I MAY BE THE ONLY PERSON ON CAMPUS RELIEVED THAT spring break’s over. I watch Will walk out of money management and stop myself from going to him. He has yet to say anything, do anything. He’s staying the course: money management to Jazz Age and the Lost Generation, home to change, then Waialae to golf. He will keep going in life; he’ll keep staying out of it. Get into it! I want to yell to him and to everyone. What’s the point of us otherwise?
My mom and I packed on Friday, were out by Sunday and back to our old place in Kailua. We drove out of Kahala in silence. The sky was bright and cheerful on the other side of the Pali tunnels, the ocean so vast yet familiar, like a backyard pool. It felt so weird to leave—a kind of sadness, and yet there was a sense of accomplishment. She felt it too, I think, a sweet fulfillment from not needing something anymore, from cutting off ties. There’s something satisfying about leaving things behind, something invigorating about hard endings—the way they make you feel like you’re growing or something. It’s kind of like hiking to the top of the Pali with Danny. When I get to the top, it’s difficult to move because of the strong wind, and yet I hike there to feel just that.
Whitney should be getting out of Geology of Hawaii and then I know she has Bollywood Dance for her ASPE credit. I walk toward the track to wait for her. I’ll force her to talk to me, even though I don’t know what will come of it.
I walk past the groups—the lacrosse boys heading to the field, the manga/anime club kids crowding over something on the bench by the art studio. This year is going by so quickly. When I think of myself as I first started out, I seem like another girl. So quiet and cautious. I acted like I didn’t need or want anything, and now I want it all.
I have time to kill so I walk by the lily pond and watch the little kids squatting to see the tadpoles. After school, the campus takes on a second life with soccer and dance, volleyball and theater, all these things to make us well-rounded or tire us out.
Mike and Maile are strolling down from the chapel steps, and I wonder where they’re coming from, or if they’re just doing the same thing I’m doing. I walk back to the gym, far enough behind them, but close enough to note the way he is with her, deferential, soft, entirely different from the way he was with Whitney. You want to be the chill, cool girl, yet you don’t. You’d rather someone just hold your hand.
I veer off at the end of the pool and wait at the bottom of the steps to the studio. I can hear the seniors practicing their graduation song—a song about unity and aloha, the bonds that will remain in their hearts. They harmonize, they project, and it brings tears to my eyes, as a live song will, the way when words are sung, they sound like a beautiful truth that can be lived.
About fifteen minutes later, they file out, and I feel like I’m watching graduation. Soon they’ll be at the Blaisdell Arena, singing their songs, the girls in their white holoku dresses and haku leis, the boys in their suits and long maile leis draped around their necks. Ninety-nine percent of them off to college, off the rock of Oahu.
After they leave I’m alone with the sounds of clanking steel from the weight room next door, shouts and whistles from the track above, and then I hear doors from Forrest Hall open upstairs. A few girls walk down the steps and then there’s Whitney walking by herself. She seems to be pondering something, or maybe she’s just still in a zone. When she gets toward the bottom, I say, “Namaste,” with a shrug, a smile, a look that says, Can’t we just get this over with?
The lightness isn’t returned. What’s returned is a look that’s hard and cold and, sadly, indifferent. She walks past me, leaving the scent of sweat and Lycra and that ubiquitous shampoo. I want to point out that I can see the bottom of her butt in those shorts, that if she fears becoming Rizzo, she better cover that ass.
“Whitney,” I say, “come on.”
She quickens her pace, and I do too, but then she ducks into the gym and I run to catch up. When I get there, she has stopped midway across the gym floor. There’s a boys’ volleyball game on the other side of the partition, so she has nowhere to go.
She looks to the other door, but maybe realizes how stupid this is. We’re not going to play chase.
“What’s up,” she says, but doesn’t pose it as a question. It’s a demand: tell me what you want.
