Beyond the Break Page 10

  “Don’t make this somehow my fault because I haven’t given you my number.”

  He holds his hands up, palms facing me like he’s surrendering. “Whoa.”

  I immediately regret snapping at him. I’m just frustrated after a week of surfing horribly while watching someone I care about feel miserable and being unable to do anything about it. I’m embarrassed that he matters so much. Without warning, my eyes fill, but I blink back the tears. I refuse to let him make me cry.

  In a moment he’s cupping my cheeks. “Hey, hey. Heyyyyy. What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” I yell, pulling his hands off my face. “I’m horrible at surfing. You know it. I know it. And I’m only getting worse, and all you do is yell at me like I’m doing it on purpose. I know there’s other stuff happening, but you won’t tell me a thing, and then you say we’re great friends, but friends are honest, okay? Now you won’t even talk to me at school or in the car, and you’re making it look like it’s because I stink at surfing, but maybe it’s because you realized I’m never going to be someone you can share things with.” He takes a step back, and it only upsets me more. “So I’m sorry I’m not who you thought I was, but you aren’t either! I thought you were nice, and you’re kind of a jerk! No, you are a jerk! And then you don’t even show up to take me to school, but you don’t tell me why. So fine. Don’t apologize. Don’t let me in. Wear your stupid sunglasses.” Even I know my words sound childish, but the whole week of frustration vomits out of me.

  He looks down at his feet and shoves a hand into a pocket. With the other hand, he takes off his sunglasses, breathing evenly for a few beats before looking up at me. When he does, I gasp. A purplish-black hue forms a half halo under his right eye from the bridge of his nose to his temple.

  “You really want in on this?” he says gruffly.

  Chapter Nineteen

  His eye looks awful. “Jesus,” I say, without even thinking that I’m taking God’s name in vain.

  “He already knows.” Jake smirks at his bad joke.

  I don’t know what to say. Everything sounds inadequate or stupid. “Can I pray for you?” feels pretentious, but I don’t know why since prayer is supposed to be my go-to. “I’m so sorry” sounds lame, like he lost a life in Fortnite or jumped into the ocean with his iPhone in his boardshorts. Even calling it like it is, “That’s awful. What happened?” sounds like, duh. Obvious much?

  We look at each other for a long time. I think of all my rules with guys—no hand-holding, no flirting, no touching, no hugging face-to-face. For years, I felt good about them. Like God was proud. That was me. But now, everything I fought for because it felt right suddenly feels wrong. A side hug would be patronizing, and I’ve never thought that before.

  There’s this—I don’t know how to explain it other than a tug at my heart, and I’m assuming it’s from God because it goes against every standard I’ve set. I follow that tug, and it leads me forward a step, so close to Jake I can feel his warm breath caressing the top of my hair. I lift my arms, encircling them around him, and it feels right. Good. True. There’s nothing impure in the action, and I truly think it’s what Jesus would do right here.

  He flinches when I first touch him, knowing I don’t do this. I feel his arms creep up my sides and move to my back. He squeezes and I squeeze back, and he buries his face in my neck. A one-syllable sob escapes from his lips. He clears his throat and breathes deeply. We hold on to each other, not moving, not releasing, and this single act says more than the most beautiful prayer ever spoken in the history of the world.

  From the side of the portable classrooms across the quad, where she’s hiding from us, I hear Lydia shout, “Breast to breast! You did it!”

  They obviously don’t know the situation, as Kaj, next to her, yells, “Full frontal, Lovette! Didn’t know you had it in you!”

  Jake and I erupt in muffled laughter, him giggling into my neck and me into his chest. His shoulders are broad and warm, and I have a brief moment when I think how nice it would be to lie on his chest more often. I push that thought away and remember why we’re hugging.

  I start to pull away, but he pulls me back in. He says into my ear, “I can’t deal with school today.”

  And again, I feel a switch—this disregard for my rules—and I’m okay with it. “Then let’s not.”

  He pulls back so he can look at me with a raised eyebrow.

