Beyond the Break Read online

  “Oh,” I say to his second statement. “I rinsed off before I came home.” Which is true, and once again, I’ve avoided lying. But I feel a little twisty in my stomach.

  Dad salutes me. “Well done, soldier,” he says, which is kind of dorky, but I like it, because he musses my hair and it makes me feel like he’s proud and I’ve changed the world a little.

  I enter my room, close the door, and apologize to God for my non-lie lies. My mind drifts back to Jake Evans. Why did he want to know when my shift was over? Was he really interested? I’ve never been interested in dating. I mean, why bother entertaining those thoughts if I’m not going to marry the guy? And I’m definitely not getting married until I finish college, which is, like, in six years. So he’s off-limits, which means thinking about him now would only be bad. Remember King David? He thought about Bathsheba when she was off-limits and ended up having sex with her and getting her pregnant, then sending her husband to the front lines of war to cover his butt. No, thank you.

  But what if I think about future Jake Evans—like the Jake Evans that I meet again six years from now. I can dream about that Jake . . . right? He would love animals, build houses for the homeless, and lead worship, and we’d go on night hikes, live on the ocean, and swim twice a day. His shoulders would be the same, I think as I sink into my pillow. They’re already perfect.

  Chapter Three

  At youth group two days later, I’m still in the parking lot looking for Kelly when I see her wave and hop off the brick wall she’s sitting on. That should’ve been my first clue. Kelly doesn’t hop. She moseys. Her feet don’t leave the ground when she walks. Her hair’s always in a messy bun, with that single inch-wide streak of purple bright against her blond.

  One of the leaders blows the conch, which means we’re starting the group game downstairs in five minutes.

  Church has been a second home to me since sixth grade, and there’s a rhythm to it that I’ve come to love. Big-group game, followed by same-sex small groups, and then back together for worship and prayer. I love the pattern of it, the routine. Every week, I know what I get. Lydia tried to explain to me once that’s why she loves her Catholic church. Something about tradition, and how we’re creatures of habit, and something else that I’m sure’s all good, but there’s no way I’d ever leave my church for hers, not when this place is the reason I love God so much. Or at all.

  “Did you see him?” Kelly says and squeezes my hand. She loves touching people while she talks.

  “Who?”

  “Who!” she squeals back, which doesn’t help me. She twirls my hair into ringlets. “You’re going to say ‘hit’ with an S in front, you’ll see, but I call dibs.”

  Is someone back from college? Sometimes old youth-group kids come back to visit for a night. Whenever it’s a guy, the girls swoon, like being out of high school makes him perfect boyfriend material.

  Of my two best friends, Lydia’s the crazy one, but Kelly’s usually mellow, so seeing her like this means she must like this guy, whoever he is. I’m guessing Tim Rainsforth. It’s like a movie premiere when he comes back on his semester breaks.

  The music blares from the speakers downstairs, something about eternity, and the way the drums and the bass pound, it makes me feel like heaven’s gotta be way better than roller coasters or bungee jumping. Kelly loops her arm through mine as we walk down the steps to the youth room, side-hugging anyone we pass.

  Brett, our youth pastor, is on the microphone as we enter. “Hey, hey! There are three large squares on the carpet I made with painter’s tape. Find your way into one of those squares.”

  The carpet’s so thin that you could sweep up a spilled can of Coke with a broom. Or drape it with long pieces of painter’s tape.

  Our youth room is how I imagine college apartments. Mismatched, comfy couches. A Ping-Pong and foosball table in one corner. Three Nerf basketball hoops. The walls covered in posters of extreme sports—a skier midair with a snow cliff above, a rock climber hanging from a precipice by his fingertips, a base jumper sailing through a bottomless sky—and on each poster, a quote about living for Christ.

  Some kids start yelling, “Poop deck!” and divide themselves up between the three carpet “squares.” Brett laughs. “Yes! We’re playing poop deck! It’s about to get ‘lit’ in here, you know what I’m sayin’, brahs?” He doesn’t notice the groans and eye rolls. Brett is the best youth pastor. He doesn’t talk to us like we’re five, or yell at us to stop chatting when we’re playing games.