Her outfit makes me feel like I’m at an advantage. In her quick head-to-toe glance I see her approval of my gray skinny jeans and yellow, off-the shoulder tee. I’ve developed a bit of style, not from imitation, but by gathering things as I go. I look like I live here now. I am who I am because of you, I want to say, but never will.
“Talk if you’re going to talk,” she says. “I’ve got shit not to do.”
She looks away, twisting her mouth to hide a smile.
The last time I was in this gym was for our walking exercise with the peer counselors. That feels like ages ago, different versions of us. The sound of sneakers screeching on the floor makes me want to play ball and eat candy.
“So much has happened,” I say. “Let’s . . . I don’t know. Let’s dissect.”
I always hear the expression That is so high school, meaning that it’s small or silly. I know that what is big now will be so high school later, but I’d like to think that it all matters, that it all adds up to something.
She looks at me warily.
“What happened?” I ask. “What did I do wrong? I’m sorry about Will, okay? But I wasn’t using you to get to him.”
She shrugs, widens her eyes, and I can tell she’s decided to not relent.
“Come on,” I say. “We don’t have to be like this.”
Sneakers screech on the floor next door. Whistles blow. I can hear grunting.
“Be like what?” she says. “I’m not doing anything. I don’t want anything. What is it that you want?” She opens her arms, making me want to tackle her.
I take a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell your mom Danny didn’t do anything?”
She looks away, guilty. “It’s over already.”
“I know, but it’s lame you let your mom think that about him. Why him?”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ve already told her I made it up. I told her it was Mike.”
I didn’t think she’d ever do that.
Whitney laughs. “But she says I don’t have to make things up, and she’s now convinced that room service gave me bad fish—all the radiation these days. You can’t trust room service.”
“No way,” I say.
She absentmindedly kicks the gym floor. “Oui, way,” she says. “She wouldn’t dare blame Mike.”
“Why’d you say it was Danny in the first place?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. It was an answer, and I guess I liked him and felt like shit when he dissed me. And then Maile came and Mike ditched me and . . . I just . . . did . . . and I was off the chain stoned. I thought my mom was a skinny walrus.”
“Oh my God.” I laugh, and she tucks her lips in and looks away.
“Well, thanks for telling her,” I say.
“I was being like you,” she says, finally looking at me. “Always doing the right thing.”
“Obviously not,” I say.
“My brother and Lissa go together like ham and cheese. He was totally using you.”
“Maybe I was using him right back,” I say, believing it. A kind of recognition shows in her expression. We’re not pitiful. We have a say in all of this. Stupid but aware. Or not stupid at all. Just testing the waters. All of this can be used. Head to tail, the whole lot of it. Love, deception, pettiness, pain. Lust, mistakes, regret, triumph. We get to decide how to season and cook it.
“That’s not very cool to Lissa,” she says.
“I know,” I say. “Or Maile.”
“I know,” she says softly.
“Well, there. We owned up to it,” I say.
She imitates the peer counselors. “Own it,” she says. “Make your mistakes your rocks. Stand on your rocks.”
I can’t help but smile a bit, and she does too, betraying herself.
I use her same tone. “Okay, peeps,” I say. “Walk if you’ve sold someone out.”
I feel like we’re in a duel. I don’t look away. I hear the noise of boys, spiking balls, making calls, a whistle, a cheer. I can smell sweat. I want so badly for her to play along.
“Come on,” I say. Whitney looks ahead. “Walk.”
She takes a step, then smiles in a contemptuous way that she can’t maintain. She doesn’t look at me when she says, “Sorry about Danny, okay? And sorry my parents are . . . whatever. What they are. Just—I know you moved out, and . . . sorry.” She shakes her head, then begins to walk away.
“Walk if you’re not your parents,” I say. She stops, her back to me.
“Walk if you feel they’re always going to be bigger than you.” I take five steps. “I’m walking, by the way. Just so you know. Now walk if you know they love you and you don’t need to live your life like it’s your last and you can make your own path.”
