by Hester Young
David snorts. “Oh, she’s got a phone, and she knows how to use it. If it’s not her kids, it’s music we played too loud or a party we shouldn’t be having, or the albizzia tree we cut down that was technically on her property—never mind that albizzias are invasive and the branches are prone to invisible rot. I mean, they’ll just drop on you, out of nowhere, destroy your roof, your car. A normal person would’ve thanked us for taking down that tree. But there’s no winning with her.”
“It must be her weird upbringing,” Rae says. “She doesn’t trust outsiders.”
“Not Thom and I, anyway.”
Though David’s words maintain a tense neutrality, I can read between the lines. I heard Adam fretting about homosexuals yesterday. I have a pretty good idea of what Naomi feels for her neighbors, and it’s not the love that Jesus preached.
“The best thing is to just stay off her radar,” David says. “I know you had good intentions, Charlotte, but if you see those boys around again, they’re best left to their own devices.”
“Right,” I say. “Speaking of devices . . . what do I do about my phone?”
“There’s a Verizon and a Sprint store in Hilo,” David suggests. “You could get a replacement if you don’t mind burning half a day. Or just wait until you get home. You’re only here through Sunday, right?”
Put that way, my technology dependence sounds ridiculous. I have a laptop to check email. Surely I can go five days without a phone. That’s what people do on vacations, isn’t it? Unplug? And Rae has her phone. Noah could still reach me in an emergency.
I set aside the nagging voice in my head that tells me I will be vulnerable. Remind myself that people survived plenty of years without cell phones.
“It’s only five days. I’ll be fine.”
* * *
• • •
ALTHOUGH I MANUFACTURE tepid enthusiasm for Rae, I’m not looking forward to our trip to South Point. The morning’s phone fiasco—and the resulting calls to Noah and Verizon—have drained me of my energy and optimism. I can concede the potential usefulness of this Brayden character, but I’m still annoyed at Rae for expending so much time on him. And leaving us without an exit plan today was a rookie mistake. If he’s unbearable, if our day with him proves a bust, or even dangerous, we have no out. But of course, that’s Rae. Go big or go home.
Her beach pal shows up half an hour late in the kind of rusty old van favored by kidnappers and child molesters. He’s young and sunburned, with a nose that looks like it’s been broken a couple of times and a tangled strawberry-blond mane that screams surfer dude. Hardly the boy toy that I’d been envisioning, but maybe his youth was enough to appeal to Kai’s mom.
“Hey there, friends!” Brayden calls, flicking a lock of hair from his face. “You ready for the road?”
“This is our guide?” I mutter. The distinctive odor of marijuana wafts from his vehicle.
“He’s not a guide,” Rae corrects me. “We’re covering gas and food, but we’re not paying him. Just be cool, okay? Treat him like a buddy.”
When the guy approaches and takes my hand, I think he means to shake it. Instead, he draws me toward him and puts his other hand on my back in a space-invading half hug. “You must be Charlie,” he says. “I’m Brayden, and my buddy Frankie’s in the car. I think we’re gonna have a really joyful day.”
At the phrase “joyful day,” I want to stab my eyes out.
I turn to Rae, frowning. “You didn’t say he was bringing a friend.” One random guy was bad enough, but two feels like a safety risk. I cross my arms and look Brayden up and down. “How do we know you and Frankie aren’t serial killers?”
“Whoa!” Brayden holds up his hands. “That’s dark! Hey, I don’t want you to do anything you’re uncomfortable doing. Rae here said you guys wanted to see the island. I’m just trying to share the aloha, Charlotte. I’m not, like, a sex offender.”
His rusted van begs to differ.
“Don’t mind her,” Rae tells him with a laugh. “Charlie’s always like that. It’s why we’re here. To help her lighten up.”
Rae’s casual insult smarts. This Brayden kid is twenty-three if I’m being generous. We are both old enough to be his mom. What’s her deal, cozying up to him? Is Rae having a midlife crisis? And he reeks.
I sniff the air loud enough to make my point. “You okay to drive, Brayden?”
He grins, unoffended. “Aw, that wasn’t me. Frankie was trying to unwind on the way over here. It’s medical with him. He’s got this condition.”
