The Only Exception

by Abigail Moore

  “That was fantastic. I’m so proud of you,” he says, putting an arm around my wet shoulders. I grin, ecstatic. The only thing that could make me more excited is what comes next.

  “The 15-18 girls division winners are: In third place, McKayla Atwood,” a woman’s voice announces over the loud speaker. “In second place, Paige LeGroe; and in first place, Andrea Maverick.” Papaw squeezes my shoulders as I laugh with glee and turn towards Grammy, who envelopes me in a hug immediately.

  “The 15-18 boys division winners are:” the loud speaker woman begins again. “In third place, Jonathan Stacey; in second place, David Bowen; and in first place, Sawyer Hensley.” I glimpse Sawyer slapping high fives with his friends and he shoots me a warm smile and a shaka. I grin and shoot one back, feeling either gracious or delirious after my win.

  “Andrea! How did you pull off that Stalefish air?” a reporter shouts a few feet away in the crowd.

  “Lots of practice on different terrain,” I reply. He writes something down on his notepad, then heads over to Sawyer.

  The girls 17-18s go about the same way. I’m on fire today! I pull slob airs and Stalefish airs left and right, dominating the division. A few hours later, I’m announced as first place of the 17-18s as well.

  Since we have to stick around for the awards, Mac and I pull off our rash guards and throw on our shorts. Instead of a t-shirt, today I brought my favorite multicolor woven pullover. I roll up the sleeves and pick a spot in the front of the crowd to watch Sawyer, because when I can’t hear him annoying me, I can kind of enjoy watching him surf. He’s an exceptional surfer, but I would never tell him that. Sitting in the sand with my knees pulled into my chest, I feel relaxed and happy. And tired. Scratch that, exhausted. Just give me my trophies and let me go home to bed.

  A few hours later, they do. A crowd gathers around the podium and they present the 15-18 girls awards first, then the boys. The six champions stand side by side as they hand out the trophies. I shake hands with each of the girls and Sawyer does the same with the boys, then extends his hand to me as well. I smile and shake his hand. “So, junkyard dog may have been a little off,” he admits.

  “You’re not such a shubie yourself,” I reply. He grins. I like the way his smile lights up his eyes.

  After that, they go through the 15-16s and then the 17-18s. Now that I have two gold and blue Junior Championships trophies in hands, my job here is done.

  At home, I snap a photo of the trophies and post it on Twitter, captioned “Two new additions to the collection :) #JuniorChamp #2in1day” Immediately, Amy replies, even though it’s almost two in the morning in New York and her camping trip is over.

  “Congrats girl! Miss you!” she says with a little emoji face blowing me a kiss. I smile and switch to the phone app, tapping in my mother’s phone number.

  “You’ve reached Charlotte Maverick. Please leave me a message with your name and phone number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  “Hi mom, it’s me. Just wanted to tell you I won both of my divisions today at junior champs,” I inform the recorder. “Call me when you get the chance.”

  I hang up and call my dad. “This is Sean Maverick. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you soon.” The beep sounds.

  “Hi Dad. I just called to tell you I won my divisions at junior championships today and I love you. Talk to you later.” I sigh, turn off my phone and set the trophies on the shelf, then crawl into bed and drift off.

  Ten

  “Come on! Please! I never get to do anyone else’s hair!” whines McKayla.

  I roll my eyes and take my hair out of it’s french braid, letting it fall around my shoulders. I stare at it in her bedroom mirror and finally respond: “Whatever.” I try to hid a smile, but it gets out before I can stop it.

  “Yes!” she exclaims. She cranks up the volume on her laptop, blasting her music all around the room. Within minutes, her white vanity is covered in all kinds of bottles, brushes and tools. She pulls up a Pinterest board on her laptop and starts looking for a hairstyle for me. “Okay, do you want Victoria’s Secret Angel curls, this waterfall braid or…” She trails off, still scrolling.

  “I want nothing to do with anything that has Victoria’s Secret in front of it,” I state.

  “Ooooh!” she squeals. “We’re doing this one!” She points to an elaborate curly undo with a white rose pinned in it. “I even have a rose clip like that.”

