DANNY IS ACROSS THE COURTYARD UNDER THE TREES by the library steps. I walk toward him, self-conscious as usual, even with the understanding that no one is looking at me. I tug my skirt down. It looked good when I was alone, but has suddenly become heinous.
I get closer. He’s talking to Barrett Dillingham. They’re both holding the straps of their backpacks and nodding. Boys always seem to communicate without using words. I could walk by and see if he stops me, but then I reconsider. One of the things I absolutely need to do is what I want, especially when it’s something this trivial.
“Hey,” I say.
“What’s up, Little Donkey?” Danny says. Barrett looks me over, but keeps talking to Danny.
“Do you know Lea?” Danny says.
“’Sup,” Barrett says.
“Hello,” I say, because if I said “’sup,” I think I’d hate myself forever.
“This is Barrett,” Danny says.
Yeah. I know. He’s in my history class. He plays water polo. He drives a black Ford F-150.
“I hear the pattern is A, D, C, E,” Barrett says. “And if you stick to that, you won’t, like, ace it, but you’ll do okay.”
“Yeah, or you could just, uh, study,” Danny says. “It wasn’t that bad.”
Barrett adjusts his backpack and grins. “My lifestyle is seriously becoming compromised.”
“There you go. That’s a big word,” Danny says.
I laugh to participate somehow, and Barrett looks at me like I have Tourette’s or food on my face. I keep my hands down by my sides. I will not check for food on my face.
“What about you?” Barrett asks. “Are you taking the prep course?”
“No,” I say. “And if I did, it wouldn’t compromise my lifestyle in any way.”
No one responds. Please, ground, consume me.
“So glad that’s done with,” Danny says. “Just wait, little juniors. Senior year cruise.”
Danny raises his arms over his head. He’s so damn comfortable. I’d raise my arms and not know how to bring them back down. What will I do here without him? With him going to Berkeley, it feels like we’re switching places. Why can’t we just line up?
Barrett looks over my head. “Hey, girlie,” he says.
I turn to see Whitney. She walks up behind Danny, dipping her knees into the back of his legs. He collapses way more than he should. “Hey, now,” he says, laughing. Barrett greets her with a hand slap, then pulls her into a hug.
“What about you?” Barrett asks. “Saturday prep?”
“Are you kidding me?” she says. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder T-shirt with a long skirt. “Too early,” she says. “I’m hungover now—how would I deal on a Saturday?”
“Such a party girl,” Barrett says.
“Party, party,” Danny says, and I see a flicker of something—curiosity or disapproval? Something.
“Yeah, you totally missed our après-surf cocktails,” Whitney says and acknowledges me.
Again I see that look on Danny’s face, like he’s trying to seem indifferent, but isn’t. I think I’m expected to talk now, and so I say, “Yeah. It was good. We—”
“Got wasted!” Whitney says.
“For reals?” Barrett says, looking pleased, suddenly reevaluating me. I go with it and don’t say anything. I didn’t think Whitney was drunk at all last night. I wasn’t, but maybe she poured more Kahlúa into her own drink or imbibed without me, alone. But why would she want to include me this way?
“Danny, join us next time?” She grins with an open mouth as if posing for a picture.
“Sure,” he says. “Next time.”
“What about now?” she says.
“Now?” He laughs. “You’re crazy.” He looks toward the library. “I’m on brother duty tonight.”
“Your stepmom should get a nanny or something,” she says, and I cringe, but Danny just smiles.
“Yeah, she totes should,” he says in a girly voice. “Nanny, driver, gardener, guest cottage . . .”
Barrett laughs, even though he probably has or could have had all these things and more. The theater here at Punahou has his last name on it.
“Mari!” Whitney yells. “Yo! Wait up.”
Mari Ito turns. “Yo!” she yells from across the quad.
“See you tonight?” Whitney says, looking back at me. Barrett leaves too, tilting his head in farewell.
“Right,” I say. Dinner. I almost ask her what I should wear.
Danny watches her go. “You got drunk with Whitney?” He almost sounds jealous.
“Not really,” I say.
“Not really?” He looks past me.
“We had a few drinks, that’s all.”
“Well, well, well.” He smirks and shakes his head.
I recognize his look: fake relaxed. He wants to know more, see more, do more, but doesn’t want to appear like he wants anything at all.
“She’s a trip,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say and look down, and then I ask, “How so?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Crazy or . . . interesting.”
“Interesting,” I say. How so? I want to ask again, but I can see it. She’s beautiful, composed. She’s interesting because she’s fully herself.
He looks deep in thought, and now I’m back to where I was with my fake-relaxed face, wanting to know more while not looking like I do.
Am I interesting? I want to be interesting. I want to be crazy. I want to be fully myself.
“Like I’ve always known her as a group,” Danny says. “All her little party friends. But alone, I don’t know, she’s cooler than I thought.” He smiles to himself.
I’d be cool too if I had a house like that, a pool like that, a life like that. These thoughts make me feel small, but it’s true. She’s pretty, but it’s as though money gives you bonus points; it makes you prettier. Because if she weren’t Whitney West—if she were, say, Gina Crumb from Kaneohe—then she wouldn’t be as compelling, as cool, even if her looks remained the same. Money seems to work like yeast, raising people to the top.
“She’s . . . irreverent,” Danny says, his thumbs tucked into his backpack straps.
He looks like he’s still thinking about how to describe her. Is it that complicated? I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. Is she that much more irreverent than us? Than me?
“There’s your other roommate,” he says.
I look across the quad, and Will’s walking slowly with Lissa Sand, a senior who looks like she’s twenty-five. She’s tall and, in a way, sandy—the same coloring as ground-up coral, cowrie, and the exoskeletons of sea creatures. Ms. Yamada would be so proud of me, the way I’ve applied school lessons to the real world. She also has sandy-colored hair, highlighted, wavy, and long. She’s beautiful and rich-looking, though she seems pissed off about it. In paddling she stroked, the first seat in the canoe, due to the length of her limbs. She’s aloof and intimidating, and seems to be always looking at her nails or the ends of her hair. I’m jealous of her and Will, the way they’re walking so intimately, like it’s no big deal. I’m horrified that he’s forced to leave that tonight in order to have dinner with this.
“Now he’s interesting,” I say. “Can’t wait to have dinner with him later.”
“His girlfriend coming too?” he asks, using a sarcastic and slightly bitter voice, which is unusual for Danny and has the odd effect of making me want to hear it again.
“Not invited,” I say, making it up, suddenly feeling like we’re competing against each other. If you’re going to pay attention to Whitney, then I’ll pay attention to Will. Except it’s not just a game to me. I genuinely can’t wait to see Will tonight.