Juniors by Kaui Hart Hemmings

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.
    â€œWhat about you?” Barrett asks. “Saturday prep?”
    â€œAre you kidding me?” she says. She’s wearing anoff-the-shoulder T-shirt with a long skirt. “Too early,” she says. “I’m hungover now—how would I deal on a Saturday?”
    â€œSuch a party girl,” Barrett says.
    â€œParty, party,” Danny says, and I see a flicker of something—curiosity or disapproval? Something.
    â€œYeah, 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—”
    â€œGot wasted!” Whitney says.
    â€œFor 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?
    â€œDanny, join us next time?” She grins with an open mouth as if posing for a picture.
    â€œSure,” he says. “Next time.”
    â€œWhat about now?” she says.
    â€œNow?” He laughs. “You’re crazy.” He looks toward the library. “I’m on brother duty tonight.”
    â€œYour stepmom should get a nanny or something,” she says, and I cringe, but Danny just smiles.
    â€œYeah, 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.
    â€œMari!” Whitney yells. “Yo! Wait up.”
    Mari Ito turns. “Yo!” she yells from across the quad.
    â€œSee you tonight?” Whitney says, looking back at me. Barrett leaves too, tilting his head in farewell.
    â€œRight,” I say. Dinner. I almost ask her what I should wear.
    Danny watches her go. “You got drunk with Whitney?” He almost sounds jealous.
    â€œNot really,” I say.
    â€œNot really?” He looks past me.
    â€œWe had a few drinks, that’s all.”
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œShe’s a trip,” he says.
    â€œYeah,” I say and look down, and then I ask, “How so?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he says. “Crazy or . . . interesting.”
    â€œInteresting,” 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.
    â€œLike 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 lifelike 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