Juniors by Kaui Hart Hemmings
She looks toward the television. “I don’t want . . . tension. These people are being very nice to us, and—”
“What does that have to do with anything? So I owe them something too? Is this part of the deal?”
“There is no deal,” she says. “Stop saying that. There’s no obligation. We don’t have any obligations. I want you to have friends. I’m happy you’re getting along so well, but now I’m in an awkward position. I’m going to have to tell Melanie.”
Now I wonder what’s made her angrier: that I was drinking or that she’ll have to tell Melanie, putting an end to both my playdates and hers. I shake my head and smirk when she looks at me.
“So tell Melanie,” I say. “Maybe she’ll replace you with someone better.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” my mom says in calm way, which makes me feel just that, like I don’t know anything.
“And I will tell Melanie,” she says, challenging me right back. “I don’t want to, but I will. We talk, and . . . I know Whitney is a bit distracted in school. She’s going through things. Her dad—”
“Whitney’s probably going through things because her parents just leave her home alone all the time and her dad’s losing it. You’re the one who’s put me in this environment.”
“Don’t speak that way about Eddie,” she says. “It’s horrible what he’s going through.”
“Sorry,” I say, ashamed. How hard it must be. “I know.”
“I realize I’ve been out a lot. I . . .” She stops, and I look at her. “I don’t think Melanie accepts the severity of it all.”
Before I can ask her to explain, she continues, “And the kids are having a hard time with it too. It’s a big weight. I think Melanie was looking forward to having someone sensible around. Someone with her head on her shoulders.”
“I’m not the nanny,” I say. “And who says I have my head on my shoulders?” I want to go wild. Drink and drink, never come home, have guys touch my body of work. I’m tempted to start now—strut right out of here, find Will, and tell him to get all Jenkins on my ass. Though I wouldn’t know where to go. And I’d be afraid an alarm would go off at the gate. And he’s with Lissa, who I thought he was tired of! He’s supposed to go forth and bring back frickin’ knowledge!
“I think you should get to bed,” my mom says. She looks so tired. “We’ll talk tomorrow. We both need to get up early.”
I think of Spitzer and his assignment.
My job is to help my mom look good. It’s to be her junior, her daughter, to be the daughter of someone who will always be bigger than me. My job is to be a good houseguest, a good recipient.
But right now I want nothing more than to be an owner, a giver, a person who has her own fabulous life, wearing heels on a Tuesday night. I want nothing more than to quit my job.
“Maybe I’m having a hard time too,” I say. “Maybe not having a dad is a big weight for me. Ever think of that? That I have my own issues?”
“I think of that all the time,” my mom says. “You’ve always said you don’t, but I’ve wanted you to admit that you do. You care. You feel things.”
I’m stunned that she threw this back on me, almost like a trap.
“I love you,” she says. “I’m proud of you.”
Don’t say that. That’s what makes the tears come, and I’m glad I’m facing the other direction.
20
FRIDAY AND SPRING BREAK IS HERE. HOPEFULLY, I WON’T still be grounded for it, though compared to everyone else, I may as well be. Everyone on campus seems ecstatic, and I’m only pretending to be. It’s like New Year’s or Halloween, something you’re supposed to be excited about, but if you have no plans, the holidays seem to be making fun of you.
All day there’s been chitchat across the campus. I overhear the same people talking about their plans and using the exact same lines.
Malia Lautenbach: “My mom’s making me go with her to Tahiti. She dives for shells for her jewelry line? So . . .”
Chris Watanabe: “Tavarua, baby.” Followed by a high five. “Let’s do this.”
There’s a bunch of guys going on this surf trip, apparently, and it’s something they’ve done before. They surf all day, then return to their own island and drink kava, whatever that is. “Do you all jack each other off, too?” I hear Coco Kettley ask.
