Clay's Way (8 page)

             
 
“Later, Jared.”  I‘m happy he left.  He’s cool, but he doesn’t understand love yet, and I do.

             
 
I find some clay-colored
 
Krazy
 
Kolor
 
dye called Southern Sunset and rub it in my hair.  The blue and red are almost washed out anyway leaving my blond underneath.  I trace a C and L and
 
A and
 
Y on my chest after I coat my head.  It looks so cool.  I lie back on my bed, thinking about touching him, and fall asleep.

             
 
The sound of my parents arguing in the other room wakes me up.

The dye dried in my hair and it feels like plastic.  The CLAY I wrote on my chest is stained and darker orange than when I put it on.  The room looks like a murder site, reddish dye on my bed and pillows.  I open my door and slink down the hall to the bathroom to rinse my hair.  The rest of the house is cooler than my room.  I turn the water on hard and lean down to rinse.  The dye looks trippy going down the drain.  I sneak back to my room, like a spy, hiding in afternoon shadows. 

             
 
I hear a loud explosion from some stupid action movie my parents are watching. 

             
 
I lock the door and look in the mirror.  I like it.  It’s the color of clay.  I drop the towel that’s wrapped around my waist and stare at my body, the body Clay was touching.  My dick surges up and gets hard.  I close my eyes and concentrate on him and me in his truck, trying to recreate the whole thing in my
 
head.  I get a little depressed and confused because I don’t know if it will even happen again.  I’m not exactly sure what caused him to want to touch me all of a sudden. 

Chapter 7

Cusp of monsoon rains.

Tadpoles: fast shrinking puddle.

Things are looking up.

              
 
Feeling anarchic and revitalized from what I think a shrink would call “healthy dreams,” I roll off the side of my bed, reach for the phone book underneath, and flip through it for Clay’s phone number so I can get his address.  I feel like a stalker, but I can’t help it.  I find five Anderson’s on the windward side. 
 
Moki,
 
Leilani,
 
Kam, Kyoko, and Susan.  I think it’s pretty safe to assume
 
it’s
 
Susan.  Clay’s a
 
Portugee
 
boy, not Hawaiian or Japanese.  I dial the number.  

             
 
A machine picks up.  It’s Clay’s voice.  “Hey, if you
 
wanna
 
talk to me or Susan, leave a message--but don’t make it too long cause you suck.  Aloha!
 
”  He
 
laughs, and it cuts off after some static.

             
 
I hang up and tear out the page with his street listed on it.  I strap on my pack, jump out my bedroom window, and hop on my bike ‘cause I haven’t fixed my board yet.  I ride out of our stupid neighborhood and down the narrow
 
Kam
 
Highway.  Cars fly past me with huge gusts.  It’s hard to keep my balance.  I turn onto Clay’s street, and ride my hardest up the tree-covered hill.  The houses are built on poles and most of the driveways are dirt.  Huge banyans and tall coconut palms sway in the breeze.  Behind the neighborhood, there’s a sheer cliff, tall
 
and eroded, with waterfalls splashing down through the green.  The air smells fresh, like just after a huge rain.  I stand up to pedal harder. 

             
 
A pick-up truck pulls up beside me and a big Samoan surfer guy sticks his head out the window.  “Hey,
 
you fucking
 
haole
.  What you doing here?”

             
 
I lose my balance a little and almost fall.

             
 
“What the fuck happened to your hair?”  He wings a coconut at me.

             
 
I duck and it whisks by my head, but I lose my balance and crash into the gravel on the side of the road.  My bike lands on top of me.  I throw it off and give the guy the bird but he’s way down the road already.

             
 
“What the fuck’s wrong with you people?”  My knee’s bleeding and my elbows are skinned.  The chain lies in a pile like a snake and I don’t know how to put it back on.  I pick it up, wrap it around the pedal and walk it up the hill.  I get grease all over my hands.  This shit wouldn’t happen if Clay was with me.  The locals hate me, even though I’m local too.  They think of me as not belonging here, ‘cause
 
I’m white.  I’m a
 
haole
.  I’m shark bait.  I’m shit.  My ancestors took over their islands.