  I keep my arms looped around his waist. “You have a car, and I have a perfect attendance record. What’s one day?”

  I don’t know what happened to him last night, but I know it’s bad, and I remember what God showed me five years ago when I was at a low point.

  “You sure?” He knows I’m not a ditcher.

  “Never been more.” I release from our hug and lift my chin toward the parking lot. “I need to take you somewhere.”

  * * *

  Because I live in a prime vacation spot, no one notices when two teenagers are at the beach instead of school. This morning, I have Jake drive to the streets above Highland Avenue in North Manhattan. We park on the top of Thirty-fourth, where all the locals find street parking without the two-hour meters. We walk down the hill in comfortable silence, but our thoughts drag our feet and slow our steps.

  As we turn south on Highland, I glance up at the purplish black of his cheek and eyebrow. “You wanna talk about it?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Hannah know?”

  He sighs deeply, and I don’t know if it’s out of annoyance with me or longing for her. “Yeah,” he admits.

  I know I can’t compete with their history. But still. My heart hurts that she gets to know things I don’t.

  “What I have here is good,” he explains. “We sit at lunch, and it’s good to feel normal. No reason to mess it up by bringing my shit to the table.”

  “Might be better than my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches.”

  He laughs and throws his arm around me; well, around my neck so it’s more of a headlock, and I feel like a little sister. It’s both exhilarating and heartbreaking. I’m the friend. Again, why am I unhappy with that? It’s what I told him: I don’t date. We can only be friends.

  Jake looks up at the street sign as we reach Twenty-eighth. “We heading to Old Man Mike’s?”

  I shake my head.

  At Twenty-seventh and Highland, we arrive at Bruce’s Beach. I take him to the middle of the two steep slopes of grass, and we walk on the level sidewalk separating the upper slope from the lower. I lead him up the slope diagonally, until we reach the third tree from the left. I crouch down and pat the grass in front of a large root. “Here.”

  “You brought me to a tree?” He’s joking, but he sobers when he sees my face.

  “Welcome to my seventh-grade home.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I rub my fingers through the blades of grass, press on the soft dirt. Jake sits beside me.

  “Before the accident, I used to come here to check the surf. Get a grip on the thing that was way bigger than me. You can see the lines, the current, even riptides from here. It’s where I’d wax my board, talk to Mike before my coaching sesh, dry off afterward.”

  He scans the span of ocean. “Great spot.”

  I’ve never shared this with anyone, but it’s time. He knows I didn’t only bring him here to show him some grassy hills. “Mom and Dad weren’t so awesome to me the year Matt was in rehab.” I keep my eyes to the sky, pull up grass with my fingernails. Easier to share if I pretend I’m talking to myself. “Like it was as if I hadn’t been born.”

  I lie down, feeling the cool grass against my neck. Jake lies next to me, the slope so steep, it’s like we’re in propped-up lounge chairs. The sky and the ocean blend at the horizon, light blue against deep blue, God’s ombré. Our arms touch, and I feel guilty and right at the same time. I always imagined the first moment I’d be lyin
g on my back next to a guy would be different. Somehow it’s not a big deal with Jake.

  “I know my parents were just doing their best, and I’m sure their heads were scrambled eggs wondering if they’d lost their only son. All that mattered was making sure he was okay. But it still sucked.”

  “No shit,” he mumbles, and I know he’s talking about his own family. He curls his index finger around mine, locking us together. I squeeze his finger, and he squeezes back.

  “This became my place,” I continue. “Even my church when it wasn’t a Wednesday or Sunday. I needed a place I could feel God all the time, not just two days a week.”

  His face looks troubled. “Can I ask you something?” There’s a new edge to his voice, and he pulls his finger away. “You said your parents were absent— Don’t you ever wonder why God didn’t take care of you if He loved you so much?” He sits up, brushes the bits of grass off his back.

