Beyond the Break Page 7

  There’s not much I can say to that. I want to say, “I get it, too.” But I don’t. My dad was never deployed. He’s been stationed here for years. But it’s not like he hasn’t done great things. He was in the Navy, not the Cub Scouts. Still, it feels inferior right now compared to two marines fighting a war, and one coming back with what sounds like PTSD. And why should it matter? Jake’s finally being honest, which I know is hard for him, and all I can think about is how Hannah shares something with him that I won’t ever be able to match.

  What can I say, God? Give me something wise. I open my mouth. “Oh.”

  Oh? Way to make him feel better. I’m a regular spiritual giant.

  “So, uh, does Hannah surf?”

  He chuckles under his breath. “Maybe the Internet.” He slicks his wet hair back with one hand. “Nah, she’s more of a mall rat than a gym rat.”

  It seems like it should be a cutting remark, but he says it fondly, like he’s remembering some fun memory they had at Macy’s. I feel a pang of jealousy, and then he continues. “She’s not really into this stuff . . . but we’ve been through a lot together.”

  Well, Jake and I have matching boards, boards he matched on purpose because a blue moon is two full moons in the same month, and he wanted two moons. He wanted us to have a thing, which has to be better than any possible thing they could’ve had at the mall. It has to.

  And there’s surfing. We have surfing. Well, I mean, we’d have that if I actually surfed. But I’d be disobeying my parents, which would mean disobeying God. But what if my parents are actually wrong for keeping me from surfing? Then is it okay?

  Sorry, Jesus.

  I spin my board so I’m facing the shore and gather armfuls of ocean as I paddle hard. I hear him shouting my name, but I ignore it, instead focusing on the blue lights making my wetsuit glow.

  I’m greedily pulling at the water, gaining speed and gulping chestfuls of air. I glance behind me at the mound of water forming and then to the left and right to measure how it’s breaking. The swell pushes me and lifts me high. I’m looking down the sloping hill of water, belly to belly, my shoulders tense. With a snapping push-up, I stand.

  I’m surfing.

  Take that, Hannah. I ride hard, attempting a simple cutback, but my feet are bigger than four years ago. I tip over and forget to jump back, so I land in the wave, tumbling like I’m in a washing machine. The board tugs me by the leash, and I try to suck in a mouthful of air, but I’m underwater. Panic seizes me as water fills my lungs.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jake’s strong hand grips me by the bicep and drags me up until I grab my board and rest my head on it. He’s by my side and we’re in the whitewash, and I’m coughing, panicking, and thinking of the psalm about crying out to God: “Then they cried out to the LORD in their trouble, and he brought them out of their distress. He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed.”

  I’ve memorized every Bible verse that mentions waves, and I don’t know why this one comes to mind. I couldn’t cry out because I was too busy swallowing water. Did He answer anyway? Does He answer even when we’re going against Him? My adrenaline’s surging. So many thoughts of my brother’s accident race through my head. This is so stupid. If I got injured tonight, my parents would never recover.

  “You’re okay.” It’s like Jake can read my mind.

  I wipe my face, but it’s hard to breathe.

  “You’re okay,” he repeats.

  “I shouldn’t be doing this,” I sputter. I’ve been wanting to surf since the moment I stopped five years ago. But not like this. Not because I was jealous of some girl. The guilt washes over me like high tide. It’s only a few feet deep here, and Jake’s standing next to me, steadying his board and keeping it facing the shoreline. I weakly stand, then reach down to remove my leash. He stops me with a hand.

  “You’re not walking out of the ocean after that.”

  “This was a mistake.”

  “Then try again.”

  I’m shaking—he can tell—and I’m angry that I look weak. “I can’t! I don’t even remember how!”

  “Yes, you do.” His voice is steady, calm. Unmoved by my volume. “Get back on your board.”

  “No! Seriously, Jake, my parents said no! And look what happened the first time I tried!”

  He holds my board down when I try to lift it out of the water. I glare at him, but he’s looking at me without blinking.