  The only problem is that he tries to talk like a teenager, but he uses the words in all the wrong places. No one cares, because for the most part, Brett puts up with way more than our parents would. And his talks make you get so fired up for God. “Okay, okay.” He holds the microphone close. “Miggity-miggity-mic check! For the one person who grew up in a cave and hasn’t played this game, here are the rules. There are three large squares in the room: poop deck on the left, half deck in the middle, and quarter deck to the right. If I yell ‘Half deck!’ everyone run to that square. If you’re already in that square, you’re safe. Our leaders will be the refs. Last two people to each square are out. Oh, if I call ‘Hit the deck!’ you’ve all gotta jump down to your bellies. Last two people to the ground are ‘Bye, Felicia.’ If you’re one of the last five remaining, you win—wait for it, wait for it—a five-dollar gift card to Two Guns Espresso.”

  Everyone keeps talking and giggling over him, but Brett doesn’t care. “And one, two, three . . . poop deck!” Instantly fifty teenagers scramble. Kelly and I are already in the poop-deck square, so she embraces me in a bear hug like we’ve already won. The square’s not big enough for fifty teenagers, and it’s a giant mosh pit of laughter and squished bodies. “There he is!” she says in my ear. I try to turn my body around, but I can only stretch my neck. In the corner of the square, his eyes, barely above the other heads, look back at me. Deep brown eyes peeking out of his slightly too long hair. It can’t be.

  The refs must’ve pulled the last two people out from that round because I hear Brett holler, “Hit the deck!” and the masses drop to the ground. I don’t. I can’t. Everything in me’s stiff as a surfboard. Not sure I even blink.

  “Ooh, Lovette, no replay needed,” Brett says through the microphone. Candy, one of the youth leaders, touches me on the shoulder to move me to the wall with the others who are out, now four of us.

  What’s he doing here? How did he find me? Did he ask my coworker Kim, and did she rat me out? It’s too much. I step outside for some air.

  “You okay?” someone says in my ear, and I practically jump out of my clothes. It’s Candy. She’s in her thirties, and holy Bibles, she’s intense about the Lord.

  “Oh. Yeah, just needed a bathroom break.”

  “Praise God.”

  “I suppose.” Should I praise Him for that too?

  “I just mean you looked like something was wrong. I thought you might need prayer.”

  “Don’t we all?” I smile.

  “Amen.” She extends her arm for a high five. I slap her hand. Should I tell her about Jake? I imagine her praying in tongues over me for protection.

  “Thanks, Candy. I’m good.”

  “No one’s good but God.”

  “Right. Okay, well, I’m just gonna go pee.”

  “Be blessed!” she calls.

  On my way back to the youth room, someone taps me on the shoulder, and I jump again. What’s with Candy sneaking up on me? Then I remember she’s probably on “pot patrol.” Every week, one of the adult leaders is designated to do the rounds of the church property, making sure that none of the teens are slinking away to engage in activities that would make Baby Jesus cry. We call them the “pot patrol.”

  I turn and say, “I swear I only peed,” but I’m face-to-face with Jake Evans.

  He grins and scratches his head right above his ear. “I’m not keepin
g score.”

  Chapter Four

  “Ohmygoshyou’renotCandy.” I’m more breathing than talking.

  “No,” Jake says. “Candy would’ve probably told you not to swear.”

  I smile and stop. “Wait, how do you know that?”

  He starts to say something and then doesn’t. He cocks his head, and his hair falls to the side. “You really don’t remember me.”

  “Of course I do,” I say, as professional as I can. “You bought a sandwich from me.”

  He smiles, looks up at the ceiling, and then down again. “Yes. Yes, I sure did. I, uh”—he rakes his hand through his hair—“I was in youth group here in sixth grade. It was called Fire, right? The first year you started coming to church. Mine too.”

  “How do you—”

  “We were new the same night. I remember because I was so glad they didn’t make me stand in front of the group by myself.”

  I’m drawing a blank. That following year was rough for me, but I don’t remem—and then I look. Really look. Dark brown eyes. It’s a faint memory, like the wisps of a dream as you wake up. “Jacoby,” I murmur. We weren’t close; I mean, not that I remember. Not sure we even talked.

  “Just Jake now.”

