“Okay, but I want you to think,” she says. “To respect and take care of yourself.”
“Deal,” I say.
And it is a deal. I’ll take care of myself. I am good, I’ll be good, but I also want to get a new job.
22
NOW, THIS IS SPRING BREAK. SUNNY, NO ONE HOME. Will’s car outside. I will make my own plans and maybe make him clarify his own.
Will? For break you’re hanging out with Will West? That guy is, like, dreamboat, like, dream yacht; he’s, like, Kelly Slater kind, and his body is ohmahhaw-mazing. As soon as I think this, though, I rethink. Will isn’t the tan surfer type. Danny’s the one who looks like the pro surfer. Will is classy, sophisticated. I imagine him taking off a suit jacket and putting it over my shoulders.
Will West? Golf pro. That guy is such a boss.
I know! And he is so sweet and sexy.
I’m on the daybed again, reading the script. It may be a setup, but I’m going with it.
I hear music coming from inside, and I cross, then uncross my legs. I will lounge. I will be cucumber coolness.
And then I sense him there in the doorway, and when I look over, I act as though I was in deep concentration.
“Oh, hey,” I say. “Thought you’d be off spring breaking.”
“I’m here spring breaking.”
We smile at each other, and it’s as if we’ve both agreed to bypass the shyness and admit something.
“I’m glad,” I say.
He holds his hands out in front of him, framing me. “I think we need to do a retake. The light is perfect.” He looks down, then back up, his face coy and confident.
“Take two?” I say.
He sits next down on the edge, and I sit up and move my legs so they hang next to his. “I haven’t seen you this week,” he says. “This is a nice surprise.”
“I’ve been busy,” I say.
“Hey,” he says, his face close to mine.
“Hi, there.” I almost reach out to touch the stubble on his face, his hard square jaw. I want to bury my face in his shirt that smells good and worn. His body looks strong beneath it. I move back, not wanting to be looked at so closely.
“You look nice,” he says, in a way where it seems as if he’s still deciding on it.
“Are you in character right now?”
“Maybe,” he says.
Something has changed. It’s as though we’ve skipped ahead or something happened off-screen. This feels so easy.
He looks at the script and reads a few lines in a jokey voice.
“We could change it up a bit,” he says. “Improvise.”
I swing my legs back and forth. “Okay, Dr. Jenkins,” I say.
He reaches for my hand. “Okay, Samantha,” he says. It’s sweet, the way he’s holding my hand, like we’ve done this before.
“We could start where we left off,” he says, and before I can think about anything, his mouth is on mine.
It’s more urgent this time—not a test, inquisitive kiss. This kiss lands and stays to explore. We do this for what seems forever and could be forever. I could do this all day and night.
“What about Lissa?” I ask.
“What about her?” he says.
“Are you with her or not?”
“No,” he says. “I told her I had other things on my mind.” He lies back and takes me with him, pulling me between his legs. I can feel him. His hand moves up my shirt, one on my back and one on my breast. He groans a bit into my mouth. He moves us so we’re facing each other on the bed and presses his body between my legs, and I imagine us having sex this way. There’s so little fabric between us, I feel like we already are.
We haven’t stopped kissing, and a breeze moves my hair over our faces. He pushes my hair away, then presses me on my back. He begins to bring his hand under the buckle of my shorts and part of me is mortified, anticipating what he’ll find, the evidence of my total desire. He finds it and sighs, “Lea,” and though I’m a virgin and want to be one until the time is right, the way he’s moving his fingers and the naked desire on his face make me want to throw caution to the wind. I move into his hand, closing my eyes, but seeing us here with the ocean, the wind, the ripples on the pool. The time seems beautiful.
I open my eyes, and we lock gazes, then kiss again. I reach for his buckle to feel him too, and his hands find mine, helping me. I feel I need to give him fair warning that I’m a virgin and while my body wants to swallow him, my brain, my being, would like a first date.