“That was a bit much,” she says.
“So what?” I say. “I’m going to get all touchy-feely. Deal with it.”
She leans onto one leg and crosses her arms.
“I don’t know who my dad is,” I say. “I do know that he had the Outrigger waitresses bring him his lunch while he sat in an anchored canoe. He made them wade out to him with his pork chops and Blue Hawaiian. He slept with tons of women while he was with my mom. He was like frickin’ King Kamehameha, conquering a chain. But a total mainland haole. So King Cammie-ha-mee-ha.”
She turns. It looks like she’s biting the inside of her cheek.
“He doesn’t know I exist,” I say, and saying it out loud is hard. For the first time, I see this as being sadder for him than it is for me, and this makes me feel stronger.
“Sometimes I feel mine doesn’t know I exist either,” Whitney says. “I don’t think he expects anything from me.”
She plays with the end of her ponytail. It’s so loud next door. Voices boom and echo, and we just stand here, quiet.
“Walk if you’re ashamed sometimes,” she says. “Just totally ashamed. Totally used. By boys, girls, everyone.” She lifts her shirt to wipe her eyes, then walks, and I do too.
“Walk if you’re a virgin,” she says.
I walk. She doesn’t.
“Walk if you don’t necessarily want to be,” I say, and I take five steps so that I’m closer to her. I continue, “Walk if you’re so hot and a super-cute boy couldn’t resist you.”
She looks ahead again, walks, then says, “And expected you to keep doing it, and could hardly look at you after, and would always call his girlfriend from your room.” She walks.
“And now you move on,” I say. “Onto something new.”
We’re side by side now. I turn to face the same way she’s facing.
“Walk if you miss your friend,” she says. I could barely hear her, but I did.
We both take five steps.
“This is so cheesy,” she says.
“I know. Go with it. Eat the fromage. Spread it on a cracker.”
“Oh my God,” she says. “You are so odd.”
“Okay, my turn,” I say. “Walk if you want to have a real friendship. No manipulation or lies or trying too hard. No being fake. No giving too much, no taking too much. Just be. We’ll root for each other instead of bringing down.”
We walk.
“And we’ll never be on Hawaii Housewives,” I add. “Unless you really want to. Then I’ll support you. And watch you and make fun of you in the privacy of my own home.”
We look over at each other, laugh, and wipe tears from our eyes.
“Walk if you’ll be so embarrassed if someone is watching us right now,” she says. We both jump forward. “And walk if you promise not to be one of those girls who blow kisses in photos. Or post daily bikini Instas.”
“That’s so seventh grade,” I say. “Or take legsies by the pool—”
“That’s the worst!”
“Or wait for guys,” I say. “Promise we won’t be one of those girls.”
“Or be with guys who are with other girls,” she says. “Mike is cut off.”
“Good,” I say. “He had an ugly penis anyway. Not that I’ve seen a pretty one or anything.”
“Once again, you are a ball of oddness,” she says.
We don’t walk anymore—it feels like we’re in a ceremony, saying our vows. Vows to ourselves and to friendship.
“Walk if you’ve OD’d on Betty Crocker,” I say.
She grabs my hand and laughs. “Oh my God, that was seriously bad. I thought the pool was a big mouth. I was freaking the fuck out. Then mama walrus came, and that was the limit.”
I laugh, watching her reenact her freaked-out face, and begin to sing “Summer Nights.”
“Oh my God,” she says. “Stop!”
We link elbows. “Okay, walk if you’re bare . . . down there,” I say.
“Whatever,” she says, hitting me with her hip. “Walk if you’re rockin’ an Afro down there or if you lost your bathing suit bottoms jumping off a rock, rookie.”
“Whatever,” I say right back. “Walk if you scarf five tacos, then have seriously the worst gas I’ve ever smelled in my life.”
She drags me toward the volleyball side.
