This is an impossible thing to ask of us. Many of these kids have been coming here since kindergarten and are primed to excel, and excellence is measured by grades. Grades get you into college. Ninety-nine percent of Punahou students go to college. Our fates are published in the alumni magazine, displaying what we’re capable of—Princeton, Smith, Vassar, Colgate, Williams, Harvard, MIT, Berkeley. The alums here include Steve Case, founder of AOL; Pierre Omidyar, founder of eBay; our president, Barack Obama. You can’t remind us of the success of the present and past student body, then tell us not to worry about grades.
I’ve maintained a 3.5 average, and know I could use some more distinguishing marks. I look around and can tell others have been prompted to think about their record. Even the wiseasses care.
“Writing isn’t easy,” Spitzer says. “But I promise if you just keep at it, you will start building up enough to work with. You need clay to mold, and once you get enough clay, then you can actually sculpt it into something functional and beautiful, and that part is fun. I promise.”
I look down at my journal, then over at the others. What’s in them? I wonder. What in the world are they writing about?
When I think about the books that have been assigned to us—A Separate Peace, The Catcher in the Rye, Of Mice and Men, Lord of the Flies—they’re all about complications and longing, I guess. They’re also all about boys.
Maybe Spitzer’s right. Our lives can be interesting, as long as we show the specifics, the little details.
“Write what you know,” Spitzer says again. “What you’re inspired by, passionate about. Write about what frustrates you, confounds you, and all the things that make you feel out of place.”
I look out the window again at the seniors whose exaggerated expressions of joy make them seem as if they’re acting in a play. I look down on them, yet want to be them. I want to have so much fun just kicking a ball, and look cool and sexy doing it. I want to not want that too. Is that my complication?
“So, tonight, write a monologue,” he says. “Pick a topic and write.”
“How will that be graded?” Jenny Hee asks.
Spitzer sighs, probably thinking that the last thing Jenny Hee needs to worry about is grades. I like this assignment because people like Jenny will struggle with it, a task with no right answer, something she can’t research. She has her laptop open, fingers ready to type whatever Spitzer says.
“Your effort, okay? I want to see effort.”
She types, her forehead wrinkled with stress. “Could you give us possible topics?” she asks.
Overambition, I want to say. Predictability. Lack of a life.
I feel like I don’t suffer from this anymore.
“No, I don’t have topics,” Spitzer says. “It’s your life. You have your topics spread out in front of you.” He opens his arms, displaying our array of topics. Jenny looks angry—like she’s going to call someone to fix this.
“Look,” he says. “You have jobs. Write about your jobs.”
Before anyone can correct him, to let him know that they don’t have jobs, he continues: “Maybe your job is to be a son. Maybe your job is to be a football player or the most popular girl in school, or”—he looks briefly at Jenny—“the smartest. Maybe you literally have a job as a babysitter or a cashier. Think of it in those terms. Write about your jobs. Write about what it takes to do your job.”
I like this clarification. Jenny does too, it seems. Her eyes are intense, and she’s typing rapidly.
My job is to see if Will wants to jump in the water or take the boat out—today. To not overthink it, to say what’s on my mind instead of holding it under my tongue like a lump of gum.
We get up and gather our things. I glance back, and Lissa has a smug look on her face, like she expected me to look back because everyone does. It’s a strange sensation to feel sorry for someone like that, and it feels kind of great.
• • •
And so I’ll do it. I will go to the main house after I change my clothes. When I open the door to the cottage, my mom is there at the kitchen counter, leaning over a script.
“What are you smiling at?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
“That’s a boy smile,” she says, but then lets it go.
We’ve never been the kind of mother and daughter who talk about boys. She would be if I let her. Even when I was ten, she’d ask me about the boys at school, teasing out responses, which always brought on a kind of fun mortification. She separates the script into two piles.
“Good scene?” I ask.
“So good,” she says. “I mean, Pulitzer material. Deep characterization, moving dialogue.”
She runs her finger down the page, and I know she’s looking for something to read.
“Okay, here,” she says. “‘Samantha: You’re an animal, Jenkins. Jenkins is looking through binoculars at a young woman on her knees in a revealing bikini, rubbing wax on her surfboard. Jenkins: Well, yes, by definition. I am an animal. He looks at Sam with a charming smile and winks. And so are you.’”
“Awesome,” I say.
She picks up a script, but leaves one behind. “And it’s a rewrite!” she says. “In the old one, bikini girl has her back to him, but now because of her other assets—which are out of control, by the way—she will face forward.”
I pick up the script. “Can I read?” I ask, picking up the other copy.
“Go for it,” she says. “But homework first.”
“Can I go over to Whitney’s real quick?” I ask. I smile and blink, move my shoulders to my ears.
I can tell she’s charmed by the way I pleaded, by my sweet face, and by the fact that I have a friend.
“Real quick,” she says.
• • •
I hurry across the lawn, then slow when I get closer to the house. Whitney’s not here. She usually parks her Mini Cooper by her room, which has its own entrance, a room I have yet to see.
