Juniors

by Kaui Hart Hemmings

  “You want to swan dive off the rock?” Whitney asks.

  No! I want to say. This is my plan, my excursion, and Whitney knows this—because as soon as she asks, she looks at me, quickly, with guilt and apology.

  “That’s what we’re doing,” Mari says. “But no swan diving.”

  My plan now seems clichéd, and again I feel Danny, but this time the smirk is back, the belief that I’m just like everyone else. I shake him off—why is he here anyway, like some kind of angel/devil on my shoulder, either grinning approvingly or making wisecracks? I summon the feeling I had in the car—this isn’t cliché, and who cares if it is? It’s just about wanting to jump off a goddamn rock, take the plunge, feel alive and scared and thrilled for a moment.

  “Have you guys done this before?” I ask.

  “I have,” Brooke says. She runs her finger under her suit, adjusting so the fabric goes in. “Before you land. Make sure to close your legs.”

  • • •

  It’s an easy climb up, but for some reason, Mari is having trouble. In one section she scales the rock like a crab and is unsure of every step. I like climbing rocks, getting into the rhythm and making quick choices. When we get to the top, there are about ten other people, and no one is jumping. It reminds me of going to the terrain park in Tahoe—everyone waiting before a jump or rail slide, seemingly planning their trick, but most likely waiting for everyone else to go so no one will be watching if they screw up.

  I look out at the beautiful bay, the white sand and reef visible under the slow swells. The expanse of ocean, the varying blues that seem to inhale and exhale. Spray from the surf mists my face, and on my shoulders is a thin layer of powdery salt.

  I look back, and Brooke is taking pictures of Mari and Sobey, who are laughing hysterically, but every so often freezing their laughter for the pictures.

  “Wait, take one of me on the edge,” Sobey says. She goes to the edge of the rock and does the arched-back, butt-up pose while contemplating the jump, her arms up in diving position. Then she comes back to look at the picture. “Nice,” she says.

  “Are you going to jump?” Whitney asks.

  “No way,” she says. “I just got my hair blown out.”

  Whitney looks at me and rolls her eyes. It’s weird to think that I saw her as part of this group, even the head of it, with no difference between her and the pack. Now I don’t see her fitting in at all. She must fit only when she hides the things I get to see—the weirdness and vulnerability.

  Mari runs her hands up and down her arms, which are shaking a little. It’s funny the way another person’s fear sucks yours away, so all that’s left is a little residue, a little dust. Brooke, the expert, looks like less of a rock scholar now, adjusting her bikini, making the chin-tucked frown face required when checking one’s boobs.

  “I’m going to go down to the beach to get pics,” Sobey says.

  “It’s so far,” Whitney says. The blue water churns below.

  “I know,” I say, but we both smile.

  A few guys quietly trickle off the rock, and we watch them land and splash below. It’s not so intimidating here after all—it’s less local and more Texas, or wherever these guys are from. Mainland guys are just plain dorky, no matter who they are back where they’re from. It’s like HNL has a customs that confiscates anything cool or desirable. We have Hawaii boys to compare them to—Asian, Caucasian, Hawaiian, it doesn’t matter. They are mysteriously more capable, attractive, effortless.

  “You girls going to jump?” a sunburnt auburn-headed guy says with a drawl. The thing is—he’d be attractive on, say, Clement Street or the Marina. Anywhere but here.

  “Yes, we’re going to jump,” Whitney says, as if he’s a first-grader. “That’s kind of why we’re here.”

  His friends laugh, then one suddenly runs to the edge and throws himself into a sideways tuck. That’s why people wait too, I guess—they wait for girls to watch, or for the perfect audience.

  “Your turn, ladies,” the drawler says.

  “You guys go ahead,” Brooke says. She has a hand on her waist, daring them.

  The one sitting down on the uneven rocks, who looks like he’s chewing tobacco or something, eyes Brooke and squirms a bit, and I wonder if he’s getting a boner.

  “What’s you girls’ names?” the bonified guy asks.

