Buzz’s coconut, limes on the side
Li Lu’s text: shes using u
Dessert
Would I ever stop seeing Koa—low shorts, pushing his hair from his eyes, “Yo…?”
Dessert.
Duke’s Hula Pie
Dad told Eli, “Do whatever you want.”
How can anyone write anything about dessert?
Dessert is the worst thing on earth.
WINTER
Prompt: War in the Middle East.
I can’t focus.
Notebook.
Scissors. Backpacks. Books.
Mobile. Papers. Tape.
Table. Tacks. Hand sanitizer.
Tissue. Light switch.
Clock.
Even Tae-sung is writing about the war. He’s writing and writing, like his life has kept happening. His and Henley’s, Brielle’s, even Isabelle’s now.
“It wasn’t as bad as everyone says,” Brielle is telling Isabelle about detention. But Isabelle isn’t listening. She’s writing about the war, like we’re supposed to be doing. If I were Isabelle, I’d never talk to Brielle again, either, no matter what. They were friends. I saw them hanging out at the mall a couple of times over the summer, also at The Dark Knight Rises. Then something happened. Now they hate each other.
Brielle is doing that thing where she’s trying to laugh off how Isabelle’s ignoring her. “People make a big deal about it, but it was actually kind of fun.” She keeps going, even though Isabelle keeps writing. “You can pretty much just do whatever you want in there. Personally, I caught up on BuzzFeed.”
But Isabelle is strong. She’s stronger than Brielle. After she stays silent, Brielle looks down and shrugs and says, “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes and starts writing, too.
Words.
The war in the Middle East. It’s a civil war, Mr. Montalvo had said. The people are all fighting each other.
Shes using u.
Li Lu and me, we won’t get pie at Buzz’s now, coconut, limes on the side. We won’t sign up for horseback riding session at Camp Mokule‘ia. We won’t make matching vases in ceramics.
Write words.
The war.
Last night, our history homework was to talk with our family about the war. Before, Dad would’ve loved talking about this. He would have gone on and on about the “conflict,” the “crisis,” the “social context.” “There are two kinds of people,” he would have said, “the authority and the opposition,” or something like that.
Mom would have told me about the war in a way I could understand—allies, enemies, rebels, power.
But Eli, even if he were around, I couldn’t ask him. He doesn’t get things like war. He doesn’t get anything that doesn’t have to do with surfing. I realized that at the Bon Festival. The dancers danced and the lanterns bobbed—pinks and greens, yellows and reds—and the flute and lute and koto plinked on. My hands stuck to the rail. Mascara melted into my eyes. I tried to untangle the mystery of it all—the dancers, the beauty, the past, the pain. Then Eli said that about the swells …
* * *
Write words.
War.
The Nightly News was on, but Dad wasn’t really watching it. “The war,” he said, sipping his Gordon’s sloe gin and tonic and scrolling through The New York Times. “It’s the few trying to rule the many.”
Just like Brielle had told me. “It’s just a game.”
Dad was tired. He was tired all the time now.
“There’s another thing,” I said. “We have to write why it matters. To us here in America.”
Does anything matter anymore, though? With Koa gone, and Tate gone, and Eli gone, does anything matter now?
Dad said, “What matters to America doesn’t always matter to Hawaii.”
“Dad, please,” I pressed. I didn’t want to get detention for not doing the whole assignment. “Why does it matter, though?”
He answered, “What matters to Hawaii doesn’t always matter to America.”
Then … “Oil,” he added finally.
One word—oil—cannot possibly be the whole reason something matters. Dad was too tired to help me, so I looked up the war myself. And even though I don’t really get it, Mr. Montalvo gave me full credit today anyway. I stayed out of detention at least one more day.
Fifteen minutes has turned into a long time to write in here.
One more minute. One more minute of using class time wisely.
Outside, there’s a white bird—a tern, I think Mom told me once—in the plumeria tree.
WINTER
Prompt: “You can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards.” (Steve Jobs) Look back on the entry from September 4. What has changed since then?
Metals and wedges and MAKE IT MAJOR. I had no idea. About Brielle, mostly. The only thing I had any clue about was the trade winds. When they finally came, they changed everything.
* * *
The guitar guy had unplugged the amp midtrack, fighting the squall to coil the cable. In an instant, the Volcom House—three noisy stories of surfers and winter girls—behind us went silent. We stopped dancing. Then we booed—all of us—the pros, the semipros, the regular people. We booed wildly, and Pipeline’s waves beat and beat against the shore. Palms swayed, their fronds lashing. Flames from the fire cracked and spit, sending sparks in every direction.
I was laughing. The trade winds were all tangled up in my hair.
“You see Koa?” Eli came over and asked me, and I laughed louder and more. Eli was lit up green from the glow stick hanging around his neck. Ocean dripped from his forehead and chin. He wasn’t laughing, and that was even funnier.
“Parking lot,” Brielle pointed, even though Eli wasn’t asking her. By then, me and her were over, but she was still all in my business.
The waves beat, the palms swayed, the fire spit. It was maybe one, only four hours before the sky would light up. I was: white gauze top, peasant, with tassels, and the winds whispered across my bare shoulders.
“You want a lift, Grommet?” Eli asked.
Why was he leaving so early? Because of Stacy. At first, I thought I didn’t want to leave yet. Maybe the winds would die down and the band would start up again and we’d all keep dancing. Stacy could force Eli to leave, but she couldn’t force me.
Plus, right then I didn’t want to leave with Eli. He was in a bad mood, texting obsessively. I could get a ride with someone else.
I looked around, then over at Brielle. She was looking right at me. She’d heard Eli ask if I wanted a lift and was waiting to see if I was going with him, with Eli Harper, OLR senior, surfer, heading to Santa Cruz.
I knew what Brielle was thinking, wishing. It was everything I ever wanted.
“Sure,” I said, catching Brielle’s eyebrows shoot up.
Me, I was leaving with Eli. And Koa and Tate.
And Brielle Branson, she wished she had my life.
But that, that was before.
FALL
Prompt: Welcome to LA 8! Today, write about your summer break.
Taylor Harper, LA 8