Juniors by Kaui Hart Hemmings
“I thought we could hang out,” he says.
“Okay,” I say. I look down, aware I’m not wearing a bra.
“I’ll let things marinate,” my mom says. “You guys go play. I’m going to talk to Melanie. I’ll take care of everything.”
Danny looks both contemptuous and afraid.
“I’ll go change,” I say.
• • •
We drive down the avenue toward Diamond Head. It’s good to be in his truck, on the warm, salty seats, listening to hip-hop. I love riding in his truck, the way it makes me feel like I’ve lived here all my life.
“You’ve been to to Doris Duke’s, right?” I remember Will’s forced tour and how he never went to the beach below it because it was so local. “To the beach below the mansion?”
“Cromwell’s. Of course.” Danny nods his head to the beat.
“Let’s go there,” I say.
• • •
We park and walk down a hill to the coast, the breeze carrying a scent of hot mock orange, fish, and that distinct smell of a garbage can at the end of a beach access. We reach the sand, and it’s very nice, but there’s hardly a beach at all—just reef and a slab of sand near the garbage can. I walk to the right, but when I look back, he isn’t following.
“This way,” he says. He nods toward the rocks. Houses are perched above, clinging to the wall as if trying to escape a shark. He takes his backpack off his shoulders. “I’ll hold your slippers,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, putting them on top of his towel.
I follow him, walking on crags of rock. It hurts my feet, but I kind of like having to think about every step.
“Have you talked to Whitney yet?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “But her mom called my dad. To let him know there was an incident.” He uses a mocking voice.
I have to walk faster to keep up so I can hear. The sharp rocks don’t seem to bother him at all. I have haole feet.
“What did your dad say?”
“‘Yes, ma’am, uh-huh? Is that right? I think you may be mistaken.’ Then he hung up and worked in the garden. He knows I wouldn’t do that and isn’t going to argue unless he has to.”
“I can’t believe Whitney said you gave it to her in the first place. Why don’t you just say it was Mike? Nothing will happen to him. His dad’s a trustee. And isn’t the middle school named after him?”
“No,” Danny says. “Steve Case.”
“Well, something! Matson Language Lab, I don’t know.”
Waves begin to come in faster sets, splashing against the wall. A black crab skitters up and then into a crack. I use the wall for support, my hand running across opihi shells suctioned to the rocks.
“Let’s wait out this set,” he says.
We watch the set of waves crash against the reef. There’s no wall now, just a slope of rocks. The ocean spray is cold. I lick the salt on my lips.
“Your mom said she’d take care of everything,” he says. “I’m not going to rat out Mike for a stupid pot brownie like some narc spank.”
“So what happened last night?”
He runs his hand through his hair and, for the first time, grins.
“You and ill Will left,” he says, and something catches in his voice. “On your little date, and Whitney’s mood changed. She got all bitchy, and she was kind of getting on my nerves, then Mike busted out the brownies. Not to me, selfish knob. I think he just had one for her and one for himself. He probably thought he’d get her all loose, but the dude couldn’t even move. Looked like he was wearing a straitjacket. He was watching the movie—”
“What movie?”
“Just some movie,” he says, but by his expression, I can tell that something’s up.
“What movie?” I ask again.
He says something, but a wave crashes, splashing water all over us and drowning his voice.
“What?” I ask, watching for waves.
“Grease,” he says. “So then—”
“Grease? You guys were watching Grease?”
“Yes, okay?” He is trying not to smile.
“Like a porn version or—”
“No, not a—what’s wrong with you?” He grins, the dimple appearing, and pushes my shoulder. We’re both on the same rock, so I have to grab him for balance. His skin is hot.
“Well, I heard she was freaking out.” I laugh. “How do you freak out about Grease? I mean, the ending doesn’t make much sense. There’s no magic whatsoever, and all of a sudden, the car flies—I mean, what’s up with that? But other than that, what was she tripping on?”
“Brownies, evidently,” he says. “The girls were all singing along. Tell me more, tell me more.”
He sings these lines, which is hilarious, and now I can see them all watching this movie—it’s something Whitney and I would have done alone, and now I feel like that’s all gone.
“You guys are so hard-core,” I say. “Meanwhile I thought you’d be getting shit-faced and having twerking orgies or something.”
“You are a sad, sad teenager,” he says, taking a step up to the next rock.
“Um, you spent a night in a hotel room without parents and with unlimited funds watching Grease, so don’t be calling me a sad teenager.”
He looks back and scratches his head and twists his mouth, that gesture he makes when caught. He extends his hand. I hold it, then jump onto his rock, bumping into his warm body. He wipes his eyes, using our hands. I think of a time when we were kids. Danny has beautiful long lashes, and one time our babysitter put mascara on them. His mom was so pissed when she got home. I let go of his hand, realizing I’m still holding it.
“Where is this place?” I ask.
“Almost there,” he says. A huge wave slams against our rock, soaking us, and he puts his hand on my back.