             
 
Pushing my fucked-up bike along, the chain dragging on the pavement,
 
I search around for Clay’s house.  The house numbers don’t seem to mean much in the neighborhood.  The order of houses is off and between some houses, two hundred numbers skip.  I turn right and see a house, sitting back from the others.  The numbers are carved out of orange wood.  It’s Clay’s house.  I slowly walk closer, ducking behind trees and sheds on the way, so he can’t see me coming and escape out the back.  I hide behind a
 
lahalla
 
tree across the street and spy.

             
 
The house is low and long and old and grown over with ferns and trees. 

             
 
I don’t see his truck.  I dump my bike on the grass, light up a cigarette, and lean on a fire hydrant across the street. I could wait here all night.   A dog barks from inside his house.

             
 
A Toyota drives past me and pulls into Clay’s driveway.  A woman with long dark hair--the same color as Clay’s--gets out and goes to check her mailbox, which is right in front of me.  She’s wearing a
 
mu’u
 
mu’u
, and she has big jade beads around her neck and wrists.  She’s a hippie and she looks naturally happy, over a layer of like, “I’ve seen it all.”  She’s totally interesting, much more comfortable in her own skin than my mom.  I bet she smokes weed. 

             
 
I freeze.  I don’t know what to say.  I must look like a stalker.

             
 
She looks at me, as I sit on the fire hydrant, watching her. 

“Hi,” she says.

             
 
I act like I’m just hanging out here, like I hang here all the time and she’s just never noticed. “Hi.”

             
 
She looks over at me again. 

             
 
I have to say something.  She’ll think I’m scoping her house out for a crime or something.  “Are you Mrs. Anderson?”

             
 
She nods and closes the mailbox.

             
 
“I’m a friend of Clay’s.  I was just riding around, and I thought I’d stop by and see if he’s home.”

             
 
She looks into the carport.  “Oh, Clay’s not here.  He’s probably still at work.  He usually gets home about now.  What’s your name?”

             
 
“Sam.”

             
 
“Your hair’s an amazing color.  I should try that.”

             
 
“Thanks.  It’s called Southern Sunset.”

             
 
She looks down at my bleeding knee.  “What happened to your leg?”

             
 
“Nothing much.  Fell off my bike.”

             
 
“Come inside.  We’ll put some
 
Bacitracin
 
on it and you can wait for Clay.  Help me with the groceries?”

             
 
“Sure.”  I grab a bag of strange-looking organic vegetables and fruits my mom would never buy, and follow her in.  The dog jumps up on me and I almost drop the bag of greens.

             
 
“That’s
 
Sharky, Clay’s dog. 
 
Sharky, meet Sam, and get down.”  The dog walks into the living room, and plops on the couch.

             
 
The house is full of plants, hanging from macramé holders made from lime-green, brown, and orange yarn.  The living room has a low couch and a glass coffee table that looks like a sculpture.  We go into the kitchen.  It has teak cabinets and brown tiles, the same color as ‘70s coffee mugs.  I put the bag of greens on the counter next to a huge fern that drapes down into the sink. 

             
 
“Sit down.  Put your leg up.”  She gets a paper towel and a tube of anti-bacterial cream from the cabinet.

             
 
I set my pack on the floor and put my leg up on the table.  I feel self-conscious about the hair on my calves.  I haven’t had a real relationship with an adult since I’ve had hair on my legs and my armpits.  I pull my long shorts up, so my knee’s exposed.  It has pebbles and dirt mixed with loose skin and dark red
 
blood. She sits down next to me and wipes my scrapes with a wet paper towel, then rubs the cream on gently.  I feel a warm buzz in my stomach from being cared for.  It’s a great feeling that I haven’t felt in a long time.  Ever since my mom started being selfish and bought a new Volvo, she stopped most of her mothering and started yelling at me.

             
 
“Here, put this on.”  She hands me a big Band-Aid.  “Would you like a guava juice?”  She walks over to the refrigerator.

             
 
“Uh, no, thanks… well, sure.”