  “That looks like a bridal hair do,” I protest.

  “It is, but it’s gorgeous! And it’s not like we can’t simplify it for tonight,” she fights back. I groan and she claps. “Yay!”

  The “simplified” version of this complicated updo takes the next three-and-a-half hours. First, she curls my entire head of hair, which alone takes ages. Then, she carefully pins the curls up into elegant sections, creating one big curly updo at the nape of my neck. After expertly placing a few small curls around my face, Mac pins in a fake off-white rose, which I have to say, gives it the perfect touch. I still say it looks way too formal for a plain old campfire, but I can’t hide the fact that I like it.

  Given that we only have a half an hour left, Mac settles on letting me french braid her hair like Elsa from Frozen. The only real difference between a french braid and an Elsa braid is that with an Elsa braid, you tease it like crazy.

  “Now, for outfits,” she says. “Wear the blouse Grammy made you. The hand-painted silk one. Pair it up with off-white bottoms and your gold sandals.”

  I salute her. “Yes, ma’am!”

  We give each other one final hair check, then slip on our shoes and I run across the street to my house. “Andrea!” Grammy calls.

  “Hang on!” I call. I pull the light pink blouse McKayla instructed me to use out of my closet apprehensively. Examining it, I sigh. “It’s not like I’m going in the water,” I say to myself. The hand-painted off-white flowers and delicate material can’t be washed, so salt water obviously would not be a good idea. I slip on the cool silk blouse over my light pink tank top and throw on a pair of off-white, high waisted shorts. I tuck the silk in carefully, situating the collar and ruffles delicately. I grab my favorite guitar in it’s sticker-covered case from my room and head back out to the living room.

  “What’s up?” I inquire.

  “Your hair is so cute!” Grammy compliments. I laugh.

  “McKayla insisted. I said it looked like something for a wedding, but you know McKayla,” I inform her. I follow her outside and hop in the car, waving at Mac and her family. “See you there!”

  “See you there!” she calls back.

  A few minutes later, I jump out into the sand, guitar case still in tow. I spot a cluster of people on the beach, huddled around a soft glow. The sky is lit up over the water with the most brilliant shades of orange, red, pink and purple, reflecting on the crystal clear surface of the sea. “Andrea! Wait up!” McKayla calls from behind me.

  “Go faster, Gidget!” I return. I spot Michael by the fire. “Come on, your boyfriend’s waiting!”

  “You know, not all of us have perfect ballerina legs!” I laugh and slow down a little bit. “How are you doing this with a huge guitar case in your hand?”

  “A lot of practice, Mac,” I reply, adjusting my fingers on the black leather handle in my right hand.

  McKayla and I are headed to one of the many beach bonfires the Emersons host over the course of the summer. Regardless of how much Sally hates me, her family is nice, and these bonfires are what Oahu teenagers do in place of when Mainlanders go to parties with their friends. I’ve only ever been to one party and it wasn’t nearly as fun as even five minutes at an Emerson bonfire.

  “Hey, there you are,” Michael greets his girlfriend, slipping his hand into McKayla’s when we reach the fire. “Hey Annie.”

  “Hey Michael,” I reply. Michael was one of the neighborhood kids Mac and I grew up playing with, so I’m not surprised he asked Mac out. He was the o
ne who put up with being our knight in shining armor when we played princess and had to be either the dad or the dog every time we played house.

  Standing around the campfire is a group of kids that, when in the water (and sometimes out), hate each other, but right now are laughing and joking together. Kara Vanderbilt is chatting with Paige LeGroe and Sally, next to some other kids from around the island and the surfing community. Suddenly, I feel a light tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I see Julia Hensley. I smile.

  “Hey Julia,” I greet. “What’s up?”

  “Can you sign this for me?” she asks, holding out a notebook and permanent marker. I laugh, surprised.

  “Of course, but I really don’t know why you would want my autograph,” I reply, taking the notebook from her. I write: To Julia, the coolest sister anyone could ask for. I wish I had a sister like you :) Keep surfing! Love, Andrea.