“After this one,” he says and bounces a bit as if to usher in the wave. After it crashes, he moves off the rock and I follow, my heart beating fast, trying to keep up and liking the way it feels to be close to him. I trail his steps, wary of what seem to be more waves about to hit us. He looks back at me and waits.
“What set her off about the movie?” I ask. “I thought you were watching a horror movie or something. I was prepared for chainsaws or creepy dolls.”
“Rizzo was freaking her out,” Danny says.
“Rizzo?”
“Yeah, the slutty, tough, pregnant chick. She kept saying, ‘I’m going to end up like Rizzo. I’m Rizzo,’” and she finally ran off, and no one went to find her for a while. We figured she was being dramatic since we wouldn’t change it. And that’s it. It was only, like, seven at night.”
“Then a worker found her?”
“Yup. The worker found her, called her mom, who sent her to the hospital.” He laughs. “We all thought it was small kine hilarious, but then her mom . . . you know the rest. She flipped out, thinking Whitney OD’d on heroin or spice or something.”
We scamper across the next set of rocks. Up ahead, it just seems to end.
I follow him, trusting his steps, and we round the point I mistook for a dead end. And then . . . it’s like we’ve walked through a portal and into another world.
Danny looks back at me, prepared for and sweetly satisfied with my awe-filled response. It’s as though someone took a tablecloth, flicked their wrist, and—voilà—magic and light unfolds. I look up at Doris Duke’s house, Shangri La, and what appears to be a magnificent pool house with intricate tiles and earthy hues. I don’t know where to look—the estate above or this ocean pool below, a rock-walled cove filled with water clear as glass. It doesn’t even seem like ocean water, more like a clear cold lake, something you’d find on a hike in the mountains of Yosemite, bordered with a rock wall. Beyond the wall is the ocean wild.
And then Danny, beside me, jumps into this ocean lake, an
“Nice form,” I say.
“Your turn,” he says, taking quick breaths.
I look at the other side of the cove for an exit. “I don’t know if I could get out like that,” I say. “How did you even get a hold?” The wall seems so flat.
“I’ll help you,” he says.
He turns away when I start to take off my clothes. I remember my suit, what happened the last time I decided to jump off a rock, and I’m nervous, mortified by something that hasn’t even happened.
“Ready?” he says. “I’ll go with you.”
“It’s deep, right? Should I—”
“Just go,” he says. “You know how.”
He counts to three, and I jump into the chilling, breathtaking water.
• • •
We do it over and over again, at first swimming across the way so I can climb the rocky embankment, but then I give the flat wall a shot and find that I can do it. Danny shows me how to wait for a push from the ocean, which gets sucked in and out by a tunnel in the rocks. When the ocean comes in, you move with it as it rises and reach for a hold. A few kids are playing in this tunnel. They crouch, then wait for a wave to spit them out.
When I reach the top, I see that Danny has put a towel out and containers of food. There are more people here now. Locals with coolers and music and beer.
“So cute,” I say, sitting down next to him. “You packed a picnic.”
“I grabbed things from your fridge,” he says. “Forgot forks, though.”
He opens the containers—pasta salad, crackers, and slices of roast chicken. Perfect. We lean back against the rocks, watch the guys do flips off the wall, and eat with our hands.
“How’s my picnic?” he says.
“Super,” I say.
“You cold?” He places his hand on my leg for a moment.
“I’m fine.”
“I’m popping this pasta like it’s candy,” he says. I look over at him, his body so different from Will’s. Water glistens on his stomach.
“Why did Whitney blame you in the first place?” I ask.
He looks ahead and squints. “I kept asking about you,” he says. “You and Will. I think she thought I was thinking about you too much. She tried to kiss me. I kind of shut it down.”
I don’t say anything. I’m still feeling his hand on my leg, and I’m nervous in a way, but it’s a nervousness charged with something else. We look like boyfriend and girlfriend sitting here in this idyllic place, and the anonymity makes it even more real, like this is a scene on a canvas we have magically walked into. We have an audience above, a group touring Shangri La, their presence making me feel in the know, as if we’re doing something we always do.
“I guess I was worried about you,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, bumping my shoulder against him. “I’ve learned my lesson.” I remember thinking wealth was like an artificial additive for girls—making them prettier or more interesting—but I did the same thing with Will, gave someone not nearly as attractive as Danny a boost.
“I’m not with Will,” I say.
“And I’m not with Whitney,” Danny says.
“And here we are,” I say.
“Friends,” he says. He has a shy smile and questioning eyes.
A man walks up from the other side of the rocks, carrying a spear that’s skewering an octopus over his shoulder.
“Whoa,” Danny says.
“That’s awesome,” I say. “I want that for dinner. Grilled—”
“A little butter, miso—”
“Or Greek style, with olive oil, basil.”
“Figs,” he says. “That would be nice.”