             
 
She grabs two cans, and hands one to me.  She takes big slurp out of her can, then grabs a glass and opens the freezer to get some ice.

             
 
I spot a photo on the freezer door held up with a Hawaiian
 
tiki
 
magnet.  It’s Clay standing in front of the
 
Makapu
 
lighthouse, shirtless,
 
with a pink lei
 
around his neck.  His
 
arm’s
 
around a blond girl in a tank top.  She has big white teeth.  I’m jealous immediately.

Mrs. Anderson closes the freezer and I get up to analyze the photo up close.  She stands next to me with her shoulder pressed to mine.  “That’s Tammy.”  She takes a drink of her guava juice, the ice rattling in the glass.

             
 
I look away and stare at a kooky ‘60s abstract
 
print in a frame. 
 
It’s
 
blue circles expanding outward till they turn into specks, like dust.  That’s how my brain feels seeing Clay with his arm around this girl, this girl that has a name. 
 
“Family?”  I sit down again.  My knee hurts.

             
 
“No.”  She takes another drink of her guava and holds her finger up telling me to wait a second. 

             
 
This is horrible.  This is the worst thing I could possibly see, ever, and it’s in Clay’s kitchen.  I thought I’d find only good clues here, more evidence to lead me into utter love and devotion.

             
 
“It was taken about a year ago, just before Tammy left for school.  Oh, god.  Clay and I got in a terrible fight right after we dropped her off.”  She pushes her hair back and closes her eyes for a second. 

             
 
“Is she Clay’s girlfriend?”

             
 
The front door flies open, and the dog jumps off the couch to investigate the noise. “What’s up with all the traffic on the
 
Pali?  
 
Hey,
 
Sharky-boy.”  Clay takes his shoes off and throws them down in the entryway.  “Whose bike is that in the front yard?”  He walks into the kitchen. Then he sees me.  He looks over to his mom standing by the freezer then back to me, like we’re planning an evil scheme to overthrow his power.

             
 
“It’s mine.  Aloha.”

             
 
He sits on the counter top, acting like it’s no big deal I’m here, even though I’ve never stepped foot here before and he never told me where he lives.  “Hey.  What’s
 
goin’ on?”  He looks comfortable and relaxed in the environment of his own house.  He makes it seem like a crash pad, somewhere he’s so comfortable with,
 
he
 
doesn’t look around anymore.             

“I was just riding around.  Thought I’d stop over and see what you were doing.”

He gives me a long, measured look.  “That’s cool.  Your hair looks punk.”

             
 
“Thanks.”

             
 
His mom smiles and breaks the uncomfortable slow pace we have with each other.  “You guys want tuna sandwiches? 
 
Hammerhead, you hungry?”  She calls him hammerhead.  That’s hilarious. 

             
 
I hope he’s embarrassed.

             
 
He pauses for a second. 
 
“Yeah, sure.”

             
 
I look at him for approval and then feel stupid for doing it.  “Sure, if it’s not too much trouble, Mrs. Anderson.” 

             
 
“Ugh.  Don’t call me that.  Susan’s fine.”  She gets a jar of mayonnaise out of the refrigerator.  “Did you hear about the tiger shark they caught in Kailua yesterday?”

             
 
Clay perks up. 
 
“How big?”

             
 
“16 feet.”

             
 
“No way.  That’s almost as big as my dick.”

             
 
“Clay!”  His mom whips a kitchen towel at him. 

             
 
He laughs and looks at me.

             
 
“You wish,” I say, but I’m totally embarrassed. 

             
 
Susan laughs and Clay watches her, making sure she doesn’t pick up on our intimacy.  “Is Tammy coming home for summer break?” she asks.

             
 
He stands up from the table. 
 
“Yeah.  Sam,
 
wanna
 
hang out in my room?”  He doesn’t want to talk about her.  That must mean something. 

             
 
“Sure, but…”  I look at his mom making sandwiches.

             
 
“We’ll eat those later, mom.  I
 
wanna
 
play some music for the little
 
brah.”  He takes off down the hall and I follow with my pack, admiring his macho strut that I could never emulate exactly.