Beyond the Break Read online

  I’m probably oversensitive right now because of this in-class assignment that people like Cecilia are already finished with. And stapling! Which means she wrote multiple pages.

  I look down at my blank paper and then back at the whiteboard, where today’s assignment smirks at me: Write about your passion. Must give examples! One page minimum, due at the bell. HW: textbook 1–30, complete sentences.

  Passion? I know what my passion is. It pulses through my veins and wakes me up before dawn and keeps me up at night. But I can’t write about it because no one knows. Well, I mean, God knows, but that doesn’t count, and I can’t chance my parents ever finding out. I’d never see daylight again. So it stays off the paper, except for a little wave I draw in the margin, but I scribble that out too. No evidence.

  The only thing that I seem to be passionate about right now is sweating. I can feel my body perspiring as the time ticks by. Great. Now I’m going to smell AND fail this assignment.

  With seven minutes left, I write about my other passion, which is God, even though I’m missing the point of this assignment because I’m sure Ms. Jensen wanted us to think about our futures. She doesn’t even read these; she gives everyone five points and a sloppy star on top of our scribbly paragraphs, so I fill my paper with whatever comes to mind:

  Jesus is my passion. I love Him with everything, like more than ice cream or the smell of the sidewalk after it rains. Or dolphins, and if you know me, I really love dolphins, even though I still eat them. I mean tuna, but the safe kind. Anyway, Jesus. I love youth group. It’s where I get filled up for the week. Also, I’ve made big commitments there, and when you stand for things no matter what, that’s kind of like passion. For example, I decided back when I was twelve that I was going to wait until I was married. And not just for sex. My first kiss is going to be at the altar when the pastor says, “You may kiss the bride.” It’s the most romantic thing I can imagine. Well, used to imagine. In seventh grade, it sounded cool. I even signed a purity contract. Now it feels like forever. Saying you’ve never kissed a guy sounds really dumb and embarrassing, and maybe that’s what Paul meant in the Bible when he said to consider it pure joy when you face trials. But it’s not like people walk around asking that, so it’s fine. Anyway, if you read this, Ms. Jensen, which I know you won’t, no kissing and telling. Lol. Get it?

  The bell rings as I’m filling the bottom line of page one. My hand’s cramped, and I can see dark red under the armpits of my light-red Jesus tee. How’d that happen? I’ve been nervous all day, I guess. I say a quick prayer that I have an extra shirt in my locker and then hurry there because if I go fast enough, people won’t read my shirt and think, Do all Christians stink like this? Plus, it would be just my luck to run into Jake. I spin the numbers on my lock, for a moment forgetting my combo. “Hey,” I hear over my shoulder.

  Chapter Six

  I exhale loudly. Lydia’s voice, not Jake’s. She continues, “Are we going out tomorrow night?” Oh, man. There’s a full moon this Friday. Which means a fully lit ocean. Perfect conditions for night swimming, which I only get once every twenty-nine days.

  “I can’t, Lyds.”

  “But it’s Friday!”

  “Nope.” I click open my locker.

  “Friyay!”

  “I work.”

  “A, You don’t work Fridays. B, It’s Friday! And three, what if your true love is out there?”

  I know Lydia’s waggling her eyebrows, even though I haven’t turned to look. “I have to study.”

  “Girl, love takes residence over education.”

  “It’s precedence,” I correct, grabbing my physics book. Dang it. No extra shirt.

  “Obviously, Lovette. That’s what I said.” She gives me an all-hips hip check like we’re out on a dance floor, and I go sailing and slam into my locker. A few students stop and look, so I straighten up. Not because I’m embarrassed, I try to convince my hot face, but so they can read my shirt. Instead, they look at one another and move on.