“Walk if you’ve made out with your friend’s brother!” she says. “Right in the open, like, moaning and shit!”
“Oh my God,” I say and look down, unlink my arm from hers, and walk the walk of shame.
“So gross,” she says. I feel the grossness, and yet it seems like a long time ago. Totally insignificant.
“His loss,” she says, walking up next to me. “Love him, but he is so me, myself, and I.” We’re both quiet for a second.
“Okay, walk if once upon a time your mom and my dad probably did it!” she says.
We both squeal and groan. It’s crazy that they were ever young.
“Walk if you’re with Danny now,” she says, raising her eyebrows.
I walk, so that she’s behind me. “I saw you guys going up to the cottage. You looked so cute. So happy.”
Sabrina comes to mind—the poor girl watching all the action from afar. But it’s Whitney watching me. Sabrina’s mistake was choosing the wrong brother. It’s still like that, but this time it’s a brother and a sister. I’ve made my mistake, and now I know which one deserves my loyalty and love.
“Does he have a pretty penis?” she asks, and I push her back and bite my lip.
“Walk if you want to go grind at Andy’s,” I say, walking back to her.
“Nom nom,” she says.
“And surf.”
“Or just mush.” She slouches.
“Or go to the premiere with me tonight,” I say.
“Really?” she says, her eyes lighting up. “I’d love to do that.”
We face each other. “Are we done?” she asks.
“I think so,” I say. “Should we group hug?”
“Okay,” she says. We approach shyly, and then she clobbers me, and we do a kind of hugging wrestling move.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Me too.”
• • •
The campus is still busy. It’s like everyone’s training for the Olympics or something. We walk the length of the pool filled with swimmers and water polo players. Up ahead by the bench that circles the tree are some seniors, the eager type, voluntarily practicing their songs.
As a junior, I’ve always felt we were on the cusp of something so much better, but maybe this is the stronger state. Juniors are observant. We see how the leaders act and note what we’ll do differently. We watch our so-called superiors, then do it better. It’s kind of a good thing to take away—keeping yourself always on the verge of something, ready to reign while knowing that not everything gets left behind.
“I can’t believe it’s almost graduation,” Whitney says.
“I was just thinking that,” I say. “Are you nervous?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Nervous I won’t get into college anywhere and I’ll have to work at 7-Eleven.”
“So. Free Slurpees. You’ll get in somewhere.”
We get quiet, maybe both thinking of the future: our summer—the jumps and risks we’ll take, the books we’ll read, the friends we’ll see, the meals we’ll make. My time with Danny before he goes to college, her time with her family, then the year after that. Juniors to seniors, confident and afraid. On the edge and ready to jump across the ocean to college. I can see it, and I can’t see it at all. Who knows what will happen?
We get to the end of the pool, then pass the ramp that leads up to the track. I remember my first day here, walking on the zigzag ramp, trying to find my Children’s Studies class by the gymnastics room. I went up and down, passing people who knew exactly where they were going and pretending I did too. It’s so much better not having to pretend.
We walk past the gate and out to the street, then wait at the light, cars speeding by, moving my hair and shirt.
“You could have taken Danny tonight,” she says.
“He wouldn’t have liked it as much.” I smile to myself. “We’re going out tomorrow night.”
“So sweet,” she says. “You should oof him.”
“Shaddup.”
I look back at the rock wall lined with the night-blooming cereus that Will told me about.
“I need to come here at night to see.”
She follows my gaze to the wall of cacti and closed petals. “It’s really nice,” she says and keeps looking at them. “Cute how they tuck themselves in during the day. We can come back later tonight. After the premiere?”
“Perfect,” I say.
I see us from a distance then, and everything becomes so simple: two girls going home, waiting for the light to change, then tonight: two girls in a car, driving by their school to see flowers bloom. We’ll be two girls on a small island in the Pacific Ocean, listening to music, moving forward, moving on, so happy in the moment, wanting to stay in it, and yet ever ready to become.