Celeste Baldwin will go to her cabin on Molokai; Isabelle Kehau’s going to her family’s house in Vail; Emma Emerson is off to Park City. Everyone has GoPros to put on their boards, just in case we want to see pictures of them shredding.
Skiing in Vail/Steamboat/Park City. Going to the Molokai/Maui/Big Island house/cabin/condo. Surf trip: Tavarua/Indo/Kauai. The variations on the lines.
What are you doing, Lea? The question I’ve been dreading every day this week before realizing no one really cares. Just chilling here, I say when someone happens to ask. Or I say that I’m planning on surfing a lot. The most common reaction to my plans is that the person I’m talking to sometimes just loves staying home. “It’s just so easy.” Then they’ll look at me as if I’m doing something they envy, but I know they don’t.
The school day feels illegitimate, a charade that even the teachers are playing at. I walk out of math at the same time Danny gets out of his class. We bump into each other, a silent hello and agreement that we’ll walk somewhere together.
I take off my sweatshirt that I keep for classes and remove once I hit the humid air. Danny sniffles. “Fuckin’ vog,” he says, and hocks a loog.
“Only a guy could do that,” I say. “Can you imagine if I just spat?”
I try to make the sound he just made and sound like a hissing cat.
“It would be cool if you spat.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” I say.
“What are you doing for break?” Danny asks. We stop by the steps to the library.
“Nothing,” I say. I just want to hang with you, I don’t say, mainly because the thought surprises me. I miss this. Being with someone who knows me, someone who knows both my strengths and weaknesses.
“I’m not doing anything either,” he says. He puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans and clears his throat again, then spits. “Sorry,” he says.
That’s another thing about guys—they can get away with this behavior and look good doing it. I don’t wish I were a guy, but I love being around them—their humor, their wildness, and how these traits seem to lend themselves to me in their company. I don’t feel this way with Will, though, not yet. I’m more reserved with him, still nervous, and yet the true parts of me seem lit up, or at least like they have the potential to shine with him.
Laura Sherman walks by, a cute girl with freckles as big as papaya seeds. She’s in practically all of my classes. Months ago, I’d have considered her a friend.
“Hey, hey,” she says.
“Hey, hey,” I say, matching her tone.
“See you in Chinois.” She walks past us.
“Can’t wait,” I say, in that singsong voice that I realize I only use with other girls and always when I don’t know them that well. It’s like a shield from awkwardness. It’s small-talk voice. I use this voice a lot.
“We should surf over break,” Danny says in a flat voice.
“Oh, now we should,” I say, remembering his dis last week. “Now that Whitney’s going to.”
“What?” he says. “No.” He looks away. I feel like we’re arguing. There’s an awkward silence.
I don’t want to ask if he likes her, knowing how I’ll sound. Why should I care?
“I want to jump off Waimea rock,” I say. I’ve never done that before.”
“I should take you,” he says. “You’re too haole to go by yourself.” He steps closer, peering down at me and puffing out his chest.
“Oh, please,” I say. “You’re perpetuating stereotypes.
“Oh my God, Donkey, was that your pidgin? That made King Kamehameha roll in his grave.”
“He wouldn’t have spoken pidgin, idiot.”
“Still, he’s rolling.” Danny sniffs, something he always does after being cute.
“You’re rolling,” I say, and can’t help but look around. It’s fun to laugh with someone in public. That may be superficial, but it’s true, and it feels good to have our rhythm intact.
I take a few steps back so he’s not towering over me.
“Don’t,” he says. “I like how much taller I am than you. I like looking down on you.”
“Impossible,” I say, rising up on my toes. “That needs to be earned, and not by inches.”
I see a few of his football buddies walking over and know our easy banter is going to be usurped by grunts and high fives that are less high and more like swinging a tennis racquet. I’m not crazy about the football players. They’re so serious and stoic, which I think is really a cover for a lack of speaking skills. They’re not funny like Danny, or friendly, and they always seem to look at me as if I’m some kind of weirdo.