“Really?” I deadpan. “Glaucoma?”
“PTSD,” says Brayden. “He’s had a hard time since he got back from Afghanistan.”
Rae shoots me a look that says, What up, judgy bitch?
Chastened, I make a little more effort to be friendly. “So where are you taking us today, Brayden? South Point?”
“Yup. Ka Lae, southernmost point in the United States. If you accept Hawaiʻi is part of the States,” he adds, “which is debatable what with the illegal overthrow of the monarchy.” He pulls out a map of the island. “So we’re over here in the Puna district, right?” His index finger moves to the bottom of the map. “We’re headed over here, to Kaʻū. Figured you guys might wanna check out the green-sand beach, and then Frankie can show you some cliff diving.”
Green sand is admittedly intriguing, and I’ve never seen someone cliff dive before. “How long is that drive?”
“Less than two hours.” Brayden shrugs. “It’s pretty scenic.”
“That sounds awesome,” Rae says.
“All right, then!” Brayden raises one hand to the air. “Let’s do this!” He raps on the rear window of the van. “Frankie! Wake up, brah! Move up front, we got company!”
I catch Rae by the arm. “You’re sure this is how you want to spend your day?” I whisper. “Hanging with a couple stoner boys?”
“Brayden’s not just any stoner boy,” Rae reminds me. “He lives with Kai and he was probably Lise’s supplier. With the whole drug angle, you can bet he hasn’t shared whatever he knows about Lise with police. So.”
“Okay, okay. True enough.”
At that moment, the door of the van slides open, and Frankie steps out, half-asleep. Naturally, I think. It’s nine thirty, probably the earliest he’s had to wake in months. Then I see the scar running up his leg, a pink, jagged line across his tanned skin. I remember what Brayden said about Afghanistan, and I promise myself that I’ll be kind, that I’ll endeavor to understand these two boys, however different from myself they may be.
That doesn’t mean I have to like them.
* * *
• • •
IF I HAD to bet money on it, I would’ve guessed that Brayden was a Bob Marley fan, but the ride to South Point and Papakōlea Beach is dominated by Beyoncé, or, as Brayden calls her, Queen Bey. Brayden sings along to an endless reel of hits, belting out high notes in an unabashed falsetto while Frankie stretches out in the passenger seat.
Frankie has close-cropped black hair and a face pockmarked by acne. He sits with one leg folded to his chest, the other stretched out in front of him, that long scar extending up the side. If it’s not a battle scar, I bet he tells girls it is. Frankie’s homely in a way certain women find attractive, none of his features lining up correctly, so you can’t help but take a second look. Rock-star ugly, I decide, with the attitude to match. He watches Brayden’s no-holds-barred renditions of Beyoncé with a faintly amused, cooler-than-thou expression.
Rae and I huddle in the backseat of the van and fight giggles brought on by Brayden’s performance. Whatever tensions might have existed earlier have dispelled amidst the absurdity of the situation. Here we are, two women in our forties riding around in a stoner van and trying to solve a mystery like we’re the kids from Scooby-Doo.
“So are you both island boys?” Rae asks when there’s a
break in the music.
Frankie jerks a thumb at Brayden. “Come on. Dat haole walk, talk, breathe California. Me, I grew up Hilo side, but I ain’t kanaka. I’m Filipino and Portuguese.”
“I’m from Santa Monica,” Brayden says cheerfully. “I went to school a couple years over in Hilo, but then I dropped out.”
Frankie chuckles. “Hey, you came fo’ get schooled and your girl Sage schooled you, yeah?” His syntax and cadence are laced with pidgin, a legacy of the island’s sugarcane plantations.
“Did you really serve in Afghanistan, Frankie?” Rae asks.
His smile shrivels. “Yeah, I wen serve. I was twenty. Fo’ one year. Got hurt, got a medical discharge. Dat shit so fucked. Prescription weed da least dey can do fo’ me.”
“Is it any good, that medical dispensary stuff?” Rae asks.
“Not like Sage’s one. I just lucky I gotta line wit Bray.” Frankie brightens. “You like? Brayden hook you up. He gotta nice blend right now, make you feel super relaxed on your vacation.”