“I think . . . ,” I say, but don’t get anything else out, hoping my hesitation conveys everything for me.
He holds my hand again, then brings it to the outside of his boxers. He kisses my neck. “We can go in,” he says.
A car door slams, and we jump. Will faces the ocean, getting himself together. I sit up, then get off the bed.
“I’m going to go,” I say.
“Yeah, okay.” He turns, and there’s something distant in his eyes, like nothing happened just now. “That was a good take,” he says with a laugh.
It takes me a moment to understand what he’s talking about. “Take two,” I joke again.
He walks over to me and ruffles my hair, making me feel like a Labrador or, worse, a shih tzu. “See you soon.”
“Right,” I say. Is this my cue, then? Will there be a take three?
“You okay?” he asks. “We cool?” He wipes his hands on his pants.
We cool? I think so. I’m cool, I’m hot—flushed, fiery. I’m cold. A little sour, but, ah, what happened—this moment—I’m a little sweet too. I’m all over the map.
“I should go,” I say, and am left feeling both exhilaration and shame. I walk to the side of the house, where the garbage cans are, so that whoever’s coming in won’t see me.
23
THE WIND CAME BACK AND, ALONG WITH IT, RAIN, which is rare in Kahala. I miss the rain in Kailua, the way it cleans the slate and makes it okay to stay inside. In Hawaii you always feel you have to be outside doing something.
The sound of the rain is faint. In the cottage, we are too sealed in to really hear or notice it. There are no glass jalousies that let the outside in. I can see the rain, though, through the kitchen window, and a rectangle of night sky softly illuminated by light from the coconut trees.
I tried to read in my room, which is to say, I had a book open and was looking at the words and reading sentences over and over because I couldn’t focus. I looked out at the main house, wondering what Will thought, if he even thought anything at all. I was straight-up mortified right after everything happened, but now that time has passed, I find myself smiling at the memory, smiling at my mortification, smiling at the event of it all, the way he touched me. The script was an alibi. Whatever happened I chalk up to Samantha, so it was all a wonderful fiction. I think of his hand. I would like more fiction. I close my book because it’s not nearly as good as my own story.
I go to the living room and switch on the TV, which is giving me something to look at, but I’m not really hearing what anyone’s saying, and when my mom comes out from her room and asks what I’m watching, I tell her, “I don’t even know.”
She stands by the couch, watching.
“You’re not grounded anymore, you know,” she says.
“I know,” I say. I guess I’m grounding myself. Friday night of spring break. Girl gone wild.
“Want to watch this Netflix?” she asks, and I see the envelope in her hand. Her face is so open and eager. She’d be so disappointed if I said no.
“What is it?” I ask, moving my legs, inviting her to sit.
“A documentary about African lions.” She walks up to the TV as if she’s been waiting to do this all night.
“Really? Why do you get every animal documentary ever made?”
“I love them!” she says, an
d the thing is, once they get started, I usually do too. Still, now I’m adding documentary to the list following Friday and first night of spring break. I am so punk rock. Just when I thought I liked my own story, the reality settles in. I am home with my mom. And yet, the residue of today still lingers, and I realize no matter what I’m doing I have the memory and the sensation in my reserves. My face warms, and that string pulls, and I feel like I can’t move. I’m like a wildebeest near a lion; my mom will find me. She’ll detect something new and awful about me, like alcohol on my breath, something she’d be able to smell. Breathe in my face. She’ll sense dirtiness, inappropriateness, or maybe just something adult. I want to be an adult, but not with her. The things in my reserves that are making my body pulse are mine.
“Popcorn?” she asks, after setting up the movie.
“Yes!” I say, feeling kind of spoiled that she’s making it for me, even though I know she wants to.
After she pops the corn, she sits down with the bowl, puts the blanket over our legs, and we move into a broad shot of the Sahara.