  “You know your brother’s accident was a freak occurrence, right?”

  “You don’t even know what happened,” I choke out.

  “I do. I looked it up.”

  I turn away to face the crashing and churning tide. He cared enough to look up my past. To try to understand why I no longer do the thing I loved most in life. I feel my anger slip, but not my fear.

  I hear him in my ear, almost whispering. “Get back on your board.”

  I shakily climb back onto my stomach. He turns the board so it faces the oncoming waves. I reach forward and begin my slow paddle out.

  A small wave forms, and before I can spend too much time thinking about it, I turn and grab fistfuls of water so I can match its pace as it swells under me and catches my fins, pitching me forward with speed.

  Every muscle in me is taut, and I’m terrified. With a grunt, I pop up onto my feet and curl my toes, gripping the wax and staying low.

  I hear a loud whoop before I realize it’s me. I did it. I’m balanced perfectly, and it makes me feel more alive than I’ve been in five years. I don’t turn, just ride it clean and sure, reveling in the moment and wanting it to last for eternity, until I’m face-to-face with my maker.

  I look behind me. Jake’s caught the next wave and jumped off, climbing back onto his board to paddle over to me. When he glides up, he has this gleam in his eye. “There’s the girl I remember.” He reaches out his fist.

  I bring my knuckles up to his. I’m panting from holding my breath through the entire ride. “You realize you’re cheering for me to disobey my parents.”

  “I’m not. I want you to talk to them. Tell them what you want.”

  I paddle away from him, back out to beyond the break. Over my shoulder, I yell, “You say that like it’s so easy.”

  “You ever try?” He paddles up to me.

  I don’t answer.

  “Figured.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” He has no clue what he’s asking. “You don’t talk to Hannah about us, I bet.”

  He looks like I slapped him across the face. “What. About. Us.” He says it calmly.

  “Nothing.” I’m saying too much. Time to stop. “But we hang out. More than Kaj and Niles, and they’re my guy friends.” Stop, Lovette. No more. “And you talk to me. Like, a lot.”

  “You haven’t even given me your phone number.”

  Ugh, he’s missing the point! “Can you honestly say you feel nothing?”

  The question catches him off guard. Me too, a little. I can’t believe I said it out loud.

  “I feel”—he hesitates, rakes his hand through his hair—“things.”

  “Same,” I admit. “But I don’t date.”

  “So then why does it matter?”

  “Because it does! You’re not gonna stop talking to Hannah, and I’m not about to start dating you. How’s it helpful to either of us to hang out alone with each other?”

  “Would you date me if I stopped talking to Hannah?”

  This time, it’s me who’s caught off guard. I never thought he’d ask something like that. I busy myself by turning my board to face the oncoming waves. “You’re not doing that.”

  “You’re not answering my question.”

  As an answer, I mount another wave and ride it to shore. I step off when it’s only two feet deep. I hear Jake easing off his board behind me.

 
Once we remove our leashes, we walk to the dry sand, set down our boards, and sit side by side, facing the ocean. Our neoprene-armored shoulders lean against each other.

  I wish my life was as simple as nature. The moon tells the waves how high they should be. The tide goes in and out at precise times, and you can even buy calendars that tell you the exact times in the future. Everything makes sense in God’s creation. Everything but us. Humans and their unpredictability. The way they march into your life and make you question everything. Your promise to your parents. Your promises to God.

  “Look,” he starts. He pulls his knees in, grabs fistfuls of sand. “Yes, I still talk to Hannah, but we’re broken up. Either way, it’s okay because you don’t date. And I don’t want you to.” I sideways glance at him, but he’s staring at the horizon. “You made a commitment to God, and I don’t want to come between that. I’m not about to pull you away from something you feel strongly about.” He looks at me then. “But I like being with you. And I think you like it too. So if we just hang out, and don’t do anything, what’s that make you?”

  “I dunno.” I like him around. I want him around. “Not a girlfriend, I suppose.”

