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used to say Waialae Country Club had no haoles,” I say. “And the Outrigger has no Asians. Keeping it even, I guess.”
    â€œThat’s not true,” my mom says. “Well, maybe. Anyway, you’re welcome to use Waialae and the Outrigger.”
    I put my window down and let my arm hang out and surf the breeze. “I can’t just go in there anytime,” I say. “And it’s not like I want to.”
    â€œYou could go with Whitney.”
    â€œWhy are you pushing her on me? You’re like a friend dealer.”
    â€œI’m not pushing her,” my mom says. “Never mind. Everything I say you argue against.”
    She turns the air up.
    â€œNot everything,” I say.
    â€œYou just did it again.”
    â€œThat doesn’t count. I’m just saying, not everything.”
    â€œYou’re still doing it.”
    I throw my hands up. “God!”
    She puts my window back up. There’s nothing worse than fighting in a car, trapped and on display, and I hate when a goodmoment turns in an instant and my mood is squashed. Maybe I
should
take tennis lessons—right now I would love to whack a ball across a court.
Whop!
I love that sound.
    My mom turns on Koloa and then onto Kahala Avenue, which is loud, not with traffic, but with leaf blowers and weed whackers. She turns on her blinker, and I sit up straighter, trying to get a glimpse of what we’re heading into. A long rock wall, a sleek wooden gate.
    â€œThis is it?” I ask, stating the obvious.
    â€œThis is it.” She waits for an underfed woman jogger, slick with sweat, who is looking incredibly focused and unhappy.
    â€œEat a chicken,” I say, then my mom makes the left into the Wests’ driveway and stops before the gate.
    â€œDo they know we’re coming?” I ask.
    â€œI told Melanie we’d be in and out all weekend. Who knows if we’ll see anyone.” She reaches up to a gate opener on the visor.
    â€œWhere’d you get that?”
    â€œMelanie gave me one,” she says and points it at the gate.
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œWhen I saw her yesterday.”
    â€œYou were working.”
    She looks over at me. “Jeez, Lea, attack much? I had lunch with her yesterday. She came on set.”
    â€œFirst of all, gross that she came on set. Second of all, do not say ‘attack much.’ That is so lame.”
    She smiles and presses the button on the clicker again. “And here we are,” she says in her cheerleader voice.
    The gate hums and opens slowly. I realize I’m holding my breath. My mom drives in at a crawl, and I look at the longdriveway that extends across the lot. I can see a rectangle of glimmering ocean through the glass doors in the middle of the home.
    Soaring coconut trees are scattered around the grounds. Everything is perfectly manicured. Yardmen are clipping, mowing, blowing, weeding.
    â€œThis is us over here,” my mom says. She veers off to the right, to the front edge of the lot where our new home, our cottage, sits above its own garage. The garage has a shiny wood door with black hardware.
    â€œYou must be happy,” my mom says to me, referring to the garage. I’ve always wanted a garage, an odd wish, but I like having a place to put things, and after living in San Francisco, I cherish and deeply appreciate parking spots. When I worked at American Apparel on Haight I swear I spent more money on gas trying to find parking than I actually made at the store. I shrug, hiding my happiness.
    She turns off the engine outside of the garage. “It’s a stint. An adventure.” I look over at the main house, and she follows my gaze. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
    â€œI feel like Sabrina,” I say.
    â€œWho’s Sabrina?”
    â€œYou know—the movie,” I say.
    â€œOh,” she says. “That Sabrina.” She looks serene, recalling the movie. Audrey Hepburn, living in the