  My best friend Lydia’s not perfect at grammar, but it doesn’t matter. She’s perfect at being perfect, which would make sense if you knew her. No matter what you’re doing, you’re having a good time if Lydia’s around. She’s fun in a way that makes you feel like you’re always seeing Disneyland for the first time. Sure she’s a little wild, but who doesn’t want a friend who makes you believe you can scale buildings? And if you’re ever feeling knocked down, she’s the best to be with because she struts around as if she holds the entire world in checkmate. And if her personality weren’t already perfect enough, she’s also known at our school as “the pretty one,” which sounds like our students are shallow, until you see her. Like you wonder what she’s doing at school when she should be on a modeling shoot somewhere. She has the most gorgeous ebony skin, but she’s not African American. Her family’s from Colombia, but I’d sound like I had a stuttering problem if I called her South American American. I told her that once, and she said, “You stutter?”

  Oh, she’s also not the best listener.

  Lydia slaps the row of lockers. “You’re zoning out again. Did you hear me? We’re going out tomorrow night.”

  “Going out” involves going to an eighteen-and-over dance club, the Venue, and no, this sixteen-year-old doesn’t have a fake ID. Also, my mom knows I go there, so I’m not being sneaky. Lydia’s uncle works in the dish room, and he lets us in through the back entrance. We do dishes for an hour and practice our Spanish with him, so I get smarter and work on my domestic skills, and when I tell my parents what I learned, my mom says things like “muy bien” and my dad salutes. He was in the Navy for thirty-four years, and I think he misses it. He gives me salutes for everything: homework, feeding the fish, walking through the front door. I’d tell him to stop, but I kinda like how important he makes me feel for brushing my teeth.

  I’m honest with my parents, but I might skip the part in the retelling where Lydia drags me out of the kitchen and onto the dance floor while she dances and I stand there doing my award-winning impersonation of a pole. Her Latin blood just needs to “let loose” as she says, and so I go with her because she always counters my “No, thanks” with “What else are you gonna do? Go out on a date?” Which is a joke because she knows I don’t date. So I say, “Of course not.” And after Family Dinner Friday, I ride my bike to the Venue, where I meet Lydia and her uncle. Every week.

  Lydia grabs my hand at the locker and spins me so I’m facing her, and I suck in my breath. Jake’s standing a few feet behind her with an amused expression as he watches. How long has he been there? Did he see me fly into the lockers? My pit stains? I keep my arms by my sides and wave with just my fingers. Great, I’m a penguin.

  Lydia says, “Come on. Come with me. What else are you gonna do? Go out on a date?”

  I lift my eyebrows to communicate that there’s a cute guy behind her who I’d like her to play it cool around. Instead, she screams and then blesses herself with the sign of the cross. She’s Catholic in the big moments, and I’d explain, but I really can’t.

  “You do! You have a date! Holy Virgin Mary!” and then she lifts up a hand to heaven because she says it’s not taking her name in vain if you acknowledge her, like, What, I’m only proclaiming she exists. “Who? Who are you going out with?”

  “Yeah, who’s the lucky guy?” Jake says, walking up. The friendly way he says it—curious, with zero jealousy—makes me a little sad.

  “Hey, Jake,” I say, “this is Lydia. Lydia, meet Jake. He just started at Maritime this week.”

  She looks from me to him to me again. I shake my head, but she slaps her hand to her mouth, and I’m so embarrassed, I could die. I’m hoping the khaki lockers camouflage my khaki pants. “Holaaaa,” she says to him like we’re in some telenovela, and for whatever reason it makes me burst out laughing.

  “Oh my gosh, Lydia, Jake’s new, so I’m showing him around. And no, you kn
ow I don’t have a date.”

  “Right.” Lydia rolls her eyes in Jake’s direction. “Everyone knows she’s, like, ‘dating Jesus’ or whatever.” Part of me’s grateful that Lydia’s getting this out on the table for me. This is what I want, right? “What’s our tour guide Lovette shown you so far?”

  He looks from the left to the right of the hallway and says, “You’re looking at it.”

  “Figures,” Lydia says. Wait. My chin pulls back into my neck, and I look at her like, What’s that supposed to mean? She ignores me and focuses on Jake. “How would you like to come to the Venue this Friday night?”

  “Lydia, we wash dishes!”

  “Not the whole night,” she counters.

  “I really don’t think he wants to spend his Friday—”

  “I’d love to.” My jaw drops. First, because he sounds so charming. How does he do that? And second, because it works! Lydia’s instantly charmed.

