Beyond the Break

by Heather Buchta

  “I’m gonna get some water,” I say, and wish for the millionth time that I’d given Jake my number. I’m dying to tell him about this. Would he get why I’m a little bummed that Kelly just put milk-flower Dave on the same level as me? Kelly and I have been secret keepers for years. How can a guy she just started hanging out with suddenly be more important?

  When I’m pouring water at the counter, I look up at the bulletin board of people selling bikes, looking for roommates, and giving away kittens. A full-color flyer peeks from underneath a car for sale, with just the word surf visible. I wiggle it out and scan the details, my heart thumping.

  ALL WAVE JUNIOR OPEN. MANHATTAN BEACH PIER. NEW COED DIVISION! ENTRY FEE $100. There’s a website and a phone number. It’s the surf competition that girl Alix told me about.

  Was this from you, God? Did you want me to find this?

  “Hey, sorry, miss, but you can’t post that.” One of the baristas points at the flyer. “The bulletin board’s for nonprofits and personal ads only. Community board. No company listings or for-profit orgs. Sorry.”

  I nod and fold the flyer, jamming it into my pocket.

  The rest of the week, I keep it with me, reaching for it constantly to feel the wrinkled paper folds.

  Every night I go swimming, but it’s so dissatisfying now. I want to ride, and even though I body surf, every wave that crashes over me reminds me that I’m in the wave rather than on it. Still, I do the one hundred pop-ups every day, one hundred lunges, one hundred squats, and I run on the beach for fifteen minutes in the sand.

  By Friday, every muscle in my body aches, and I’m waddling like a geriatric duck. On my way to first period, Lydia appears and slaps my sore butt. The crinkled flyer falls out of my back pocket, and she snatches it. “What’s this?” She holds it out of my reach. “Coed competition?” She screams an expletive in Spanish. “Lovette! You’re signing up?”

  “No,” I say.

  “¡Sí!” she screams back. “You have the flyer! You can’t deny it. All Wave Junior Open. That’s why Jake’s making the workout schedule for you.”

  “Jake’s just trying to encourage me to tell my parents. That’s all.”

  She reaches for the crucifix around her neck.

  I hold up a hand. “Please don’t make me kiss Jesus on the cross.”

  “Fine.” She kisses it herself. The one-minute bell rings, and I grab the flyer from her hand.

  “Do NOT tell anyone. No one, Lyds.”

  She fakes zipping her lips and locking them with an imaginary key, but when she’s halfway down the hall, she turns and shouts, “I’m so proud of you! You’re gonna win the entire thing and get a surfing sponsorship and tour the world in your bikini!”

  “Lydia!” I shout. Shut up! But she misunderstands.

  “Okay, fine! Not a bikini. A one-piece. They’re coming back!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  In the cafeteria later that day, Cecilia Grayson and her ponytail swing into my personal space while I’m mid-bite into my every-day-Dad-made PB&J.

  This is weird for two reasons: One, Cecilia Grayson’s a soccer diva. Two, Cecilia Grayson doesn’t visit my side of the cafeteria (see number one).

  In the beach cities, outside of surfing, soccer’s big, like, big big, the way lacrosse is big on the East Coast or the way my father’s big on clipping coupons and pointing out how much money he saves by serving me PB&Js. Every. Lunch. Of. My. Life.

  The Caroltown Cougars is a club team that has been together since the girls stopped wearing Pull-Ups, and somehow they’ve morphed into girls who believe they’re on the World Cup team with million-dollar contracts. They’re all in amazing shape and wear their club sweats every Thursday, even when it’s not a game day. They’ve even designated a part of the cafeteria as “the Club Sports” section, and they cross those lines, well, never.

  Cecilia’s hot-pink and black nylon pants swish-swish through the crowds and stop at my table. Two of her soccer-diva clones flank her in the same outfit. It’s like the Pink Ladies meets hip-hop America.

  “Why would Lydia say you’re competing in the All Wave Junior Open?” She narrows her eyes and whips her ponytail in a helicopter spin.

  I turn to Lydia, who’s suddenly stiff as cardboard. Lydia! I lick the peanut butter from the roof of my mouth and search for the closest fire exits.