  “Grammar,” I say. “Grammarcy.” My friends, or Whitney’s friends, all laugh.

  The two boys speak to themselves, then the auburn-headed one stands at the precipice and jumps, yelling the mainland equivalent of chee-hoo, which is yahoo.

  A new batch of guys come up, slick like eels, tan, and wearing low-riding shorts revealing the smooth bumps of their asses. The mainland guys aren’t so loud anymore. They’re mumbling to themselves, shy and deferential. It’s funny that moments ago our group was practically a Hawaiian sovereign nation next to these haole boys, and now, in the newcomers’ presence, I don’t even feel like I live here. My Hawaiian blood cowers in some corner of my body, tucks itself into my spleen. The girls they’re with are wearing baggy soccer shorts and T-shirts, and look at us like we’ve insulted them without having said a word. One carries a cooler, which I’ve come to think of as a local’s accessory, like a watch, or no—something necessary—a wallet. In Hawaii we all give ourselves so much credit for being a melting pot, but I don’t think we melt—we just pick from one another’s cultures, then carry out the things we like best.

  “Let’s jump already,” Whitney says, and we all look at one another.

  “I’ll go,” Brooke says. She walks to the edge, looks down, then back at us. She pushes off, and I realize I’m holding my breath.

  “Oh my God,” Mari says. I feel embarrassed for her.

  “Go,” Whitney says to her.

  “You!” Mari says, laughing to hide her self-consciousness. She darts her eyes around.

  “Want to all jump together?” I say.

  “Too crowded,” Whitney says.

  We stand at the edge. “Oh my God, it’s so far,” Mari says.

  “It’s deep,” Whitney says. “Don’t psych yourself out. You can always go from the lower ledge.”

  “’Kay, jump with me,” Mari says.

  “I’m going with Lea,” Whitney says, and Mari blinks at me, then looks away.

  “Should we go first, or do you want to?” I ask. Mari checks out the strangers on the rock, as if deciding between two dark fates. If we go, she’ll be alone. “I’ll just wait,” she says.

  “Let’s go,” Whitney says.

  “I’m going to dive,” I say.

  “Not!” Whitney says. Mari’s fear and Whitney’s alignment are fueling me.

  We creep up to the edge.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “Ready,” she says. “One . . . two . . . three!”

  I dive from the rock. We don’t have a picture, don’t have proof, just the feeling to go on and trace back to. I feel the air swallow me, the chill on my skin, a pure and solid fright, and then the shock of hard water. It’s breathtaking, disorienting, like I’ve been hit. Then things clear. I know where I am, and I’m safe. Underwater it’s so quiet. I open my eyes, see Whitney’s legs above me fluttering. I kick up, then break the surface with a grin and somehow feel the beauty around me, actually in me, tingling. And then I feel something else. “Oh my God.”

  “I know, right?” Whitney says. “That was killer. Let’s go again.”

  We tread water, circling our legs like propellers.

  “I can’t,” I say. We move toward shore. I go underwater to look around, then come back up. “My bottoms came off,” I say, and feel close to tears.

  At first she looks incredulous, then stunned, and then on the precipice of hysterics. I automatically mirror this progression.

  I go back down, swim around, and see her too. Our hair floa
ts above us, and we share an underwater break, looking around, then back at each other. We are wordless, weightless, and hopeless. We both emit a huge bubble of air, then rise to meet above.

  “Holy shit,” she says.

  “What do I do? How am I supposed to get out?”

  “I could go buy you a suit,” she says.

  We tread water, my heart races.

  “And I just stay in the water?”

  “Or no—easy,” she says. “We’ll swim to shore. I’ll get your shorts.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “That works.”

  We swim toward shore, and I wait for her past the small break, not wanting to get too close and be rolled onto the sand, naked. I feel the water on me, in me—it’s funny how such a little amount of fabric completely changes the sensation. It’s how guys must feel, the water brushing them, the swath of fabric not constantly pressed to them. I float on my back, keeping my pelvis down, my legs kicking, and after looking around to make sure no one’s near me, I press my hips up, for the fun of it, the silliness of it, and to see myself fully, a small, naked thing floating in a big bay.