  “Perfecto,” she says. “We’re usually there at seven thirty, near the back entrance.”

  “The Venue,” he repeats. “Got it.”

  “Seriously?” I say. “We really do dishes.”

  “Real, actual dishes?”

  It takes me a second before I realize he’s making fun of me. “Okay. Ha. Ha.” I want to punch him playfully, but I don’t. I start to throw my hands up in surrender, but then remember my sweat issue and squeeze my arms against my sides. Now I’m a clothespin. “Just remember I gave you fair warning.”

  The bell rings. “Great. It’s a date.” Then he grins at Lydia and says, “I mean, not a date. Lovette’s taken.” He points up, and that cracks Lydia up, and he laughs a little. Then he waves, turns the corner, and disappears.

  Lydia squeals and kisses me on both cheeks, slaps me on the butt, and pulls out her cross necklace, the kind with Jesus on the cross. She holds it to my lips and squeals, “Kiss it! For luck,” and before I can say “No, gracias,” I find my lips smushed up against a half-naked dead man’s chest, which, if I were Catholic, might feel inappropriate. “Yes! Yes! Yes! YASSSS!” she yells and prances away, leaving me stunned.

  Chapter Seven

  In the cafeteria at lunch, I arrive at our table and for the first time in three years, I don’t know what to do.

  Every day it’s Lydia, Lydia’s boyfriend Kaj, and Kaj’s best friend Niles on one bench. On the opposite bench are me and Kelly. But today, Jake’s sitting in my spot next to Kelly. I would squish in with them, but Niles is also on their side. It’s a Jake sandwich, which makes me a side dish, but Lydia scoots Kaj over to make room for me.

  Everyone acts like this is the most normal thing in the world, like we haven’t broken a three-year tradition. I’m sitting across from my usual seat, seeing a side of the cafeteria I’ve never even looked at. This feels wrong. We might as well be sipping from plastic straws in front of a sea turtle.

  I’m sure it’s Lydia who dragged Jake over to join us, and of course my friends make it look like no big deal. Lydia and Kelly are the only other Christians in the group, but honestly, my friends are better followers of Jesus than me sometimes. Here I am flipping out about different seating arrangements. Meanwhile, Kaj and Niles are laughing at something Jake said, treating him like the three guys have been besties for years.

  “Lovette,” Kelly says, “did you know Jake lived in Oahu?”

  “Hawaii,” Niles adds, in case I forgot my brain.

  “The cockroaches there are the size of my middle finger!” Kaj says, holding up his middle finger in my face and cracking up. Lydia swats him. “Hey, I was just showing her the size of the cockroaches.”

  Niles says, “Three inches? Just unzip, bro,” and the whole table erupts in laughter, and Kaj throws a tater tot at him but laughs, too.

  “Where in Hawaii?” I ask. “Barbers Point?” I feel Kelly’s eyes on me. Am I allowed to talk to him?

  “Well,” Jake says. “Someone knows her naval bases.” I only know because Dad would talk about moving the family there when we were young, when he still had dreams of my brother becoming a pro surfer.

  Jake shakes his head. “Nah, MCBH. East side.”

  Ah. His dad’s a marine. “Semper Fi,” I say.

  “Ooh-rah,” he answers but half-heartedly. He mumbles, “First on foot and—”

  “Right of the line,” I say at the same time he does. He looks at me funny. “What?”

  “Did you ever feel like you were gonna die while surfing?” Kelly pipes in. “Six- to ten-foot waves? I’d die!” She’s never surfed, so she probably would.

  “Yeah, sometimes,” Jake answers. He turns to me. “You ever ride that high?”

  Lydia sucks in her breath. Everyone’s eyeing one another, no points for subtlety. I shake my head.

  I swear he can see all the way to my sadness because he says, “Yeah, me neither.”

  Kelly starts, “I thought you said—”

  “Hell, no! I only watched at the marine base. I surfed Oahu but the smaller breaks. You seen the coral there? I don’t have a death wish.”