  “My brothers say you’re gonna be a pro surfer someday,” she explains as I write. I hand back the notebook and cast a glance at Sawyer, who’s laughing with his brother.

  “Well, then, you’d better get your brother’s autograph, too,” I tell her. “He just as good as me, maybe better.” She gives a soft giggle and says a quick “Thank you” before running off to her friends. I laugh as Sawyer and Daniel join us at the fireside.

  “What’s so funny?” Sawyer inquires.

  “You,” I answer. I laugh again at his puzzled expression. “Apparently you two think I’m going to be a pro surfer someday and convinced your sister she needs my autograph.” He and Daniel laugh.

  “What’d you say?” he inquires. I glance at him, wondering if I should tell him what I really said.

  “I told her she should get your autograph, too,” I reply honestly. “If she’s collecting future pro surfer’s autographs, she’ll need yours in the set.” He looks at me, intrigued. “What?”

  “I thought you didn’t like me,” he says, still furrowing his brow at me.

  “I don’t,” I answer, turning my face back towards the fire. “But even pro surfers acknowledge their opponent’s skill level. I’d be stupid not to think you a good surfer, regardless of what I think of you out of the water.” I turn back to him for a second. “Besides, you told her you thought I was good enough to go pro. I was just being honest.” I turn back to the fire, but suddenly I feel hot, and it’s not because of the massive cluster of flames in front of me. Sawyer’s breath warms the right side of my face and the heat rises in my cheeks. I’m glad it’s getting darker quickly.

  “So was I,” he whispers, making me blush harder in spite of myself. I’m still blushing, but my cheek feels cold when he straightens up and faces the bonfire again.

  “Annie, get your guitar!” McKayla calls. A couple other people cheer and I roll my eyes. I open up the big, black, sticker-covered hardshell case. Every time I go to a concert or travel somewhere, I get a sticker and add it to my guitar case. My favorites are the Taylor Swift RED tour sticker, the Sting “Bring On the Night” tour sticker that took me months to find and the large OAHU sticker right in the center.

  “Alright, what do you want to hear?” I call.

  “Play us some Taylor Swift,” Mac replies. I start to pick the strings and sing.

  “The way you move is like a full-on rainstorm, and I'm a house of cards. You're the kind of reckless that should send me running, but I kinda know that I won't get far,” I sing. “And you stood there in front of me just close enough to touch. Close enough to hope you couldn't see what I was thinking of.”

  After “Sparks Fly,” the requests keep coming, so I keep playing. I play until they break out the marshmallows and switch out the guitar for a s’more with two chunks of chocolate and two marshmallows between the graham crackers, the way I’ve always done it. The marshmallow’s insides burst and spill out of the little sandwich, coating my fingers in goo. Sawyer, who is now standing behind me, flings his hand out to emphasize his point that the Eric Clapton concert he went to was amazing (which I don’t doubt is true) and accidentally whacks the back of my head, covering it in sweet stickiness. “Oh, gosh, I’m really sorry,” he apologizes. He tries to remove his fingers from my hair. I cry out sharply as he keeps tugging every way he can. “Holy hair product, Batman, what the heck do you have in here? Rubber cement?”

  “McKayla!” I shout. Her eyes widen at the situation. “Can you help?”

  “I can try,” she replies. I feel her fingers working to untangle his gooey hand from my long, curled strands of hair. After what feels like an eternity, she finally announces she’s done. “As far as your hair goes, the only thing that can help with that is a shower,” she says.

  “Or saltwater,” Sawer says deviously.

  “Wha-“ I don’t have time to finish before he picks me up and runs down to the waves. “Sawer! Stop it! Quit it!” My shrieks are suddenly cut off as he drops me in the water. I stand up and walk straight up to Jerkface, soaked to the bone with what I’m sure is a murderous look on my face. “Here’s a tip: when a girl who spends all day in the ocean tells you not to get her wet, there’s probably a reason!” I shout at the top of my voice. I storm past him and to the car, Grammy following close behind. “Holy…” I let out a breath through my closed lips, puffing them up with air to keep from cursing.

