell Spitzer that this is his doing. By trying to be cool, he has allowed students to talk about things that shouldn’t be talked about. This school isn’t like Storey, where teachers lectured and we sat. We say anything we want here and rarely sit still. There are more investigations, questions, collaborations, and inventions. I haven’t been to a lecture yet, only Skype sessions with experts and kids in other countries.

  “What is your point?” Mikey Sharp asks
, giving Spitzer a look I don’t think most kids would dare express. He has freckled skin and big green eyes, and his voice is scratchy, like he’s been up all night shouting.

  Spitzer looks like he always does whenever Mikey says anything. He has a closed-mouth, weasel-like grin that’s both condescending and contrite. He doesn’t like Mikey. It’s pretty clear. He doesn’t seem to tolerate kids who attend this school and give no glimmer, present or latent, of intelligence or curiosity.

  “My point is I’ve heard enough about your stress, how you can’t come up with anything,” Spitzer says, looking like he’s shrunk a few inches.

  And how is this connected to the pastrami burger? I wonder.

  “Just sit down and write.” He leans against the desk. “You’re in America. You have an endless backyard of inspiration and ideas and absurdities to draw from. You are interesting. Your lives are interesting. Write what you know, write your complications, what you’re passionate about.”

  “Like pastrami burgers?” someone says, just as I’m thinking the same thing.

  “If it’s so easy, then why haven’t you published anything yet?” Mikey asks. He holds eye contact with Spitzer—it’s both appalling and amazing.

  The whole class oohs and ho snaps, except for Jon T., who is smiling and looking around because he knows someone made a joke, but he didn’t hear what it was.

  “I have published something, thank you, Mikey. And my next book will come out shortly. Very soon. I take time. I’m not an assembly line. I don’t just churn them out like Danielle Steele.”

  “I’ve met her daughters,” Ian says. “In San Francisco. Buns of Steele for real.”

  Everyone laughs. We all know Ian also has a home in San Francisco, a kind of second life. I can’t tell if Whitney’s friend Mari dates him or hooks up with him or if they just hug all the time as so many of these kids do.

  “Your authoring project should be fun for you,” Spitzer says. “And from what you’ve handed in so far, I don’t sense that you’re having fun.”

  “How will it be graded?” Kat Muller asks.

  Spitzer seems to deflate. He leans against the desk and takes a drink from his aluminum water bottle. “Don’t worry about that.”