  “I was going to say ‘friend,’ but okay. Then be my ‘not a girlfriend.’”

  I stifle a giggle, then sober up. “I just don’t want to end up sinning against God.”

  “Look around at this.” He gestures to the waves, to the sand, to our brightly lit blue boards. “This doesn’t feel like sin. Are we sinning right now?”

  “No.” I lean my elbows on my knees. “Well, I mean, not with each other. But sin doesn’t always look like sin, you know?”

  “No, I get it. But I like this. I kinda like us.” He bumps me with his shoulder, and this time, I bump him back. “See? We make pretty good friends. And if I won’t date and you don’t date, well then, we can’t really lead each other wrong, right?” He stands and gets down on one knee. “Lovette, would you like to be my ‘not a girlfriend’?”

  I’m trying not to laugh, but he’s making it difficult. This is a dangerous road, and I feel it. “I don’t know—”

  “Listen. God’s placed it on my heart for you to be my non-girlfriend. I’ve been praying about this, and—”

  I erupt in laughter, and it bounces off the water. “You have not.”

  “Is that a yes? I need to take more lessons from Kelly.”

  I can’t stop giggling. “Fine. I’ll be your non-girlfriend.”

  “Good. Way to agree with God.”

  He’s right about one thing: I have to talk to my parents. After tonight, I need to surf again, more than I need to breathe. But I feel sick to my stomach when I think about that conversation.

  Jake puts his arm around me, and I tip my head and lean on his shoulder. The butterflies are flapping into one another in my stomach. “Is this okay?” I want to ask God. But I don’t. Tonight I need it to be okay.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As soon as I get home Friday night, still electrified like the LED lights of the surfboards, I’m ready to march into my parents’ room and demand they let me surf again. But when I walk into the house, it’s dark. I lock the front door and turn to see my dad like two feet from my face, and I yelp. He puts a finger to his lips and motions toward their bedroom. “Migraine,” he mouths. I still feel my body moving on the waves, and I step off balance and catch myself. Dad eyes me funny but doesn’t say anything.

  Saturday, I wake up even more amped. I’m ready to say that surfing’s an extension of my body, and I need my limbs back. It sounds so poetic, and I practice it in my head. When I find them in the kitchen, I start with, “Can I talk to you guys?”

  And Mom says to Dad, “See, honey? I told you she’d talk to us about it.” She smiles with concerned eyes. “Your dad says you were a little unsteady last night. Were you drinking?”

  What? “No.”

  “Good,” Dad says, “because you were on your bicycle, and you can still get a CUI—cycling under the influence—just as dangerous as what your brother did.”

  “Matty got a CUI?”

  “No! Of course not,” he snaps, and I stand at attention. “It was an analogy. Your head to that concrete or his head to the surfboard. Same. You remember you gotta think of others and not just you. If there’s one thing the military has taught me, it’s—”

  “Dad, I wasn’t drinking.”

  “Well, good.”

  Mom isn’t so convinced. “You know you can talk to us. We’ve had our share of alcohol in our days. And if you’re switching Zima for 7UP, don’t think we haven’t been there.”

  “What’s Zima?”

  “Very funny. Just know we’re here for you.”

  Dad nods sharply, like a genie granting a wish. “But no CUIs.”

  “Yessir.”

  Mom puts her earbuds in and fiddles with her iPad. They never ask what I wanted to talk to them about, and I’m glad because no way I can tell them now. My head to concrete is how they envision surfing. It’s hopeless.

  The following Monday, I see my friends in the quad before school. Somewhere between Niles and Kaj making each other flinch and Lydia asking about ACT dates, I blurt, “I started surfing again.” The world stops for one second. Niles pauses mid-swing. Lydia slaps her hand to her mouth and holds it there. Kelly whips her head in my direction and doesn’t blink. Then Kaj coughs once, and everything goes back into motion.

  “Oh yeah?” Niles says.

  “That’s nice,” Lydia adds, which she says with such a monotone that I smile. They know it’s a big deal and they’re totally trying to downplay it for me. However, I catch Kaj handing Niles a one-dollar bill.

