Juniors by Kaui Hart Hemmings Page A

top.
    â€œShe’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?
    â€œThere’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.
    â€œNow
he’s
interesting,” I say. “Can’t wait to have dinner with him later.”
    â€œHis girlfriend coming too?” he asks, using a sarcastic andslightly bitter voice, which is unusual for Danny and has the odd effect of making me want to hear it again.
    â€œNot invited,” I say, making it up, suddenly feeling like we’re competing against each other.
If you’re going to
pay attention to Wh
itney, 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.

11
    WHEN I WALK INTO THE HOUSE, MY MOM I MMEDIATELY says, “We’re going over to the big house for dinner, okay?”
    â€œI know,” I say. I close the door, drop my bag, and run my hand through my hair. “I’m very aware of that.” I pretend to be burdened by this plan and the constant reminder of this dinner, when really I’m thrilled to have something to do. Something to dress for.
    â€œHow was school?” she asks, and begins to make tea. Her hair is in a topknot, and she’s wearing all Lululemon exercise clothes.
    â€œFine,” I say, too tired to give her my rambling answer. “How was work?”
    â€œAwesome,” she says. “I spent hours in makeup just so they could make me look bad.” She tears open a tea package and drops it into the hot water. “I could have worn no makeup and not washed my hair.” She takes her mug to the couch, then waves me over. “But they need to make me pretty ugly,” she says. “Cute ugly. That’s the key.”
    I sit down and put my legs up, pushing my feet against her thighs.
    â€œThen Les, that guy I was telling you about, he can neverget things right. Not just his lines, but the delivery, and his ego washes out anything the director says.”
    My mom uses big hand gestures. I love hearing her complain—it’s always done comically. “Like, today I had to say—” She starts to laugh and pats my feet. “Today, I had to fend off Jenkins, who of course I’ll probably fall in love with by the end of the season—but I had to say, ‘You need to find a new cereal.’ And then he goes, ‘What’s that, Dr. Lovejoy?’ Then I look at him like this—”
    My mom gives me a look that’s both attractive and cruel, then says, “You need to find a new cereal that has more fiber, because you are so full of crap.”
    â€œOh my God,” I say. “That’s really bad.”
    â€œReally bad,” she says. “
Hawaii Five-0
’s still going, though, so who knows.”
    â€œAnd we always have the Wests,” I say.
    She doesn’t answer, and I wonder what