We pop the pasta into our mouths, our hands brushing against each other’s in the bowl.
“Maybe we should try to make it sometime,” I say.
“We should,” he says.
The dreaded “we should.”
“Or we could go out to find it one night,” he says. “A restaurant would do a better job than us.”
Now it’s in my court. I almost say, “We should.”
“Let’s,” I say instead, and we sit there against the hot rocks, our eyes heavy, watching the man with a spear, carrying the catch over his shoulder like a bandana bindle sack.
“Poor little octopus,” Danny says. “Tickled out of his hole just for us.”
“Sucks,” I say, and he laughs, and it is and it isn’t like old times. Something has changed, and he’s treating me like a girl he wants to know more about, not like a girl he’s known forever.
I tell him about Eddie and how my dad is back to square one—a person who may not even know I exist. Strange this is conceivable for men—that there could be remnants and versions of themselves walking the earth without their knowledge. It seems to me a very sad thing.
“You’re having a hell of a time in Kahala,” he says. I look at his profile, strong as though chiseled from rock.
“I know. But I’m handling it pretty well. I don’t have daddy issues. Too bad for you,” I add.
“What does that mean?”
“You know—people with daddy issues sleep around a lot. They’re kind of wild.”
“So why too bad for me?” He looks over at my legs, then up at my face with those same questioning, flirtatious eyes.
Really. He’s going to force this out of me. I need to somehow reconfigure it all—make myself into an everygirl and him an everyboy.
“Well,” I say, finding a grip, “rumor has it that boys like girls, and so when girls offer themselves up easily, this makes boys happy.”
“Now, that’s crazy talk,” he says. He squints and sniffles.
“I’m going to talk to Eddie,” I say. “I guess I do have daddy issues after all. Sugar daddy issues.”
“Lucky me,” he says, and the flirtation is almost too much to bear. I remember when he was in the outdoor shower, my urge to kiss him, an urge that peeked out suddenly, only to quickly retract.
“What’s going on?” I say, looking straight ahead, a slight smile on my face.
“I don’t know,” he says.
I trace back to when I moved here, the amount of time we spent surfing and hanging out at Kalama’s, or hiking to the top of the Pali or the Lanikai pillboxes, making fun of tourists below as they struggled with big yellow kayaks. We’d go to Habachi to get poke and boiled peanuts, the farmers’ market to get pho at the Pig and the Lady, then listen to the kids’ rock band, the Random Weirdos, playing the White Stripes and Heart in the parking lot. It was always just the two of us—it’s like you need other people around to show you what you are.
“Food coma,” Danny says, then gets up, standing over me and extending his hand. I take it, and he pulls me up. We stand close now, whereas we wouldn’t have done this before; we stand so that the sides of us are touching.
“Should we jump?” he asks. “To wake up?”
“Yes,” I say.
We walk to the edge, and before we jump, I look up at colorful Shangri La, the beautiful whites, blues, and ochers, how the ocean pool below seems to absorb these pigments. I imagine Doris Duke in this house, basking in the beauty or maybe saddened by the task of loving something alone. Danny takes my hand. I don’t want to be anywhere else.
A few tourists stand at the railing, their cameras trained on us, and when we jump at the same time, I wonder what we look like, wha
35
AFTER OUR LONG GETAWAY, WE GO BACK TO THE cottage so Danny can help my mom in the kitchen. I walk over to the big house. It’s cool out, a nice trade wind, which seems to make the clouds march across the sky. When I go around back, I hear music coming from the house, and it transforms the familiar setting, elevating it to something momentous. I love the way Hawaiian music can outfit something or act like an undercurrent, carrying us all along, making me feel like I’ve been here before and will be here again.
I don’t see Eddie at first, but then I see him by the gate, looking out at the ocean where a low froth of cloud has settled on the horizon. Bright orange sunlight shoots up and down.
He turns then and nods his head when he sees me, an approving, observant look, as if I were walking down a runway. When I get to his side, he says, “Your mom said you wanted to talk to me. I’m told you’ve been brought up to speed.”
“Yes,” I say. “She told me everything.”
“About what now?” he asks. “I’ve forgotten.”
My mouth is open. I need to fill it with words somehow. After being with Danny today, I was prepared to go in strong with my shoulders back. Instead I stand, hunched.
“I’m kidding with you,” he says. “I’m still here. Still got it. I’m like a vampire. It comes at night mostly. As of now.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t say you’re sorry.”
“I’m not sorry,” I say, meeting his eyes.
“There you go,” he says. “Now, that’s refreshing.”
But I am sorry. My mom told me that it could happen so quickly. I imagine him being swept off in a flood, but managing to stay afloat in its rapids for years, barely thinking, just grasping for air and solid ground.
“Thank you for taking care of me all these years.” I’m losing control of my voice, and he looks at me quickly, detecting it.
“What have I done?” he asks, then I grin. He’s kidding again.
“Thank you,” I say, “for helping my mom.”