We reach into the bowl at the same time, grabbing our handfuls. I feel that this will always be what I think of when I think of home. This is something we do together and have always done. I can remember the movies we had when I was little, all on rotation—The Sound of Music, The Parent Trap, Whale Rider. There were The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Emma and Clueless, Annie and Fantastic Mr. Fox. And of course, animal documentaries. I know everything there is to know about penguins.
The cubs are playing, pawing one another. The mother licks a cub, lifting it off the ground with her tongue. We both laugh. “Love it,” I say, feeling so myself and absorbed. When the film nears its heartbreaking conclusion (one of the cubs taken, devoured), both of us cry, but that’s what happens out there in the wild. Why can crying feel so good? I’m happy to feel something, sad and tunneled out, convinced it makes room for something else.
24
I WAKE REFRESHED AND READY TO MAKE SPRING BREAK official.
The thought of Will has given me a buzz, a spring in my step, a confidence. Whitney hasn’t said anything about our plan to surf, but I’ve decided that I am going to Kailua, and she can come if she wants to.
Just days ago, I’d have felt cautious; I’d have looked out the window, not sure if I should remind her or worry that she wasn’t serious about coming with me. Now I walk across the lawn to knock on her bedroom door with an assuredness that makes me feel like a new person. I like my outfit—short jean shorts and a white T-shirt that falls off my shoulders. I’ve borrowed my mom’s black Ray-Bans, and I like the way they look so much I’m hoping she forgets to ask for them back.
I see Will and slow my pace. He sees me, but from this distance, I can’t read his expression. He’s putting clubs into the trunk of his SUV.
“Morning,” I say.
“What’s up?” he says. The familiarity, the easiness, everything is gone. He looks preoccupied, his face pinched in irritation or anger. Aren’t we supposed to be climbing the ladder to something? Or are we going back down again? I want to shake him, throw myself at him, kiss him, and say, “Remember this?”
He’s wearing a baseball cap, light gray shorts, and a green golf shirt. “Nice outfit,” I say.
“Yeah, you too,” he says.
“What’s going on here?” I ask. He seems to scoff, but then his face settles down into something normal.
“Sorry,” he says. “I suck at this. And I’m stressed. Big tournament today, and my dad had me up all night helping him out with work stuff.”
“Oh,” I say, comforted by the fact that he was just sitting home with his parent too. It also makes him seem so in charge, the fact that his dad needs him in that way. I love this light he’s in—both a caring son and a responsible heir. “Is he okay?”
“Yeah,” Will says and takes his hat off, wipes his brow with his forearm, then puts it back on. I’m so tempted to touch him as a girlfriend would.
“He’s just worried about everything, a little paranoid,” Will says. “He had me go through all his finances—again—things he wants kept from—” He stops suddenly.
“That’s a lot to deal with,” I say.
“Yeah. Anyway.” He touches me lightly on the waist, his hand bringing comfort and relief. “You okay?”
I laugh. “I’m good.”
“I’ll see you soon?”
“Yeah, okay,” I say. “Good luck today.” We make eye contact while walking backwards in different directions. He holds his hand out toward me as if he were palming a basketball, then turns to his car.
• • •
Whitney opens one of the doors to her room. She looks like she just woke up. She’s wearing a large Billabong T-shirt, and I imagine it being handed down from Will. It looks like something he’d wear when he’s out of his golf costume.
Will has deflated me a bit, but I want to patch up that hole and keep my good-mood momentum. I’ve missed Whitney this week.
“Let’s surf!” I say.
She covers one of her ears, indicating a headache, a hangover. Something—a ring or a bracelet—catches on her T-shirt, which gets momentarily lifted, revealing that she isn’t wearing anything beneath it, not even underwear. I try not to react to the sight of her body, but it’s jarring to see it—she’s completely shaved, and my first thought is that it looks so cold.
She groans. “Too loud. Too happy.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m going to Flat Island, if you still want to come with.”
“What time is it?” She hits her forehead repeatedly with the palm of her hand.
“Almost ten, I think.”