  “You bet on me?” I say, laughing.

  Kaj holds his hands up. “Not whether you’d surf again,” he says. “Just when.”

  Jake jogs up as I’m heading to first period, and he gives me a look like, “Well?” My parents. I shake my head. “I tried.” Jake shrugs an Oh well, but I feel like one of those sandy puddles underneath the beach showers.

  After fourth period, he finds me in the hall and swings an arm around my shoulder. “I know you’ll tell your parents when the time is right.” My heart fills to overflowing. How can someone do that to me so easily? “So in the meantime,” he adds, “why don’t we start training?” I swing my arm around his waist, and his eyes grow wide. “Is Lovette showing some PDA?”

  “Side hug!” I correct, laughing. “Okay, let’s train. I’m so sore from Friday, and we barely paddled.”

  We spend the next day at lunch making a workout schedule, and all my friends chime in. Lydia says that dancing works out the hips and core. Kaj and Niles argue about whether I should work triceps or biceps first during a workout, and Jake says I’m going to do a minimum of one hundred pop-ups a day. Kelly’s silent, but she does ask Jake, “What’s a pop-up?” and we explain it’s when you lie on your stomach and pretend you’re on a wave, popping up to your surfboard. Basically a burpee with a squat.

  “Hmph,” is all she says.

  Tuesday, I’m walking down the hallway answering a text when Kelly suddenly loops her arm through mine. Then she takes my free hand, twirls me in a circle, and hugs me around the waist.

  “Tuesday-night poetry!” she exclaims, which means she’s been reading my texts over my shoulder. My coworker Kim texted that she wanted more hours and asked if she could pick up my shift today.

  I was hoping to get in an extra-long swimming session, but I can’t disappoint Kelly, so I say, “Yes! Finally!”

  * * *

  Tuesday night, I’m sitting on a stained couch next to Kelly and sipping a latte. Youth-group Dave performs with his acoustic guitar, singing about how a girl unearthed flowers in the graveyard of his soul, and without her his life was an empty cereal bowl. And his chorus is, “Be my milk, be my milk, water my flowers with your milk.” A lot of people in the crowd
nod and close their eyes, some even mouth along, “Be my milk.”

  I guess it’s good.

  But it’s also the same three chords as most of our worship songs, so I don’t know if I should lift my hands to cows for their provision. I wish Jake was here so I could say that to him. I know he’d laugh. Still, it’s courageous—no one could buy me enough surfboards to get me singing poetry to strangers—so I clap and cheer with everyone when Dave finishes. Kelly squeezes my knee. “He wrote that for me,” she whispers. Oh no. Should I say something about her reading into things? But then Dave strolls over and wedges himself between Kelly and the edge of the couch, draping an arm around her.

  “What’d ya think, babe?” he says with his slow drawl. Babe?

  “So deep.” She copies his drawl.

  “It’s like secular, yeah, but I think God would be like, ‘Way to be in the world, not of it, so I’m proud of you, son, yeah.’”

  “So proud, totally.” She nudges me.

  “Totes.” I’ve never said totes in my life, but Kelly’s never had a drawl, so I guess it’s a night of firsts. When did this happen? Dave and Kelly? A small part of me’s relieved. Maybe she can get her mind off Jake. Maybe she’ll stop judging him.

  “I love your honesty,” she says. “Some of our guy friends need to hear your music. I know of one.”

  Dave traces the purple strip of hair peeking through Kelly’s messy blond bun. “In the world, not of it.”

  How did he know about that? Two years ago, Kelly wanted to do something to feel like she was relatable. It’s cute, her purple strip of hair. I love it. For her, it’s crazy wild. Her parents okayed it, as long as she didn’t get any piercings. She told everyone she did it for fun. Only I knew the truth. “It’s for God,” she told me. “See? I’m in the world, not of the world.” I was sworn to secrecy. But now, Dave is clearly in on the secret.