Reminiscent of Orange Juice After Chocolate
By Jenny Leong

One morning when late May exhales, the blazing breath of June sweeps the valley. The hills are no longer afire with poppies. Lupines, fiddleheads and farewell-to-springs tango with the rays of June's sun. This brutal sun ignites their faces and shoulders with sparks of gold but burns ours red -- even with the shield of SPF 45. Down in the valley, this basin of summery flames, we seek shelter.

We drive through mazes of fruit groves to get anywhere. Under the heavy lid of sky, the oranges hang in the sweet hush of San Joaquin summer like great jeweled globes. We pass by blurred rows of lemons, plums, peaches and strawberries to go to the Mexi King for lunch, and now we are sitting at a yellow plastic table shaded by an umbrella. Together we laugh and talk while wiping rivers of orange taco grease from our forearms and spilling gelatinous dribbles of tomato innards on our shorts and the table.

I swipe at tomato goo with a crumpled napkin. Next to me, Eve sips her water carefully, then checks her teeth. She always carries minted floss and asks for water, not Dr Pepper. Evie, as we call her, fears failure. She tears up when she goes to the dentist for fear of being diagnosed "a magnificent example of well-fostered tooth decay, also known as dental rottus extremis."

"The kind of sample scientists like to take pictures of and speak about in hushed tones," she explains with wide eyes.

Unlike Evie, Brianne will slurp icy Cokes but wants to run from attachment. "You know, I just realized that I hardly give anyone the time of day," she says solemnly, as she twists her black hair into a bun. "I've always wanted more than what I see, and I just don't stop for anyone." She tilts her head back, shakes ice from her cup into her mouth and crunches loudly.

I pop an ice cube in my mouth, too; it numbs my gums and freezes my teeth. I am pushing my life aside for the blank haze of summer vacation. Although I do the same every weekend with Bing cherry ice cream and a novel, the arrival of June allows prolonged dwelling on the uncertainties of my life. Mom says I am in perpetual denial; deep down, I don't deny that she's right.

I will never understand why things happen the way they do. I start to get the feeling that someone is deflating my stomach, and my mouth begins biting my nails. I get to my pinkie, and I forget that I cut it last Wednesday. I was clipping sunset-colored Gerbera daisies for Grammy and sliced my flesh, too. All the same, I arranged the flowers in a crystal vase in the living room, so neighbors could see the garden's beauty through the picture window. Now I can see the magenta and persimmon blossoms with their long necks bobbing and blinking in the late afternoon glare. My finger twinges in pain. What bothers me is that people will see the bouquet; they will never know the truth of my uncertainties.

I smooth my white tank top in insecurity, and I notice a chocolate stain, the kind that doesn't wash out, no matter how much Ivory Snow I add. Last week I was comforting myself with chocolate caramels from the candy jar, and I washed them down reluctantly with orange juice. I squeeze fresh orange juice for Grammy every day, and the acid burns my cuticles. For me, orange juice is barely tolerable and definitely not palatable after sweets of any kind -- way too tart, thicker than water.

I suck up the last drops of Mexi King's fruit punch through my straw. "Let's rock and roll," Brianne says. We toss our drinks, Evie tucks away her floss, and we climb into Brianne's rusty red Scout.

I can hear only whirring tires as we wind around parched hills on sweltering asphalt to get to Oak Lake, where the water provides liquid therapy. The three of us skip down the speckled rocks to the shore, where we kick off our flip-flops and toss our monstrous black inner tubes into the shallow part. We lie back onto them. Soon the toasty, dry breeze blows us in swirly patterns on the water. We fry like dough in hot oil -- we become mindless, massive doughnuts drifting over the lake's depths. I trail my fingers through the ripples, and my cut stings. When I focus on the cloudless sky, thoughts enter my mind like random, childlike scribbles on a chalkboard.

These two are my best friends, but even they do not know how I feel. I open one eye and squint against the blinding, green shimmer of lake water. Brianne is totally relaxed: Her hair and toes are trailing off the sides, and her skin is deepening in gold hue as the sun climbs to its zenith. Evie is rigid in her inner tube, with no part of her touching the water. She is as tense as a curled leaf on sleeping grass. I wonder if she exhales; her eyes are shut tight, and I know she is afraid of water snakes. I rest my head on the bouncy rubber. Through heavy, wet eyelids, I can see noon's mottled, crimson light. This red view I see reminds me of Monet's impression of the Japanese bridge in his garden when he had cataracts. For our art field trip last year, we went to the museum, oohed and aahed over the rainbowed Monets, the purity of the Cezannes, and the fruit bowl dimensions of the Gauguins. This was when I first knew Jake. We talked a little about which paintings we liked and those that didn't grab us.

After the museum, when we got our lunches that day, I was too empty -- but too filled with Jake's proximity -- to eat. I shoved the brown paper bag into my backpack. I felt like I wasn't even sitting there on the green vinyl seat; as we zoomed along, the window showed kaleidoscopes of crops, earth and trees. When we got back to school, I found Evie and Brianne waiting on our usual bench beneath the elm tree.

"Katia, you look flushed, darling," Brianne announced. Evie grabbed my hand in comfort, but I shivered; this was how the oranges must feel when early frost brushes their cheeks. Suddenly, Jake was walking toward us. He made me nervous, and I rummaged in my backpack for the remains of my lunch.

"You guys hungry?" I asked, as I unwrapped mushy apple slices and a mustard-soaked ham sandwich. I remember the sour smell of mustard, and then Jake was sitting next to me on the bench. He was like a shadow that crept out from under the bed and looked like a monster when I was little, and I got the panicky feeling I did when I was 6. Evie still fears the monsters at night.

"Did you do your chemistry homework?" he asked. I nodded and reached for my folder. Instead, I discovered my carton of generic, field-trip orange juice had spilled in my backpack, dribbling its contents -- homework, a hairbrush and magazines -- with pools of citrus stains. "I'm sorry," I stammered. "It's all messed up."

"That's OK," he said. "I'll get it from someone else." Then he was gone. In a second. His presence was still with me like that green flash right when the sun's brow hits the edge of the hills and nods farewell.

I think that was the last conversation we had. We just ignored each other after that. I don't know exactly what happened. We never said, "Hi, stranger," or talked about oil on canvas or watercolors again. It's funny how he's still here with me, though, as a blush of sun behind a cloud.

Brianne says she doesn't give anyone the time of day; she fusses over burgundy lipstick and red toenails. I wish I had that power. But more than that, I just wish Jake would give me the time of day. I'm afraid it will always be this way with everyone I meet -- they'll be half there, mostly in my mind but no hand to hold. At least Evie shows everyone her fears and mint-waxed floss. I don't let even a hint peek out. Sometimes I see him at school and wonder what it would be like to talk, about the happy people Renoir paints with ruddy cheeks and merry eyes. Maybe I would mention cubism, because my life feels like a shattered, jumbled picture shaped by Picasso's hand.

The lake holds me high on its shoulders, and I wonder about a lot of things. Why we just let things go unsaid and unresolved. Why two acquaintances pass in silence. Why I let the daisies in Grammy's window wilt. Why water is reviving but equally hurtful to human wounds. Why the first taste of orange juice is sweet, but somehow never, ever palatable after chocolate.

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About the author:Honolulu Star Bulletin & Advertiser reader Leong, 17, Kaunakakai, Hawaii, is a senior at Kamehameha Secondary School in Honolulu. Writing is in her genes: Leong's grandfather was a news editor, and her great-great-uncle was Guys and Dolls writer Damon Runyon. She'll follow Runyon's footsteps to the streets of New York this fall to study English and law at Columbia University.