Here are Ryan, Luke, Kalani, and Win Wong (everyone calls him by his first and last name—both just roll off the tongue). True to form, they go through the whole hand-slapping, “waddup” routine and then they mumble to each other quietly and far above me physically, and I just stand there and nod while they form this kind of arc and gaze out at nothing.
Seriously, no one is talking. It’s like they’re bouncers, looking all tough and flexing. Girls cross in front of us, and if they like them, they’ll tilt their heads in hello. If the girls aren’t up to par, they do nothing at all. If they’re super hot, they’ll pass and the guys will turn their heads ever so slightly and mutter things like “chee” and “shaddup.”
These are expressions everyone around here uses when something pleases them. “Chee” is said enthusiastically; “shaddup,” dryly and in response to something that looks good, like a pizza or a girl. “Shoots” means “okay, let’s do it.”
Michelle and Liana pass and receive a “damn” and a kind of sucking noise.
I sort of get Michelle—she’s all sporty and cute—but Liana Carriage is normal looking. I may even be prettier. It’s that yeast additive thing again, her clothes, her voice—that popular-girl, clipped-alto drawl—the fact that her dad owns all the Carriage car dealerships, this retrofits her look, making her hot.
Mike Matson and Maile Beaucage walk by, holding hands and looking like they’re strolling the grounds of their kingdom. I consider saying something—commenting on something or asking about these guys’ plans for break, but know I’d embarrass Danny or myself. I imagine them not even answering.
“’Kay, I’m out,” I say to Danny. He holds out his hand for me to slap. Really? Must I? I hate high-fiving or low-fiving, and he wouldn’t do it if these guys weren’t here, but maybe he’s helping me out, showing he’s down with me and not just letting me shuffle off, muttering spastically. I slap.
“Hit me up over break.”
“Yeah, okay.” I will hit you up. Maybe this is male singsong. I walk away toward Griffiths Hall, and Danny calls, “You’re going to the hotel, though, right?”
“What?” I turn back. “What hotel?”
“The Wests’ hotel. One of ’em in Waikiki.”
I shrug. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Yeah, um, no,” I say. I want to keep walking, so he doesn’t see my irritation, and I need to keep walking to get to class. The quad is emptying, and there’s something horrifying about getting yelled at in Chinese.
“I’ll talk to you after class,” I call.
The campus looks empty—like everyone’s gone, say, skiing or shell diving. I hurry off, seeing Laura heading into the room and am annoyed by the late reveal. We could have been talking about the hotel the entire time instead of grunting like gorillas. What is happening there? I want to know, and I don’t want to know. Or, I want to be told, but I don’t want to have anyone see my reaction, pretending not to care that I didn’t hear it first or, worse, faking indifference to not being invited. Sometimes when you think everyone is doing something better than you are, you’re right.
In the classroom it hits me: an idea about why I wasn’t invited. Actually, a few theories, one of them being that Whitney is mad at me because maybe I got her in trouble. My mom hasn’t told me whether she told Melanie, so I don’t know for sure. I haven’t spoken to Whitney since Tuesday night. I’ve been grounded this week, which has pretty much made no difference in my life. I’ve basically continued on my not-awesome trajectory. School, home, studying, cheehoo. We’re not texting friends—I don’t even have her number—so I have no idea what’s happening on her end.
Maybe I’m not invited because unbeknownst to Danny, the whole hotel thing is canceled due to her grounding. Maybe I’ll be the one who has to say to Danny, “Oh, you didn’t know?”
“Lea, will you read the next paragraph aloud, please,” Ms. Chun says.
I look down at my book, searching for fuyu, the last word Derek Kwan read. I glance up at everyone in the circle we’ve formed with our desks, feeling their gazes. I bring shame to the class—everyone teases Laura and me with this saying, since we’re the only ones who aren’t Chinese. This seems to give us a little leeway to be idiots.
“Um,” I say.