  He means it jokingly, but the table goes awkwardly quiet. He sweeps his eyes across our group, curious. I feel bad for him. “My brother was in a bad surfing accident,” I say. Everyone freezes. Kelly’s eyes are saucers. They know I never talk about this, and I don’t know why, but it feels okay right now. “When I was in seventh grade. Board knocked him out. Hit him real weird. He was in a coma. Not forever, he’s fine,” I say when I see Jake’s alarmed face. “Like, totally fine now. But he had to repeat eleventh grade. You know, to relearn everything. Walking, talking, catching a ball.” I open my sack lunch and pull out my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. “Anyone want my Hot Cheetos?” Kaj throws an arm up, and I toss them over Lydia’s head, but Niles intercepts them.

  “Punk!”

  “What’d you call me?” Niles says. “I didn’t hear because I fell asleep.” He fake yawns and opens the Cheetos bag. “I’m SO tired. It’s hard being awesome.” He stuffs a handful of Cheetos into his mouth.

  And just like that, the guys are back to being guys, throwing food at one another and trying to catch it in their mouths. Lydia’s in the line of fire of their Cheetos-and-tater-tots war, so she forgets that I breached a three-year taboo subject. Only Jake’s looking at me, and Kelly sees Jake looking at me. I can see them out of the corner of my eye, so I focus on my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich like it’s manna from heaven.

  * * *

  Luckily, essays, homework, and my shift at Billy’s Buns keep my head occupied for the next day and a half. As usual, I swim Thursday after work, and I bask in the almost-full moon as I bodysurf by God’s night-light. I skip lunch with my friends on Friday and spend it in the library studying for a physics test, which is my MO most test days. Today’s no different, except for Cecilia Grayson bumping my desk on her way to check out a book. She mumbles, “Watch it,” and my mean side wants to ask if she’s talking to the desk. I don’t.

  By Friday evening, I barely remember it. In fact, every thought of the week wisps away with the ocean breeze as I pedal up to the Venue and see Jake. I arrive just as he’s locking up his bike, and my heart does that hummingbird thing again. “Hey, there,” I say. “So I didn’t tell you. We’re washing dishes, but we do it so we can practice our Spanish. How much do you know?”

  “Hola, hola, Coca-Cola,” he responds.

  I laugh. “Very convincing. You sound like you were born there.”

  “I was.”

  “Really?”

  “No, not even close.” He laughs. “You always this trusting?” He bumps me in the shoulder. This is his thing, and I love it. “Come on,” he says. “Show me these dishes that we have to speak Spanish to.”

  We enter through the back door into the restaurant kitchen, and I’m immediately engulfed in a hug from Lydia’s Uncle Joe. He’s hairy except for his head, and he gives t
he best hugs—big and bearlike—the kind I wish my dad would give me. Sometimes, I close my eyes and pretend he’s Dad, but it’s weird because he’s like twice the size of Dad, and he speaks Spanish. “¿Qué pasa, hija?” he says in my ear, then releases me and hands us gloves and hairnets.

  “Nada,” I say.

  “¡Híjole! ¿Quién es el muchacho guapo?” He says this while offering Jake a handshake, so I’m guessing he’s talking about Jake, but his words are fast. “Who’s the . . .” and that’s as far as I got.

  I reach for my phone to look up Google Translate, but Jake answers, “Mucho gusto. Jake Evans.”

  Lydia rattles off a paragraph in super-speed Spanish, which she knows I can’t follow. She and Uncle Joe look back and forth between me and Jake, and Uncle Joe grins and makes noises like a schoolgirl.

  The corners of Jake’s mouth turn up. He’s understanding every word of it! They’re talking about us!

  Uncle Joe pats Jake on the back. “Eres un muchacho con mucha suerte.”

  “Sí. ¡Es verdad! Pero no.”

  “Ahhh. ¿Tienes una novia?”

  “Es complicado.”

  “Ay. Todas las mujeres.”

  Wait. Novia? I know what novia means!

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” I say. “Solamente soy un amigo.”

  “Una amiga,” Uncle Joe corrects.

  “No,” Jake says. “Of course I wouldn’t say that. You don’t date, remember?” He bumps my shoulder. “I was telling them about my girlfriend.”