Free Juniors by Kaui Hart Hemmings Page B

who’s nothing like him.
    I drive down Kahala Avenue and recognize that lady from paddling in the basement. She’s jogging in a bikini. I wonder if she ever wears clothes. I slow down when we near the house, and then we arrive.
    â€œThis is it,” I say.
    I use my opener, and the gates part slowly.
    Danny takes off his seat belt. “I can’t imagine being like, “‘Dad, I’m home. Can you make me a Hot Pocket?’”
    â€œI can’t imagine your dad having Hot Pockets in his house,” I say.
    â€œHe has laulaus,” Danny says. “The original Hot Pocket.”
    I drive in, scoping things out. The Wests’ house always seems deserted to me, and you can’t see their garage, so I never know who’s here.
    â€œWelcome to my lovely home,” I say. “Can I offer you a Hot Pocket?”
    â€œThis
is
frickin’ lovely,” Danny says.
    I park in front of our garage. Danny gets out and looks up at our cottage. “You’re so stoked.”
    â€œI know,” I say. For the first time, I feel a sense of ownership, and because of that, I almost want to downplay the coolness of being here. I start to get the boards out of the car while Danny looks around. It’s not that we haven’t seen versions of this before. That’s the thing with private schools—which we’ve both gone to since kindergarten—we’re all bumped up next to each other. In Hawaii it seems to be even more so.
    In film and literature class, I’m in a group of five for presentations, and last week we all went to Kayla’s house after school to watch one of the movies. Kayla is in that group of girls who hang out with Whitney. She’s tall, Chinese, a little ditzy. I went over, prepared for a fancy house, but hers was a bland concrete box in Kaimuki, and her parents were gambling with old people in their carport.
    I strip down to my suit—green top, purple bottoms; girls here don’t wear matching sets—and Danny takes off his shirt, showing his lean, muscled torso.
    â€œThis way,” I say, then walk like I know where I’m going.
    Danny walks alongside me, waddling a bit.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you?” I ask.
    â€œI’m, uh, kind of chafed.”
    â€œOh,” I say. I look over at the V muscle running down into his shorts, then look away. “Use Vaseline.”
    â€œAny other girl would have been, like,
eew.
”
    â€œI’m saying that on the inside.” We walk side by side across the lawn. When a breeze hits the palms and the hedge alongside us, it sounds like it’s raining.
    â€œHow do you know to use Vaseline?” he asks. “I didn’t realize you had experience with this matter.”
    â€œIt just makes sense,” I say.
    â€œBalls and Vaseline—”
    â€œThey go hand in hand.” I bite my lower lip.
    Danny laughs, something that always makes me proud—cracking a boy up. I don’t know why it matters to me, or pleases me, maybe because I rarely see girls do it. They’re always the laughers, and sometimes it’s so frequent, it’s not even laughter anymore—just space filler.
    We’re closer to the main house. When we pass the yardmen, they turn off their weed whackers and look down, waiting for us to go by. I try to look at the home without looking, not wanting to get caught caring. I can see right through it—there’s a wide entry with glass doors between us and the ocean. I can see the pool on the other side, extending toward the whitecapped sea, making it seem like the ocean has an inlet to the house.
    We walk around the side, my heart beating as if we’re stealing something. It’s like passing a police car and feeling guilty when you’ve done nothing wrong.
    â€œThis place is really nice,” Danny says. We’re on a little stone path between a rock wall and the side of the house. He stops walking, admiring I