I’ve brought my backpack, and my strategy is to go and read by the pool, so Will doesn’t think I came over just to talk to him. Maybe I’ve taken his invitation too seriously. It could have been just friendly conversation, hypothetical. Chitchat, air filler. Or he’s still being the good host.
I go around back to the pool. It’s windy out, something I didn’t feel just moments ago, shielded by the house. The wind thrusts right off the ocean, which is choppy and scattered with tufts of whitecaps. At the edge of the property, a coconut falls from a tree. The pool water moves in wrinkles. I wish Danny were here to break open that coconut, something he always does when I go to his house. We drink the water, eat the meat. When we were young, we’d pretend we were castaways, foraging in his yard, surviving on coconut and lychee and mint for our breath.
It would be awkward to sit by the pool, like someone sunbathing in a hurricane, so I go to the lanai. I like being over here more now. In a way, it feels silly not to be, like holing up in the locker room at a water park. Since I was planning on sitting on a recliner by the pool, I choose the daybed. This seems like something you’d do when you want to read and be alone, which I ostensibly do.
I look into the living room—empty—then hoist myself onto the daybed and get situated, sitting upright, my legs together at the knees. I didn’t want to look like a total nerd, reading for school, so I brought the old draft of the script. I always loved to do this in coffee shops or at a park or even at my old school, how it would make me feel so adult and make people curious about me. They always were. Read a book, no one looks. Read a script in public, and people always do.
Besides, reading this script is actually more appealing to me than To the Lighthouse, which is boring me to death. I open it and am already smiling a bit. I like its badness. Then again, if there’s something that draws you in, something you can’t help reading or watching, then how can it be bad? It’s almost like a v
illain winning while showing his cards. Not his fault he won.
“What are you smiling about?” I look up, and there’s Will, standing on the step down to the lanai, his hands holding the doorway over his head. I can’t imagine being able to do that. I run my eyes down the length of him, then back up to his face. He rubs his chin and looks like he’s recalling a good joke.
“It’s been a smiling day,” I say. “I’ve been caught twice.”
“Just twice?” he says. “That’s not enough.”
“It’s still early,” I say, surprised by my ability to talk smoothly.
“You reading for a role?” he asks and brings his arms down.
I feel misplaced on this bed now. I don’t know what to do with my legs. I sit up straighter, cross-legged, and regret my choice. “It’s my mom’s. She likes me to read them over.”
“And read with her?” he asks. “So she can practice her lines?”
We never do this. “Yeah,” I say.
“Cool,” he says. “Maybe you’ll be an actress one day.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Why not? You’ve got the look.” He grins, and I don’t know whether he’s being sincere or polite, or if it’s just what you say next to keep things going. He steps out and ducks a bit to see the ocean. The light catches his eye. I want to tell him that he’s got the look. He could be an actor. There’s really no difference between him and the guys on screen everyone thinks of as heartthrobs.
“Kind of windy for the boat,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Surf was nice last week. I only got a day in, but—”
“Longboard?”
“Short.”
“Sweet.” He looks at me as if I’ve said something that has changed his perception of me, and for a second, I wonder if my ability to surf has lessened me as a girl in some way, or at least a girl he would like. I can’t imagine Lissa doing it. Or him, for that matter.
“Must have been nice to grow up with a surf spot right out your door,” I say.
“Yeah, it was great. I’m not really a water guy, though.” His confidence in saying this makes me think of surfing as immature. Unsophisticated. I wonder what Danny would think.
“Golf’s your thing,” I say.
“Yup. Love it. Today was great.”
He tells me a story about today, and I shake my head, I open my mouth, I say “really?” and “oh my God,” all those things you do when someone is telling you a story. Boys do this all the time with sports—they’ll talk about a canoe race in detail, or a wave they caught, and after the first sentence, you want to say, “Okay, you paddled a canoe. Can we leave it at that?” They occupy your ears for way too long with sports tales.
I don’t have the same sensation with Will because I love that he’s talking to me, and I like watching him. It’s just that I feel like I’m performing, and I’m running out of lines and gestures and don’t know how long I should hold his gaze, which is making my throat dry. I look down, I look up. I cover my mouth in wonderment, I nod in understanding. It seems I’m almost in the end zone. I think he’s about to wrap things up. He shakes his head, and I do the same. I put my legs out in front of me and glance down at the script.
“Sorry,” he says. “You’re working.”
“No, not at all. This is . . . nonsense. I’m just . . . nothing better to do.” Loser.
“What’s nonsense about it?” he asks.
“Oh my God,” I say. “Read it.” I hand it up to him, but he doesn’t take it. Instead he sits down and leans toward me. I scoot up and, in the same movement, slightly away. I can smell him—sunscreen and that cologne of his—oranges, sandalwood, laundry detergent.
He reads to himself, but out loud at some points. He laughs sometimes, not unkindly, but in a sort of wonderment. “This is great!” he says.
Our heads are so close. I feel like it would be so much easier to jump on him than sit here. It’s like someone pretending to tickle you—they’re not touching you, but you feel it anyway, and it’s unbearable.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do this.”
I didn’t notice the sun was behind a cloud until it comes out and lights up the lanai, heating my hair.