  “You were so little,” I blurt. He really was. Like a doll. Scrawny with a buzz cut. “I’m sorry, I just—”

  “No, no. I get it.” He laughs. “Yeah, I was a drop in the bucket. Anyway”—he motions toward the youth room, and we start walking back—“I just moved back. Well, for the weekdays. Long story. Military brat.”

  I feel my shoulders relax. “Me too. Military kid, that is. Well, Dad’s retired.”

  “Yeah? Look, we weren’t that good of friends back then. But I remember you. Maybe your name stuck out. When I saw you at the sandwich shop, I thought, she has to be the same Lovette. Anyway, I was going to tell you all that when you got off work, but you rushed off, so . . .”

  Oh man, I feel like such a tool. He wasn’t trying to flirt with me at all.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I don’t feel the giddiness of that first night. I just feel kind of self-absorbed.

  He shoos my words away with his hand. “Please. I shouldn’t have bugged you at work. Probably looked like a creeper. Anyway, I’m a senior, and it really sucks being the new kid. Just was trying to—”

  “No, I get it! And I’m so sorry. It was one of those days.” Was it? Am I non-lie lying again?

  He repeats, “One of those days,” as if he had one, too, and now I wish I did have one.

  We enter the youth room as kids are filing out to their small groups. “Oh, by the way,” I say. “You’re in room fifteen. Senior guys.”

  “Right. Thanks.” He smiles again. He has a dimple in his left cheek. “I’ll, uh, see you back in here for worship?” I nod, and he turns to go, but then he turns back. “Hey, do you still surf?”

  Something catches in my throat, stopping my words. I lick my lips, and I can taste my Dr Pepper ChapStick. I shake my head. At least it’s not a lie—it’s true, I don’t surf—but it feels as crummy as a lie.

  “Aw, that’s too bad. You were amazing.”

  The compliment warms me, and I find my voice. “Eh. Maybe for a sixth-grader.”

  “Nah. For anyone. You could’ve competed against high-schoolers back then.”

  Wait. That means he does remember more about me than just my name.

  The rest of youth group’s a blur. In our junior girls’ small group, Kelly draws designs on my jeans with her finger as we all talk about effective ways to evangelize at school. The girls are having side conversations about “the new guy,” who really isn’t the new guy but the old guy who’s just been out of town for five years. Only Kelly knows this. “Jacoby Evans,” she whispers in my ear as Nicole suggests leaving encouragement notes from Jesus in student lockers.

  “Just Jake now,” I whisper, and Kelly stops drawing on my jeans. “I ran into him at the bathrooms.”

  Charlotte suggests making cookies and giving out plates of them for free with a Post-it that says friendship with Christ is free too.

  “I can’t believe how different he looks,” I say. He’s nothing like I remember.

  Kelly shifts like the floor got uncomfortable. “Oh, but you still don’t date, right? Besides, I totally said—”

  “You guys would make a cute couple,” I say, and I squeeze her arm to emphasize it. “I just mean he used to be so little, I didn’t even recognize him.”

  “Right?” She resumes squiggling on my pant leg.

  Back in the youth room, I sit in the front row. I need time to think about God. To sing and remind myself how much I love Him. To remember His faithfulness to me back in seventh grade. The ways He totally took care of me when no one else did. And my single simple promise I made back, not because I had to, but because I wanted to.

  By the end of worship, it’s a no-brainer. God has given Jake to be my friend and maybe Kelly’s boyfriend. As soon as I hear the final “Amen,” I stand to exit, but Kelly’s hand finds mine.

  “Kel, I gotta jet,” I say.

  “You can hang for two seconds. Let’s just make sure he feels welcome.”

  I look over at Jake, and there are at least two guys and four girls already talking with him.

  “He looks like he’s doing fine.”

  But she’s already pulling me, weaving in and out of teens and chairs and trash cans full of empty chip bags and Capri Suns. I recognize Dave among them, leaning on a table, strumming his guitar. He’s not on the worship team or anything. He just likes to bring his guitar everywhere.

  “—so bummed you’re not at Mira Costa High,” one of the girls (Carrie, I think) says.

  “My aunt lives closer to the 405,” Jake says. “So it was either Hawthorne or the charter.”