Rae laughs. “Aw, I don’t wake and bake. Maybe later, though. I hear that homegrown stuff is pretty good.”
I can’t tell if she actually wants to buy from Brayden or is just sniffing around for details of his business. Either way, the boys seem perfectly at ease with her. If they know anything about Lise Nakagawa, I’m confident they’ll eventually spill. We just have to pace ourselves.
“You know,” Brayden says, just one hand on the wheel as he drives, “I see good things in this day, I really do. When I met you yesterday, Rae, you had this amazing energy. I think it’s so great how we’re all, like, connecting today. The four of us, we’re sharing an experience. I hope it’s beautiful for you guys.”
I’m not sure about all this “connecting” with complete strangers. What kind of shared experience is Brayden expecting here?
“If you guys are banking on a wild, stoned-out orgy, you will be sadly disappointed,” I announce. “Just laying that on the table.”
In the front seat, both boys guffaw.
Rae covers her face as if physically pained.
“No offense, auntie,” Frankie says with a smirk, “but Brayden’s spoken for, and I like my girls barely legal. You wanna piece a dis, you gotta shave offa couple decades.”
“I’ll keep my decades, thanks, and you can hold on to that . . . piece of yourself.” I’m not joking, just trying to establish some ground rules for the day, but the guys are cracking up regardless. Great, I think. I have become old-person funny.
Outside, the barren land drifts by, craggy plains of hardened lava that belong on some other planet. The plants that survive here aren’t much to look at, either. Colorless grass and withered trees that jut at odd angles—just occasional patches of life springing up from rock.
“Hey,” Rae says, unzipping her backpack. “Anybody want a snack?”
“You read my mind!” Brayden beams. “What have you got?”
“I didn’t know what you guys liked, so I got a little of everything.” Rae begins removing items from her bag. “Pretzels, chips, cheese sticks, trail mix, granola bars, dried mango, and then Thom gave me some leftover muffins and stuff. Take your pick.” She empties her entire haul onto the seat between us.
Brayden selects string cheese and begins tearing off strands with his teeth. Distracted by the intricacies of his cheese stick, he rounds a curve a little too sharply and all the snacks topple onto my feet. I reach around the van’s floor and under the front seat to gather them. Am I the only one with doubts about Brayden’s driving? I sneak a glance at Frankie and Rae. Survey says yes.
I stack Rae’s nibbles back on the seat, now hungry. The chips and pretzels and trail mix offer little temptation, but it’s hard to resist Thom’s baked goods. I reach into a plastic bag of cookies that look pseudo-healthy and swipe one. The taste is not what I’m expecting—dry and somewhat burnt. I make a face as I swallow.
“Yuck! Thom made that?”
Rae glances at the remaining chunk of cookie in my hand. “That isn’t Thom’s. Where’d you find that?”
Frankie peers into the backseat and his eyes widen. “Brah!” He smacks his friend in the ribs. “She found your shit.”
My heart sinks. Please don’t let that mean what I think it means.
“Oh, cool.” Brayden polishes off the last of his cheese stick. “Where did those turn up? I’ve been looking for them.”
“Under the passenger seat. I thought . . . I thought Rae brought them.” My own stupidity leaves me numb. What kind of dumbass eats items retrieved from the floor of a sketchy van? I knew it tasted off. Why didn’t I spit it out?
“Was that a pot cookie?” Rae demands. “Did she just eat a pot cookie? What the hell, Brayden? You didn’t tell us those were back here!”
Frankie dissolves into peals of laughter. “Dude, no can leave dose things around! Remember when Joe Boy wen eat like six a dem by mistake? When you gonna learn?”
Apparently, I am not the first victim of Brayden’s carelessness. I don’t ask about the unfortunate Joe Boy. No sense scaring myself over nothing. I only had a mouthful, not half a dozen cookies. How bad could this be?
“I don’t get it.” Rae throws her hands up, exasperated with me. “There were, like, forty things for you to eat, and you chose the one thing in this entire vehicle—the one thing!—that had marijuana.”
“It was just a bite,” I say. “I mean . . . it won’t really do anything, will it?”