  • • •

  After getting my shorts on, after telling the story to the other girls, we jump over and over again, my lost bottoms somehow empowering us. Her friends look at me differently, it seems, like something happened to me that they wished had happened to them. It’s a good story, and I’m sure they’ll borrow it somehow, star themselves in it. Who knows—they could make me look dumb in their version, though it’s hard to be cast that way when you continue to leap off the black, glimmering rock. The girls with the coolers look at me differently too, I think. I’m jumping with shorts on, a local, just like them.

  29

  WHEN WE GET BACK TO THE MAIN HOUSE, INSTEAD OF dropping Whitney off and parting awkwardly, I go in. I’m grounded and can’t go out at night, but technically, I haven’t left the property. And I don’t even want to drink or anything. I just want to hang out, to not be alone. I don’t want to miss anything.

  “What should we do?” Whitney says. We stand on the lanai. “Should I see what’s going on?”

  I shrug, and she mimics my indifference. I wonder if she’s okay with being alone, or not doing whatever her friends are doing. I don’t want her to text and make calls, make plans where we’ll have to wait until ten, then scout the island for parties. The pressure to have fun, to have the best night, can be so tiring.

  For her sake, I answer, “I’m grounded, but you can give your friends a call.”

  She shrugs. “They’re your friends too.”

  “Not quite,” I say, not wanting to sound defensive, but wanting to keep things truthful. Actually, I want her to be truthful, not patronizing like her mother.

  “They can be, I mean,” she says.

  I nod. That’s better.

  “That is, if you even want them to be. Mari’s such a pussy, right?”

  I spurt out laughter, which makes her preen. “Yeah, she kind of is.”

  “I mean, not just the rock thing, but everything. When I see her, I just want to shake her. All hunched and shit—always, always looking at Brooke after she says something, like she’s waiting for knighthood or to get her head chopped off.”

  “That’s a good way to put it,” I say. Did she feel left out by her friends who showed up at Waimea without telling her, and then with that awful greeting—What are you doing here?—like a buffer?

  “I like Brooke, though,” I say. “Who’s your closest friend?” I hang on to the wooden post on the lanai and swing around it. Whitney stands on the edge of the lanai on one foot and moves the other so it looks like she’s pushing herself on a scooter.

  “I don’t know. It used to be Mari—we were really close, but then Brooke came freshman year, and she was just, like, this big deal, you know? Like, she modeled in Japan and shit. So Mari went thataway.”

  “That’s lame,” I say.

  “Yeah, but maybe we were so close because Mari made it that way, you know? Like how she is with Brooke—she was like that with me, but I didn’t recognize it. Her agreeableness, or whatever . . . shape-shifter,” Whitney says. “That’s what she is.”

  “Sucks,” I say, then worry she might think that about me, too, because of Will.

  The wind carries a faint spray of ocean.

  “It wasn’t an even friendship,” Whitney says. “I realize that now. She did all the work, and part of me probably wanted it that way. So I was a crappy friend too.”

  “Friends need to be on even turf,” I say.

  “Right,” she says. “No one should be better, even if . . .”

  She doesn’t finish her sentence, and I’m not sure how she’s finished it in her head, but in mine, I am thinking, Even if one is actually better.

  Prettier, richer, more popular. Even if one has a hotel and guys pine for her and girls mimic her. Though she says none of this, I appreciate that what she has said has made me draw these conclusions for myself.

  “I’m glad you guys are staying here,” she says.

  “Totally,” I say. “Me too.”

  “Like, we probably wouldn’t have even known one another.”

  “I know.”

  I hop on and off the step for something to do, and she mimics me.

  “I’d have no friends,” I say in a comically sad way.

  “Oh, please,” she says. “You’re pretty, and your body’s banging. Girls like you always make friends.”

  “Shaddup a hundred times,” I say and shake my head.