“Oh God,” she says. She looks behind her, then moves out a little more toward me, holding the door against her. I almost ask, jokingly, Hiding someone? then realize that maybe she is. The thought, coupled with her bareness down there, makes me feel incredibly childlike.
“I guess I’ll go,” she says. “Give me a sec. You want to load up the boards while I get ready? Mine’s on the side of the house.”
“Sure,” I say, and she closes her bedroom door.
• • •
My board is already on the roof, and I put hers on top of it. It’s a Saffron James board and has a batik-like white-and-blue print. It’s like a beautiful cake you can’t bear to cut into. Still, I’d love to have one. It’s achingly cool.
I knock on her door again. She opens it, all the way this time, and looks like she went back to bed.
“Are you kidding me?” I say. Her hair is in a sloppy bun, and she’s wearing the same thing, her legs bare.
“What?” she says. “I’m ready.”
“Oh,” I say, and see the straps beneath the T-shirt. I get glimpses of her room while she gets her bag and sunglasses. There are glass doors on the other side facing the ocean, the wooden blinds up. The room is very adult, but not necessarily in a good way. It looks designed and decorated by someone from a place like Martha’s Vineyard who wanted a Hawaiian theme for the guest cottage.
I want to wander around—I love people’s rooms, but this doesn’t look like it would reveal anything true about her. I glance at the unmade bed. I look for clues, but the only thing that strikes me is that the bed is fully turned down. Whenever I wake up, half of my bed is still partially made—I just tuck myself into one side—but I know this doesn’t mean anything. She could just move around a lot. She could kick off all the covers. I stay pretty still when I sleep, and maybe I’ve just gotten in the habit of not disturbing the other side so I don’t have as much work to do the next day. She probably isn’t forced to make her bed.
She closes the door, and we get into my car. Would Danny sneak over here? Would he sleep in her bed? I could just ask her—was there someone in there?—but worry it would come off sounding pathetic.
• • •
On the road, my
mood is back to soaring again, triggered by the sight of Nu’uanu and driving up the Pali toward the tunnel. The air is cooler, the sky sunny but muted, trees and wildness on both sides of the highway, all varying riffs on green. Some of the mountain’s sharp wrinkles are lined with waterfalls, though the wind is making them spray in the other direction. Waterclimbs and waterfalls.
Whitney has her bare feet on my dash, and she’s texting someone, which reminds me of the hotel. I want to ask about it, but don’t want my voice to betray me, revealing me and my longing. I’m sure she’ll tell me about it sometime today.
The stereo goes out when we go into the tunnels. When we get to the other side, my heart swells from the feeling of returning home, as if I’d been away for years. Whitney puts her phone down.
“Epic day,” she says.
I carve down the Pali, looking out at the blues of the ocean, the whiteness of the sandbars. I take the big curve by the lookout and see Mount Olomana, which is different from every angle. Of course there’s a helicopter over its peak, rescuing someone who’s overestimated themselves. On the way to Waimanalo, Olomana doesn’t even seem like the same mountain, and I’m always surprised by how something can seem so looming and regal from one side and then, from another, like a mere bump.
“I haven’t been here in so long,” I say. We pass the Kaneohe Ranch building, and the traffic slows.
“That’s right,” she says. “This is your ’hood. Lucky. This place is so much cooler.”
Lucky, I think. She’s right. I was lucky to have lived here. Something I’ve noticed since moving to Hawaii is that everyone kind of feels this way about themselves no matter where they live.
“I’m definitely going to come here a lot over break,” I say. This is true, but I’m also fishing.
“Totes,” she says. “Oh my God, shaddup, love this song.” She turns on the stereo and dances in her seat, nodding her head and slapping the air overhead, something I do too when I’m with Danny, but now I feel I can’t with her, like she’s claimed it. Shaddup, hand flicking—it’s hers. I’m left with lame gestures. I imagine saying “coolio” and raising the roof.
Juniors Page 16