  His black eye contrasts with the sunshine, and I know this burst of anger is about him and not me. He’s wondering where God was last night, or maybe where He is right now. I don’t blame him. Faith starts out so simple. Lots of guitar songs and jumping around. Shouting that the love of God is better than mangoes and papayas. Jesus is fun! God rocks! God loves you! So many exclamation points, and everything makes sense. And then one day life punches you in the face, and you have to decide whether God loves you when nothing makes sense.

  I choose my words carefully, knowing any cookie-cutter answers will be more like acid than lotion. “One time this family from church walked by with their dog. Asked me to their block-party barbecue. People on vacation would ask for directions to restaurants. Locals would ask me about the surf. Mike would pop in, crack a beer, talk about the waves. Kelly’s dad would drive by on his way home from work. Give me a ride to youth group or their house for dinner. One time I napped midday and woke up with a plaid blanket on me. There was something about this spot. No matter what, I never felt alone.” A skateboarder flies down the asphalt on Twenty-seventh, braking by making sharp, skidding turns. “And it reminded me that I may not see it right now. Or maybe not ever. But it doesn’t mean God’s not at work. And it doesn’t mean He’s not good, just because I get the short end of the stick. Besides, he didn’t leave me hanging. I didn’t see it then, but I do now.”

  “You really think God took care of you?” Doubt drips from every word.

  “I do.” There’s nothing I know more. “Not the way I wanted, but yeah. He did. I’m still here. I’m okay.”

  Another skateboarder flies past, braking in big, sweeping carves. His friend stands at the bottom of the hill, clapping and saying “Niiice,” every time he slows by dragging the back of his board through a turn.

  “You ride?” Jake asks, distracted or maybe wanting to change the subject before he argues with me.

  “Skateboard? Nah, not really.”

  “I thought those were your skateboards at Old Man Mike’s.”

  “No. His. He wouldn’t care if I borrowed them, but I just never thought about it. I guess I could. It’s supposed to be a lot like surfing.”

  “It is,” he agrees. Recognition dawns on his face, and he bolts to his feet. I flinch at his sudden movement. “That’s it!”

  “What’s . . . it?”

  “You can’t train in the water all the time. But you can train on land. Skateboards. Come on!”

  He pulls me up by my hand, and before I even know what’s happening, I’m jogging down toward the Strand, toward Old Man Mike’s.

  I was hoping if I were honest, he’d open up. But it worked as great as gripping an unwaxed board.

  We get to the alley and open the gate to Mike’s side yard. Mike’s sliding door is open, and he pops his head out. “Hey, kid,” he says. The smell of weed wafts toward us. Deep crow’s feet mark his leathery face—a life of a lot of laughter and way too much sun.

  “Hey, Mike. This is Jake.”

  “We’ve met.” They nod at each other. I forgot Jake had to find my wetsuit the night he took me out with the light-up boards. Wonder what they talked about. Mike probably didn’t ask any questions. He was my first surfing coach when I was six, coaching me and Matt up until I was twelve, when Matt went down. He never asked why I stopped taking lessons. I’m sure he assumed it was because of the trauma. We didn’t talk much that year, but one day he saw me sitting on the grass at Bruce’s Beach. After that, it was like God gave him “Lovette Radar.” Somehow he knew when I was there—he’d walk up and toss me a granola bar, then sit and drink a beer. He wouldn’t talk, other than pointing out the tide or a swell coming in from the south. One day during my eighth-grade year, he brought a wetsuit to my usual spot. “It’s about your size,” was all he said. The tag was still on it. “Hate to see it go to waste.” It had been a year since Matty’s accident, but that was the first time I cried about everything. I sat on the upper grass hill and bawled. He didn’t say anything or pat me on the shoulder. Mike’s not like that. He just stood over me with his arms crossed, looking out at the ocean. When I was done, he said, “I’m gonna hang it on my gate. You ever want to get back out there, you know where to find it.” Two weeks later, I got the nerve to put it on, and a day after that, I started swimming again. Soon he started leaving extra towels out.

  “You heading out?” Mike points at Jake’s two surfboards, as if I’d never stopped surfing. It’s what I love about him. No questions. “It’s kinda flat. You should wait until four thirty or so. Mid-tide should be good.”