  “You have no idea, either,” she says. “That’s what’s so cool about you. You look like you don’t need anyone and don’t care.”

  I look down, proud and embarrassed. “Anyway, let’s get off this topic right now. Because then I’ll say how pretty you are, and you’ll say ‘oh, stop’—”

  “No, I won’t,” she says. “I’m waiting. I want to hear.” We both laugh, then she jumps with a silly enthusiasm. “Want to make a big dinner and just grind and watch movies?”

  “Totally,” I say, and I execute a ninja-like kick, and we both run toward the kitchen.

  She thinks I look like I don’t need anything, anyone. Meanwhile every cell of my body seems to be on hyperalert, always assessing, interpreting. I guess I’m communicating what I’ve strived for, but is it truly what I want? I feel that part of the reason I like Whitney is because she makes it seem okay to be myself. She turns the music up, and we gather our ingredients. I’m relieved that I don’t have to sit in silence while she coordinates with friends. I don’t have to watch headlights come and go from my perch in the cottage. This friendship is pure comfort.

  • • •

  We decide that we’ve eaten a shitload. We went to town in the kitchen, making burritos stuffed to the gills with the things that spoke to us—mushrooms, ground turkey, white beans, Andy’s Salsa, avocado, lime tortilla chips, and Irish cheddar. It all worked, and so did our dessert burritos—peanut butter, bananas, maple syrup—baked, like ourselves. We didn’t drink, but we did smoke just a bit of pot, taken from Eddie’s drawer. It’s something I never do at parties, only with close friends, so if I get weird or paranoid or have caveman rants, it’s okay.

  We go back outside with the hems of our shirts tucked into our bikini tops, which we still haven’t changed out of. We are forcing ourselves to not lie around and watch TV just yet. It would be hard to get back up again.

  Whitney looks down and tries to make her stomach ripple. “‘Roll your body and move your feet,’” she says, and I join in, recognizing the cheer.

  “‘Stand up, everybody—get that buff and blue beat!’” We repeat the song and then Whitney claps and kicks like the Punahou cheerleaders, teasing them, but maybe envying them as well, their lives of staggered splits, rolling pom-poms, and spirit hands. They seem so happy all the time. I can’t imagine smiling
that much.

  “‘I need another hit, hurry, quick, hurry, quick,’” I rap.

  “What is that?” she asks, giving in a bit by sitting down and leaning back on the coral-stamped pillows.

  “Song with weed reference,” I say, thinking of Danny, my teacher in old-school rap. “But I think they’re talking about crack. And crack is wack.” I laugh.

  “‘My oven’s on high when I roast the quail,’” she says. “‘Tell Bill Clinton to go and inhale.’”

  I cover my mouth and laugh. “Whoa, excellent citation! Ho snap, Whitney from the block! How did you know that?”

  She laughs crudely. “Summer camp.”

  “That was off the charts,” I say, which makes her try to rap again—we both do—from “Rapper’s Delight,” but can’t remember enough of the words to make it really go. We settle back into the quiet, which isn’t that quiet at all. There’s the constant whoosh and crash of the ocean, the sound of the palms like cards being shuffled.

  “What do you want to be when you grow up?” she asks.

  “God, I don’t know. I’m just trying to figure out where I want to apply to college. I only know what I don’t want to be.”

  “And what is that?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. A clown . . . or a pilot.”

  She laughs. “I don’t know if I can even go to college, I’m so stupid.”

  “You need to stop saying that,” I say. “Do you think you’ll work for your dad one day?”

  She looks at me and is about to say something, then stops herself. Her eyes water.

  “Oh my gosh, what did I say?”

  “Nothing,” she says. “Sorry.” She laughs away her emotion. “I have such an old dad,” she says. “I don’t know what’s happening to him.”

  “That’s so sad,” I say. “At least you have one,” I joke, but she looks at me like I just hurt myself or like I’m trying to hide the hurt. Not having him has probably defined who I am more than I care to admit.

  “I want to write children’s books,” she says.