Frankie titters. “Sage’s stuff? Oh, dat going do something. Wait a half hour. Little longer if you had breakfast.”
Brayden, on the other hand, downplays the mistake. “No biggie,” he says. “That’s not a real intense batch. You’ll be fine, Charlie. Have the whole cookie, if you want. On the house.”
“She’s never even smoked before!” Rae hisses, like I can’t hear her talking about me. “We don’t know how she’ll react. She could wig out!”
“First time? Really?” Brayden takes that in, momentarily startled. “Wow. All right, all right. Maybe don’t eat the whole thing, then, Charlie. No worries, though. I mean, I’m honored to be with you on this. You’re with friends here.”
Frankie scratches his head, unable to conceive of a lifetime without marijuana. “You nevah smoke?” he asks me. “Nevah?”
I shake my head.
“Fo’ what?” he presses. “I mean, alcohol, dat’s poisonous, fine. But weed? Shit’s natural.”
“Is it, like, a religious thing?” Brayden asks, genuinely curious.
“It’s an addiction thing. Runs in my family.” I drop the partially eaten cookie back into its bag and pass the batch up front. “I don’t want to end up like my parents, so no drugs, no alcohol, nothing that messes with my head.”
“I hear you,” says Brayden. “I respect that, I do. Sorry for the mix-up. And hey, thanks for sharing your truth.”
My “truth” is a little more complicated than the pat narrative I just sold Brayden. My existence has not exactly been substance-free. I smoked cigarettes like a chimney in college. When I worked in publishing, I drank enough coffee to give the average person heart palpitations. And I still love me some Ambien on a sleepless night. I haven’t avoided drugs or addiction—I’ve simply gravitated toward a more socially acceptable variety.
“So . . .” The thought of bugging out and embarrassing myself in front of these guys is not an appealing one. “What happens now? How long is this going to last?”
“It’s an edible,” Brayden says. “Takes some time to hit you, and then it’ll linger. We’ll see where it takes you, okay? Try to stay open. Look for love and beauty. You don’t want to be in a negative mindspace.”
His advice, while probably sound, does little to calm my nerves. How do I avoid a “negative mindspace”? I’ve been fixating on someone’s missing daughter, dreaming I’m a stalker. Last night
some creeper stole my phone. Who knows what kind of crap my brain might unleash without the strict boundaries of sobriety? Not to mention all the things I could reveal about myself if my personal-sharing meter’s off.
I hunker down in my seat, ignoring the apologetic looks from Rae, wondering if I’m destined for a pleasant high or a freak-out.
Yet whatever their faults, the boys are not anxiety-producing company. Frankie puts on some Jawaiian music—Hawaiian-style reggae—and jams contentedly in the front seat. His hand follows the guitar line as he listens, intently working through all the finger positions. Brayden chats with Rae about his two years in Kalo Valley and all the people he has come to love. The community of artists and artisans. The “very chill” members of his drum circle. An eccentric senior citizen named Davey, whom Brayden refers to as his “spiritual mentor.”
“Is that your girlfriend’s crowd, too?” I ask, wondering just how nutty-crunchy Kai’s mom is and what Jocelyn must think of that.
“The drummers, not so much,” Brayden replies, “but Sage has introduced me to a lot of great people. She’s super connected. I met her a couple years ago at this tea ceremony, and she totally blew my mind. Just so powerful but contained, you know?”
“Sounds like a catch,” Rae says. “How old is Sage?”
“Old,” Frankie states. “Real old.”
“Forty-three,” Brayden says, but I can’t tell if he’s confirming or denying Frankie’s statement.
The idea of trying to keep up with a twentysomething sounds like the stuff of nightmares, not fantasies. I’m six years older than Noah, and discussing our favorite music or films in high school makes me feel ancient. I can’t imagine throwing another decade between us.
“Forty-three, huh?” Rae slaps the back of Brayden’s seat. “Damn, boy. You got some mommy issues?”
Brayden smiles, a silly, lopsided grin. “I like a woman who’s seen things. Wisdom and experience—that’s sexy. That’s what drew me to Sage.”
“And da mommy issues,” Frankie mutters. “She got a kid in high school.”