  Lydia stands so she’s eye to eye with the Cougars. “Because maybe she is competing in it.”

  I clear my throat. “Uh, hello? I’m right here. And no, I’m not.”

  Lydia mumbles, “Yes, you are.”

  My friends wait on my cue to back one of us up, but they’re not sure who, because we’re saying two different things.

  Jake doesn’t wait. “What’s it to you?”

  “Home wrecker!” Cecilia yells at me, not Jake.

  “Wait,” Jake interjects, “is this about the Disney prince?” He’s trying to lighten the mood, which is good because my underarms are sweating again. “The guy who uses selfie mode on his phone as a mirror?”

  “Who doesn’t do that?” Cecilia quips. From the table, Niles and Kaj both raise a hand.

  “Look,” I say, “I’m not trying to compete, and I’m not trying to steal Trevor.”

  “Oh really?” Cecilia snarls. “Then why’s Lovette Taylor on the list of coed competitors when I looked it up online?”

  “What?” I look at my friends, and they jump into gear.

  “Back off, Cecilia,” Kaj says. “Maybe it’s a typo.”

  “Maybe you’re making it up,” Kelly snaps.

  Niles says, “Maybe you can’t read.”

  Lydia barks, “Or maybe it’s because she knows she can kick your boyfriend’s ass all over the waves!”

  “Lydia,” I say.

  Cecilia laughs in short, exaggerated bursts. “Trevor says you quit back in junior high because you were too scared. You can’t possibly think that you have a chance in this competition. You only signed up to get closer to him.”

  A tempest starts in my belly as she says, “You can’t possibly think that you have a chance . . .” Why’s this so hard to imagine? I was good. Really good. And it was never about the competition.

  I think of the feeling when Jake and I rode the waves at night. It was like God had built me for that moment. Maybe He’s built me for a lot of things—things way bigger than surfing—but that night, in that moment, I knew I was doing what I was designed to do. Nowhere in my life have I felt more complete, more at peace with Him, than when I’m surfing. God wants to do something through it. I don’t know what, but He’s in it.

  I remove the scrunched flyer from my back pocket and unfold it, hold it up for her soccer tribe. I slam it down on the table in front of my friends. Their mouths open into perfect Os.

  Niles says, “Oh my god, you really did sign up.”

  Kelly gasps. “Are you essing me?”

  “Why not?” I blurt, and it’s so loud that the rest of the cafeteria is now at full attention. “But not for Trevor,” I say to Cecilia. My heart’s pumping with so much adrenaline, I’m ready to fight in a boxing match or flee from a bear. “It’s for God. It’s because when I surf, I know God’s proud. And yes, I’m signed up, and yes, I’m doing it, because I’m supposed to do it.”

  My table cheers and whoops. Niles says, “Hell yeah, you are.” Jake’s strangely quiet, scrutinizing me.

  Cecilia closes her eyes. When she opens them at me, there’s fire. “You’re done, Taylor.”

  I don’t even know what to say. I’ve never been called by my last name. That’s like a team-sports thing, I think. And I’m done?

  “Oh, she’s just getting started!” Lydia yells as Cecilia backs away. I wish Lydia wouldn’t make this worse, but her blood’s boiling. She rattles off a host of words in Spanish, all swear words, I’m sure.

  “You better
lace up,” Cecilia says through gritted teeth, and once again, I don’t know how to respond. I mean, I don’t even own cleats. Cecilia turns, whipping one of her friends in the face with her ponytail. The three girls swish back to the rest of their team, the crowds parting.

  “Reowwwrrr,” Lydia growls.

  I could punch her, but Jake says, “You told your parents?”

  He thinks I did, I can tell by the small smile lifting the corners of his mouth, saying, “See? I told you it would be okay.” It feels so unbelievably good, and I want it to continue and never end. I smile and say, “I was going to surprise you.” Then I actually glare at Lydia for spoiling my big surprise.