  “Actually,” Jake says, “could we borrow your skateboards?”

  Mike kneels down, grunting from age and inflexibility, and reaches under one of the lounge chairs for the skateboards. “Have at them. Used to ride with my wife.” Mike’s wife died a long time ago, before I met him. I never hear much about her.

  “Thanks, Mike,” I say. “And thanks for letting us keep the surfboards here.”

  “You kidding? Was wondering how long it’d be before you hopped back on. You were meant to ride, kid. Glad your boyfriend convinced you.”

  “Oh,” I start, my face flushing. “He’s not—”

  “Yeah, me too,” Jake finishes for me, and I try not to stare.

  Mike spins the wheel of one of the skateboards. “These boards are SmoothStar—shorter length than longboards. The front trucks turn more than your normal truck, but the back is fixed. Acts like surfboard fins.”

  “Thanks, man,” Jake says, like they’re old friends, and Mike’s eyes do the crinkly thing I love as his face cracks into a rusty smile. Jake takes the boards, and Mike disappears back inside, shutting his sliding glass door.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I don’t say a word until we’re out on the Strand and riding our boards south toward Hermosa Beach. “So you told Old Man Mike I was your girlfriend?”

  “No,” he says. “I asked him if I could store the boards for ‘Lovette,’ and I think he assumed. Who cares, right?”

  Hannah, I want to say, but he pumps and goes faster, end of discussion. I pump to keep up and the wind whips through us, blowing away my concerns and his anger about whatever happened the night before. Our bodies undulate with the boards like seaweed with the current, flowing in sync to the rhythm and tilt of the wheels over the sidewalk.

  Mike was right. These skateboards are incredible. So smooth, it’s like I’m on a wave.

  “How’s it feel?” he asks.

  “Exceptionally amazing.”

  “Exceptionally?” He throws his head back, laughing. “Who says that?”

  I give him a friendly shove. “Lots of people.” He shoves me back, and I fall off the skateboard but luckily land flat-footed and running. The board keeps gliding next to me, and I hop back on, pumping to catch up.

  “Nice recovery. Here’s the thing,” Jake says as we glide side by side. “Once you pop up on a wave, you’ve only got a few seconds to perfect a move th
at you haven’t done in years. But with skateboarding, it’s like you have an endless wave in front of you.” He gestures grandly to the boardwalk ahead of us. “The cement is your ocean.”

  My heart leaps. All the discouragement I felt the last time I was in the water disappears under the four wheels of my new ride. Jake’s right. I can practice carving turns and rail-to-rail transitions, and I do, rocking from toe edge to heel edge and again, over and over. It’s flat ground, not a steep wave, but it’s balance that I need to work on.

  It’s like Jake can read my mind. “We’re gonna do this all the way down the Strand. Practice your board-body technique. The only thing you’re missing when you’re surfing is your balance and your muscle memory. Doing the same thing over and over until it comes naturally.” He sounds like a kid opening Christmas presents—he’s practically squealing at this breakthrough—and my body pumps with adrenaline in response.

  He coaches me as we continue down the flat stretch, the million-dollar mansions on our left, the sound of the surf one hundred yards to our right. My friends and I have a game where we pretend we’ve won the “house lottery”—and instead of a million dollars, we’re given one house on the Strand. We each get to pick one, and we’re not allowed to choose the same. Once someone chooses theirs, they have dibs on it. I explain this game to Jake, but he waves me off. “Think about your toe pressure,” he says. “Pay attention to how your ankles flex, and when. Control it. Make sure your hips are centered over the board. Feel where your center of gravity is. Play with your balance.” I forget about my silly house-lottery game and do what he says. It works. I feel the things he points out in ways that I couldn’t on a wave.

  He looks over his shoulder at me, grinning. “Copy me.” And like two five-year-olds, we engage in a skateboarding version of follow the leader. He makes a swooping carve to the left, and I mimic it. He lowers his body, working with gravity and physics to swoop back to the right. I crouch down and do the same.