“Um,” Ms. Chun imitates me. “I don’t see ‘um.’” Her derisive jokes are never funny, even though by her puffed-up follow-up expressions, she must think they are. She doesn’t hold humor right. She’s all thumbs.
I place my finger near the bottom of the page. “,” I say with confidence, then keep reading. I’ve always enjoyed reading aloud and am glad to have gotten through the paragraph. Ms. Chun looks contrite, or like she’s hiding a small bird in her mouth. Why do some teachers seem to want you to fail?
This thought stays with me during the rest of class as I’m thinking of break and plans and friends and why we all can’t want what’s best for one another.
21
WHEN I GET HOME, I WANT MY MOTHER TO BE THERE SO I can ask her what happened with Melanie, if she told her or not. Other than grounding me, she hasn’t said a word about that night; she’s using the power of scary silence.
She seems to be waiting for me when I walk in. She’s standing in front of the counter, sorting through the mail. She smiles, then looks down, probably remembering that I’m grounded and shouldn’t be encouraged to smile. It must be a nuisance to have a grounded kid after a while—it’s like being happy to see a friend, then remembering you aren’t speaking to each other.
“I’m sorry about the other night,” I say, which feels funny to articulate because it seems so long ago. “I’ve had all week to think about it . . . so . . .”
She sighs and leans on the counter, then pats her palm down hard, which has the effect of a judge using a gavel.
“I’m sorry too,” she says. “I haven’t been home. I haven’t been here for you. I’ve been traipsing around town—”
She’s about to cry. I put my backpack down and walk closer to her. She smooths my hair, and I sit down on a bar stool next to her.
“It’s okay—it’s not like I need you to be here all the time or anything. I wasn’t rebelling or—”
“No, I know,” she says, and she’s regained the strength in her voice. “And I’m not excusing your behavior, and me being gone doesn’t give you license to raise hell.”
“I really raised hell,” I say flatly.
“You know what I—”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry, I got—”
“Caught up,” she says, and I let it go with that. I don’t feel that’s what it was. I didn’t feel pressure to do the things I did—I wanted to drink. I want to go out, I want to do things with Whitney to pave the way for more adventure.
Still, I’ll pretend to be caught up in someone else’s desires, someone else’s poor judgment, even though I’d think she’d understand me, respect me for my curiosity and yearning. She was young too. She must know. But then again, I’m glad she’s not too lenient.
I remember in San Francisco going to Tanya Rowley’s house. Her parents let us drink, and she had a guest cottage, which basically served as a romper room. She had a party one night, and tons of people came. The music was loud; there was a keg, and her parents were there, standing in the kitchen, hitting the joint that was being passed around. I nursed a beer, feeling prudish, the thought who will take care of us? ringing in my head. Her parents were laughing with the other kids in the room, and Tanya’s mother was sort of the center of attention with a story she was telling. I thought she looked pathetic, that the kids’ laughter was tinged with a kind of pity and politeness. I guess I prefer the mom who says no.
“So now what?” I ask. “Am I still grounded?” I look up at her and grin, showing my teeth.
Her hair falls in front of her face, and she leans over and swoops it up into a ponytail high on top of her head, looking like a cheerleader. I think people assume she’s a mom not quite like Tanya’s, but someone who’d abide more. Because she’s an actress. She’s cool and pretty, and maybe when you’re a pretty mom, people assume you’re lenient.
“I’m not a very good grounder, am I?” she says. “Grounding you during the school week.”
“You’re great,” I say. “I like the way you ground.”
“Well, then, you’re free,” she says, then at the sight of my smile adds, “Free to make good choices.”
“Did you tell Melanie?” I ask.
“No.”
I’m relieved, and yet it puts a twist on things. Whitney has no reason for having excluded me from the hotel. Maybe it’s just because she hasn’t had the opportunity to tell me.
I stand up, bouncing a bit. “Can I go over to Whitney’s?” I almost said Will’s.