  “Oops,” Lydia says, and she means it, which makes me feel bad. I feel worse when she snags me aside on our way to sixth period. “I’m so sorry I ruined your surprise. I saw the flyer fall out of your pocket, and we all know how you’ve never stopped loving surfing, but you’re too much of a pansy to do anything about it, so Kaj and I signed you up. I didn’t know you’d have the guts to do it yourself, but I get it now. The surprise. I’d do anything for my guy, too.”

  “Jake’s not my guy.”

  “Whatever you say. All I know is in two years, I’ve never gotten you on the dance floor that quickly at the Venue. And in the past month, you glow like you’re pregnant, but unless you’re the Virgin Mary come back again, you’re definitely not pregnant. And your parents stole your surfboard in seventh grade. That was it. Done deal. Over. Terminado. Four of your best friends couldn’t convince you to get back on a board. Now you’re surprising Jake with surf competitions?”

  I can’t explain to her how wrong she is. How my parents would never let me surf. Still will never let me surf. And also, how I did this for me, not for Jake. Instead I say, “He’s just a friend, Lyds.”

  “Mentirosa, and okay. You say so. But if you ever break up with Jesus—”

  “I’m not breaking up with Jesus.”

  “Isn’t Jesus, like, polyamorous?”

  “No! I mean, yes. But not like that.”

  “Just saying, if Jesus will share, then—”

  “Lydia, no!”

  “Okay! Okay!” She kisses both of my cheeks and prances away toward her Spanish for native speakers class.

  I’m unlocking my bike after school when I hear a familiar “Hey! Want a ride?” I look up to see my brother next to a shiny silver Toyota Tundra pickup, my parents’ gift to him when he graduated eleventh grade for the second time.

  “Matty!” I swerve in and out of students, pushing my bike until I reach the curb. Matt lifts the bike into his truck bed, then pulls me into a hug and swings me around. He feels so much older—he’s filled out since he left for college. He got so thin after the accident. Even through rehab, it was tough for him to keep on weight, but now I look at him and it’s like nothing happened. Well, there are little reminders.

  When Matt sets me down, I notice Jake about fifteen feet away, watching us. I wave him over. “Matt, this is Jake. He just moved here. Jake—my brother, Matt.”

  “Your brother,” Jake repeats, and there’s this brief moment where he closes his eyes and laughs at himself. Was Jake jealous? He shakes Matt’s hand and says, “Heard a lot about you.”

  “That so? Hey, you need a ride too?”

  Jake smiles. “Nah, got my own ride. But nice to meet you.”

  “Yeah, same. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” Matt winks at me in front of Jake, and I just about die.

  On the car ride home, he asks me, “That your boyfriend? Mom told me about him.”

  “No, and Mom’s bananas, you know that.”

  “Well I have a girlfriend.”

  “What?!”

  “Yeah.” He taps the steering wheel. “Since the first week of school. Brooke.”

  He fiddles with the satellite radio, and I wait for him to say more. “And?”

  “What were we talking about?”

  His short-term memory won’t ever be perfect, and once in a while, he loses his train of thought. Another reminder of the accident. He knows when it happens and usually tries to cover by saying he’s not interested in talking about that anymore, but really, he’s forgotten what that is. With me, he doesn’t care, because he knows I don’t think it’s a big deal. “You were telling me about Brooke,” I prompt.

  “She has amazing boobs.”

  “Ew! You’re so gross.” I flick his shoulder. I know he’s just trying to embarrass me.

  He laughs and turns up the music. We nod in rhythm to it for a while, and then he says, “You wanna go to a movie tomorrow?”

  “Maybe. I’m volunteering at Hope Fills with my youth group for the day. So afterward?”

  He makes a throwing-up sound. “Tell me you’re not still going to Bible Thumpers Anonymous.”

  My brother’s not a fan of God, to put it lightly. He thinks it’s all a big joke, and that humans “made up the concept of God to give meaning for certain things in life that have no satisfying answers.” His words exactly, which sound like they were stolen from someone’s Twitter and recited like a Bible memory verse. He hates when I talk to him about it. We get along better if I don’t, but I can’t help myself sometimes, especially when he’s a jerk about it. But no matter what, I always feel like the dumb, bratty little sister afterward.

