Juniors Read Free Page B

ethical responsibility, we did an exercise that had the ironic effect of making me want to be more unethical.”
    My mom sifts through a drawer. I’m always super detailed as punishment for her asking me how school was, but she keeps asking and, as far as I can tell, she listens here and there. I try to catch her tuning out.
    I walk around to get air in my shirt—it’s so hot in here, and I’m sweaty from the bike ride. I can’t help but feel thrilled that we’re leaving. We’ve always known we wouldn’t stay in thiscondo, so we never bothered to make it our own. My mom’s been keeping an eye out for rentals in Maunawili, or something in town. I’m not sure how we could have made this our own, anyway. It seems designed for anonymity.
    â€œI jumped off the roof of the gym into the pool,” I say. “Herpes.”
    She throws some plastic spoons into the trash. “Are you swimming for PE?”
    Caught her.
    â€œHow was
you
r
day?” I ask. “Any other news? Or just that we’re moving in with strangers.”
    â€œThey’re not strangers,” she says and runs her hand through her hair. “The Wests are longtime friends.”
    It’s funny how my mom’s voice takes on a Hawaiian lilt at times. I sit on a bar stool and drum my fingers against the counter. “I’m not understanding how all this happened. Melanie just asked if you wanted to live in their cottage, and you said yes?” I’m hoping the repeated verbalization will make it seem less bizarre.
    â€œYes,” my mom says. “That’s what happened.” She looks like she’s holding back laughter.
    â€œWhy would she ask? How did it even come up?”
    Since we got here, it seems like my mom is constantly taking calls from or going to events with Melanie. With dogs, you multiply their ages by seven to get the human equivalent. It seems like for minor celebrities, when they come to Hawaii, their celebrity also multiplies by seven. San Francisco society couldn’t care less about my mom, but here she’s on what I call the charity circuit—going to fashion shows and dinners that benefit thearts or kids with diseases. She chaired some kind of Oscar party, which even she found to be ridiculous. Dentists and lawyers came out and walked a red carpet in their finery, all styled for the grand occasion of watching the Oscars on TV.
    â€œIt just . . . came up,” my mom says. I spin on my stool, and she goes through the cabinet with the pots and pans. “She knew we wanted a new place. She was telling me to look in town, that everything was happening on her side. Then she kind of lit up and said we may as well use her cottage, because it’s just sitting there. And I guess it made sense. We’ve been wanting to get out of here, and you know her—you can’t mention anything without her texting solutions and offers, I swear.”
    She places the cookie sheets on the counter.
    â€œNo, I
don’t
know her,” I say. “I don’t know her at all. How much is rent?”
    â€œDo you think we’ll need all of these pots?” she asks.
    I don’t care about the pots. Kahala is like the equivalent of the Presidio or Nob Hill. I remember a sixth-grade sleepover at my friend Ashley’s in the Presidio. Her house was supposedly inspired by a castle in France. Her mother told me to make myself at home. I stood on the cold marble floors, looked up at the grand staircase and the chandelier, and thought,
I don’t k
now how to do that.
    My mom tucks her hair behind her ear. “So, she won’t let me pay rent.”
    â€œWhat?” I automatically think of the charity circuit.
    â€œI know, it’s crazy,” she says off my look. “But I’ll try anyway. I offered to cook for them—”
    â€œWhat? That’s ridiculous—like an employee?”
    She resumes her packing, gathering