“Do what?” I ask.
“Let’s read it.” He flicks the script. “Out loud.”
“Oh. Okay,” I say in a funny voice, my default-setting voice to hide behind. I’m rolling my eyes at my own damn self. I flip through the pages, looking for a scene, but then I indicate that I’ll randomly open to something, not wanting to be responsible. I turn to act 3, scene 2.
“So,” I say, “I’ll be Samantha.”
17
WILL ADJUSTS HIMSELF, SITTING UP, AS IF HE’S REALLY about to audition for something. He clears his throat, then reads as Jenkins:
“‘Wow. Look at that . . . asset.’”
I’ve turned to the same scene my mom and I had read in the kitchen, but we have the version where we see the back of the girl bending over and waxing her board.
“Go on,” Will says. “Your line. Say it like you mean it.”
“‘You’re an animal, Jenkins,’” I say, sounding like my mom when she read the line to me.
“‘Well, yes, by definition. I am an animal.’” Will looks at me and winks. “‘And so are you.’”
I smile back, even though I’m not supposed to. I’m supposed to be disgusted. I look back at the script. A local surfer is coming out of the water, his ripped body glistening. My character takes the binoculars from Jenkins and looks at the surfer.
“‘Yes, I guess I am,’” I say.
Seen through the binoculars, the girl is standing now. She stretches before going out into the surf. She twists and reaches and bends and is very flexible.
“‘I guess it’s your turn,’” I say as Samantha, and pantomime handing him the binoculars. Samantha looks down at the book on her lap and feels his gaze. He isn’t looking at the hot girl in her bikini. He’s looking at her.
“‘What?’” I say, and feel what Samantha is feeling—a kind of flushed yet empowered kick.
Will says, “‘Nothing, I . . .’”
“‘What?’” I say. “‘Spit it out.’”
“‘It’s just been nice hanging with you, that’s all. I know at work we’ve been all over each other, our egos colliding and—’”
“‘No, no, no,’” I say, liking our timing and rhythm. “‘Your ego colliding with your own ego and sending shrapnel into everyone’s hearts.’”
In the script, Samantha looks shy after saying this. The word heart was too much.
I take a breath, get my emotions under control. It doesn’t say she does this, but it feels right. “‘Our heads, I mean.’” I tap my head, improvising. Will, or Jenkins, sits up a bit, pulls away.
“‘Now, that’s no way to speak to your elder.’”
He’s kidding, but his voice has softened.
Will is good at this, or we’re good at this together. It’s almost easier this way, and I wish I always had a script at hand. I feel like myself even though I’m not myself. I’ve warmed to the script as well, as if saying the words out loud not only brings Samantha to life, but makes Jenkins more likable. More than that. As Samantha, I want his attention.
“‘I know what you mean,’” I say. “‘About hanging out. It’s nice to get out of the so-called office.’”
“‘I don’t mean to be a jerk in there,’” he says. “‘Is that what people think?’”
I put my hand on Will’s leg, then take it off as if it burned me.
It’s what Samantha does in the script, and yet it’s what I would have done if I were her too, and I even probably feel the way she’s supposed to feel—embarrassed but good, and needing a response, needing him to say something to erase the awkwardness and fill the silence. Then I realize it’s my turn. It’s my li
ne.
“‘I take it back,’” I say.
Will laughs. “‘You can’t take it back.’”
“‘No, but I do.’” I glance at the next line, then look at Will as I say it.
“‘You should act exactly how you do in there. That’s what makes you a great surgeon.’” I look back down and read, “So whatever you’re doing, or however you’re behaving, it works, in the long run.’”
Samantha turns to him, and Jenkins looks back at her.
“‘It works?’” he says. “And there’s a long run?’”
“‘It works,’” I say. “‘And there’s always a long run.’” And then he kisses me. Will kisses me, and I kiss back. Our lips are parted, our tongues touch, and I wonder if it will turn—
“‘Sorry,’” he says. “‘I shouldn’t have.’”
“It’s okay,” I say. “That was . . .” I look at his lips and let my sentence trail off because I can’t think of anywhere it could go. My body is working overtime—my head grasping for coherent thoughts, my heart walloping me from the inside. I feel a connection like a string running from my stomach to down between my legs. The string is taut and keeps being pulled.
“I guess we should call it a scene,” Will says, looking down at me.
“Sounds like a good plan,” I say, relieved by the steadiness of my voice. It will be okay. It’s better than okay. This is a good kind of crazy.
“That was fun,” he says, his voice light. I realize what a good actor he is, how his Jenkins voice and demeanor were so different from his own. He inhabited the character so well that I wonder if, when I actually see it on television, I’ll be able to believe in that version. Ours was so real. It’s then that I realize the possibility of something, which gives me the feeling of being on an airplane that's dropping from turbulence.
Will gets up. “It got beautiful out,” he says, and goes to the edge of the lanai, looking out at the ocean. “Look at that light.”
I don’t look at the light. I look down at the script, at Jenkins kissing Samantha, then pulling back and saying, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .”
Juniors Page 13