  “My youth group’s called Revive, and yes, we’re making sandwiches for the poor tomorrow. How dare we? I mean, gosh, we’re such horrible people.”

  “Why’re you being so defensive?”

  “I’m not! You are!” I shout, and there it is. In less than five minutes, he’s pushed all the buttons to make me act the six-year-old he’s convinced I still am.

  He lifts his eyebrows and turns up the music. I wish this was one of his short-term-memory moments, so he’d just forget that whole conversation, but when we get home, he opens the back of the truck bed and lifts my bike out. “You’re welcome,” he says before turning and walking inside.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I don’t meet up with Lydia on Friday night since my brother’s home and it’s Mom’s birthday. After dinner, Mom pops popcorn, Dad gets the board games out, and we play a cutthroat game of Settlers of Catan. My brother wins, of course. He builds his final road and turns over the longest road card for the final points to reach ten.

  I don’t reveal I had a victory point hiding with all my soldier cards. I’d rather see my parents’ faces whenever Matt wins at something—the kid they thought would never win again.

  “Hey, close game,” he says. “You had nine!”

  My parents say, “Awwww!” at the same time and with the same number of Ws. I wonder if I’ll ever have a marriage like theirs, where I’ll know how many seconds my husband takes to say a word.

  It’s weird to see them now and think back to when they almost didn’t make it. The nights following Matt’s accident . . . the fights. I never knew how badly two people could argue when they hadn’t slept in a month and their kid’s life was on the line. The blaming. The accusing. It was ugly.

  Matt wasn’t supposed to wake up. So when he did . . . I think they felt they were given another chance. With Matt. With each other.

  Pretty sure they felt that it was their life’s job to keep Matt and me away from the one thing that took Matt down and almost wrecked their marriage. My friends think it’s stupid that my parents keep me out of the ocean. But they’d never question it if they had lived through it.

  Afterward, we watch a movie. My parents laugh and throw popcorn at each other like middle-schoolers, and Dad pulls Mom’s feet into his lap on the couch. It’s the Matty Magic: He makes my parents come alive in a way I’ll never be able to. But I wouldn’t want an accident to make that happen. I understand, Jesus. I swear I do. But still I wish I could make my parents light up the way they do when Matt walks into the room.

  * * *

&nbs
p; Saturday morning, Kelly honks her horn at 7:00 a.m. When I walk outside, Dave’s climbing into the back seat for me. I say, “Hey, Dave,” like we always carpool. They’re driving places together now? Kelly remembers my latte, and as she hands it to me, her fingers squeeze a secret “Thanks for not making a big deal out of Dave.”

  We’re driving to Hope Fills, a homeless outreach center about fifteen miles east toward downtown LA. We’re quiet, sipping our hot drinks and squinting at the morning sun.

  Dave yawns loudly. “I heard you signed up for the Watermans surf thing.”

  “Yep.”

  “Cool.”

  We keep sipping.

  “So why . . .” Kelly trails off. She drinks from her mocha again and glides into the carpool lane.

  “Good move, babe,” Dave drawls from the back seat.

  Kelly looks stuck on her last thought. Her forehead’s wrinkled.

  “What?” I ask. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. It’s nothing.” She turns the music up, some new Christian song that apparently Dave knows because he leans between us and says, “This is so hard to play,” and his muscles strain as his left hand shifts to all the chords on his air guitar.

  When we arrive at Hope Fills, Jake gives me a fist bump and then disappears outside to work on unloading supplies. I’m slightly bummed he’s not in the sandwich group, but I know Kelly doesn’t feel the same. Inside the giant warehouse and elbow deep in cold cuts, she says, “Why did you want to surprise Jake by signing up for the surf competition?”

  It comes out like the burst of mustard she’s just squeezed onto a whole row of bread slices, and I know she’s been dying to ask me since the car ride. I follow her down the assembly line, laying two cold cuts per slice. Dave follows with lettuce, and Candy, our adult leader, slaps a clean piece of bread on top. Behind her are the ziplock-bag stuffers.

  “Um,” I start, fumbling with three slices of meat stuck together. “I wanted to surf again. I’m ready.”