  “Alright, sweetheart, take the blouse off and we’ll see if we can do something about the silk,” Grammy consoles. I peel off my wet blouse and tank top, leaving me in only my pink bra and soaked white shorts. I climb in the old van and pull the rose out of my hair. Thankfully, I find a green Wicked sweatshirt of mine on the floor and pull it over my head. I climb back out trunk of the beater, pulling bobby pins out of my hair. Grammy takes the beater and pulls away, going to try and salvage something out of it. I make my way back to the fire, sitting down in one of the beach chairs beside McKayla.

  “Are you okay?” she inquires. I huff.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Your gorgeous hairstyle and my shirt aren’t, though,” I reply bitterly.

  “Hey, Andrea!” Sally’s brother, Kyle calls. “We need some more entertainment!” I put on a smile and grab my guitar.

  “Any requests?” I ask.

  “We’ve given you requests all night,” Mac interjects. “Play us something you like.” I slide my capo up to the fourth fret of my guitar and slowly begin to strum “The Only Exception” by Paramore.

  “When I was younger, I saw my daddy cry and curse at the wind,” I sing. “He broke his own heart and I watched as he tried to reassemble it. And my mama swore that she would never let herself forget, and that was the day that I promised I’d never sing of love if it does not exist, but darling, you are the only exception.” The lyrics float around my mind as I sing one of my favorite songs.

  The song is about a girl like me, a girl who’s seen too many hearts break and doesn’t believe love exists, finding someone who’s the exception to the world’s lack of love towards her. When I first heard it, I loved it. It’s just… It’s me. It’s as if I wrote it. I guess I’d be lying if I said I never thought about finding an exception to the world’s lack of love towards me. I just know there isn’t one. I don’t get an exception. And in the long run, that’s better for me. It might hurt for a minute or two here and there, but it keeps me from hurting twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.

  After a few more songs, someone taps me on the shoulder. Turning around, my eyes meet striking blue ones. “Hey,” Sawyer greets softly. “Sorry about earlier. Your grandma told me about your shirt.”

  “It’s okay. It’s only a shirt,” I brush off, clasping the locks on my guitar case. I stand up and start making the trek to the car.

  “A really special shirt that I almost ruined,” he corrects. “Sorry about the marshmallow in your hair, too. I only threw you in the ocean just because I thought it’d be funny.”

  “Hey,” I say. “It really is okay. It’s just a shirt. Even if it is Chinese silk my mom got me and I hand painted it, it’s s
till just a shirt. I’m sorry I blew up at you. I don’t have the greatest track record of keeping my temper.”

  “It’s cool. I kind of deserved it,” he replies with a small smile. I give him a little smile in return and climb in the car. “See you later.”

  “See you,” I agree. I sigh and put my head up against the trunk of the van as I sit on the rear fender. McKayla comes over and sits down beside me. “That’s the last time I let you talk me into letting you give me a makeover.”

  McKayla laughs. “You always say that and you always end up doing exactly what you said you wouldn’t do. I’ll get my way eventually.”

  Eleven

  “He what?” I ask my grandmother, shocked.

  “He invited you to his birthday party,” Grammy repeats. “It’s nothing big, just a group of kids going to his house and hanging out. They’ll be watching a movie. I think Melissa said it’s Divergent. Mac and Michael will be there, and so will Sally, Kara, Paige, Lexi and bunches of others.”

  Since it’s been a while, I’ll bring you up to speed. It’s now July 12th, and I am the reigning under eighteen women’s Pipeline champion as well as Junior champ. Almost all of my time between Junior Champs and Pipeline has been taken up by training, so I haven’t seen Sawyer much, except of course at Pipeline two days ago. Pipeline went fantastically, but now I am faced with a challenge that seems even bigger than taking on the famous (and deadly) waves of Banzai Pipeline: Sawyer Hensley’s 18th birthday party.

  “Why the heck would he want me at his birthday party? Me, of all people?” I wonder aloud.

  “Because you make a good team,” she replies. I look at her like she’s grown a few extra heads.

  “In the words of Bruce Banner, ‘we’re not a team. We’re a chemical mixture that creates chaos. We’re a time bomb,’” I quote.