  “Ooh, Hawthorne High,” Dave says, and there’s a collective wince from the group. “Yeah, definitely the charter.”

  The charter? As in Maritime Academy?

  “Hey, Lovette goes there,” Dave says as he sees me. “She could show you around.”

  Wait, no.

  “Jake, this is Kelly,” I say quickly, then add, “She—”

  “I remember you from Fire,” Kelly jumps in, releasing my hand to shake his.

  “Oh, right!” He gives her a friendly handshake, but he glances at me, and I wonder if he remembers her. “Hey, how are you?”

  “Same. I mean, not same since then, but, you know, nothing much. You?”

  Oh boy, she’s nervous. I should help. “Kelly goes to Maritime too. She also attends this poetry thing on Tuesday nights at this coffee shop.” He looks from me to her. “It’s a great way to meet people,” I add.

  “Yeah,” Dave says, plucking his guitar. “It’s cool. I’ve played some of my songs there.”

  “Kelly can tell you the details,” I say, nudging her forward. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Stay,” Kelly pleads.

  “I’m on my bike, and—”

  “But you always stay for at least fifteen.”

  I back out and wave. “I know, but I’ve gotta hurry.”

  Jake says, “One of those days again?”

  I see him grinning at me with that dimple, and I laugh, and he laughs, and then I realize we have our first inside joke. “Yeah, something like that.”

  I take the stairs two at a time to my bike and pedal down the long driveway before anyone’s made it back to the parking lot. Maybe I should’ve given him my number or a place to meet at school where I can show him around. But that all feels wrong as I picture the look in Kelly’s eyes when she saw him. My feelings feel like sin and not sin at the same time. Dark blurs of trees and houses whiz by, and I look up at the night sky. Clouds cover the moon tonight, and I try to pray but everything feels jumbled, so I settle on one word. Help?

  Chapter Five


  I sleep okay, but I wake up a lot. I thought I’d get through all four years of high school without ever liking a guy. I mean, I prayed for that. And a guy my best friend called dibs on? Luckily, it’s only been a couple of days of these weird new feelings. It can’t be from God.

  God says to look at the heart, and I’ve looked at Jake’s face. I know nothing about him, which means my attraction’s physical. Or is it? What was that something I felt—that something that went beyond his dimple and easy smile? The way he felt so comfortable in his skin, how that made me want to be around him. What’s that called? Or the way he paid attention to people when they talked, even Dave when he mentioned his guitar songs. Like you could share stuff with him and he’d instantly be in your corner. Or how he wasn’t just polite but engaging to Kelly, though I’m almost positive he didn’t remember her. What are those things?

  Today at school, I keep expecting to see him during passing period. Our school isn’t big. But so far, he hasn’t been in the halls or in any of my classes.

  “Nice shirt,” Cecilia Grayson says to me as she walks by my desk to borrow the teacher’s stapler. She says it like she means the opposite, like I’ve ruined her day, her hair, and her life by wearing it.

  I look down at my favorite vintage tee. It’s a red shirt with the word Lifeguard on the front, a cross underneath, and below that, the words Mine walks on water. Most of us growing up on the beach were Junior Guards, so I think it’s perfect to wear a Jesus shirt that’s relevant. Especially after last night’s small group about school evangelizing. God wants people to know Him, and it’s not like I’m banging a Bible on people’s heads or screaming “Turn or burn!” with a megaphone at our pep rallies. I’m just wearing clothes, which everyone does. And, besides, I never comment on Cecilia’s soccer sweats and how much they swish-swish when she walks, even in noisy hallways.

  She’s probably mad because her boyfriend and I were Junior Guards growing up, and maybe my shirt reminded her. Trevor Walker and I surfed at pretty much the same level then. He’s the top surfer at Mira Costa now, and once in tenth grade I ran into them at the Manhattan Beach Creamery. I hadn’t seen him in years, and when he recognized me, he gave me a high five like I had just gotten tubed by a wave. Then he fixed his hair in case our hand slap had moved it. I remember Cecilia’s eyes and the way they narrowed to slits and she gripped her waffle cone when I told Trevor that I went to the same school as she did. That was over a year ago, and she’s been a brat to me ever since. I know God reminds me, “It’s Me they hate, not you,” but her words still sting. Sorry, God.