“Catch up,” he says, and I ride up next to him. “Stay on rail for ten.” And then he makes ten turns in a row where he is never on the base of his board. He stays on his rails—right side and left side—the entire time, and I follow, carving back and forth with my board. It’s gorgeous—the way we flow side by side as we make serpentine curves—and people move to the curb to watch our synchronized dance. He slows when we reach a water fountain and stops to take a drink.
I’m breathless from it all.
“How’d that feel?” he says.
“Unreal.”
“You just needed to remember.”
It’s true. I felt it all coming back as I made turn after turn, dropping low and leaning my body with the carve. It was like my muscles were waking up after a five-year-long hibernation and remembering what they were supposed to do.
I take a long drink of water from the fountain, and in my periphery, I can see him looking at me. I raise my head, wipe my lips with the back of my hand. “What?”
He smiles. “Nothing. The way you light up when you ride—I wish you could see it.”
This day was supposed to be about him, and he’s somehow made it about me again, which feels amazing, but underneath his sunglasses, there’s a glaring black-and-purple reminder of something more important than the surf competition. “Your eye,” I say, and he winces at the word. “What happened?”
“Come on, Lovette.” He shakes his head. A couple strolls by with their three dogs, the littlest pausing to sniff Jake’s leg.
“Please,” I say.
He turns toward one of the mansions and examines it. Even through the glasses, I can see his eyes blinking. Maybe he’s deciding what he can tell me. He turns back my direction and shakes his head slightly, like he’s pulling himself out of a trance.
“Today was”—he pauses—“exceptionally better than I expected.” He grins at his use of the word, and everything in me warms. “Can’t we keep it that way?”
“I guess?” It comes out as a question because I have no choice. He doesn’t want to share.
“This one,” he says, pointing to the mansion he was looking at. “Your house-lottery game. I’d pick this one.” So he was listening.
“It’s nice,” I agree. “I like the brick.” There’s only brick on one wall of the house. The rest is a dark navy-blue wood.
“Yeah, me too. And the attention to detail. Check out the windows.” They’re perfectly framed with white wood, contrasting the dark wood of the house. It still has a beachy feel, not sterile like some of the more modern builds out here.
“Looks cozy,” I agree. “Only you can’t see inside.” The windows are covered with a dark tint.
“Exactly.” He turns to me then, his eyes suddenly serious. “If you saw inside, you may not want it for your lottery house.” Again, the saying things without saying things.
I step forward, and we lock eyes. “What if it was the worst inside, and I didn’t care?”
His eyes flicker, and he’s just a friend again. He takes a step back. “Well, then you can’t, because I already picked it. Not allowed to pick the same one. Your rules.”
He kicks onto his skateboard, facing back toward Bruce’s Beach. “Come on!” he shouts behind him. “Keep up!” We ride back to where we started, but the whole way back, we try not to strike a foot on the ground. Instead, we build momentum with tic-tacs, swinging the front of the board from the left to the right to the left with small kick turns, imitating “pumping down the line” in the water on a shortboard. In only a few hours, I feel as if I’ve ridden ten thousand waves.
The next week, we skate every day after school, sometimes as fas as the Redondo Beach Pier. Niles says to him once at lunch, “Nice shiner.” He wiggles a finger at Jake’s eye. “What’d you do—drop in on her wave?”
“Surfboard to the face,” Jake says, and he doesn’t make eye contact with me.
Kaj ribs him. “Can’t keep up?”
The boys laugh. “No one can,” Jake says, which is an even bigger lie than the surfboard to the face. I haven’t even been back out on the water since my flopping charade two weeks ago. Jake’s been trying to build my confidence back up through all our skateboarding. It’s been fun, but I can’t help but think of how far behind I am. The other girls competing in my age group have five more years of waves under their belts.
The following week, Jake and I continue our pattern. He shows up before school, we skate to school, and then after school, he skates with me to work. He must skate back to his car after he drops me off, because it’s always gone from the front of my house when I get home at night. We even download the FriendFinder app so we can find each other and still meet up when traffic isn’t his friend or I have to stay after school to finish an assignment.
In just a few weeks, my friends have gotten used to seeing Jake and me together. No one says anything. In the mornings, they start waiting for us at the corner of the quad, where we arrive on our skateboards. Kelly’s polite, but her face is in her phone a lot these days texting Dave, and when she looks at Jake or me, I notice that she tugs on her single strip of purple hair, pulls it down hard in front of her face so she can stare at it and not us. Maybe I’m just imagining it.
At youth group on Wednesday, we’re in our small groups, talking about boundaries. Why does God set boundaries? What boundaries do you set for yourself? Things like that. I notice Kelly fidgeting with my hands more than usual and looking at me like she wants to say something.
Back in the youth room, Pastor Brett gives a great sermon, well, minus the cringeworthy slang. “God knows that we are dust,” he says. “He knows how He formed us. Nothing is TMI to God.” Some of us snicker. Leave it to Pastor Brett to find a way to slip “TMI” into a sermon. “But because He built us and He’s like, ‘What up, G. I know your biz,’ then He also knows what’s best for us. And if He loves us—which we believe He does—then when He tells us not to do something, it’s out of love for us, not because He’s some cosmic killjoy. He knows what will ultimately make us feel whole. He knows what will keep us from emptiness and shame. So any boundary that He sets for us in His word is ultimately for our freedom, not for our captivity. Not to hold us down or to suffocate us. He’s not trying to yuck our yum. It’s the opposite. That’s why Paul says in Galatians, ‘It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.’”
We reach for the hands next to us and close in prayer, but Kelly holds on to mine after we say “amen.”
“Wow. God seriously loves you so much,” Kelly whispers.
“Thanks,” I whisper back.
“That’s why He led Brett to give that talk just for you.”
My head cocks to the side. “For me?”
“Def. Both Dave and I have been concerned for your heart.” Her hand feels clammy, and I slide mine off of hers. “I’ve told Dave how you’ve given up everything you’ve stood for. And then tonight, this talk on boundaries? It’s like a total answer to prayer.”
I’m struck into silence, and luckily, Jake rescues me. “Hey, Tony Hawk,” he says, handing me my skateboard. “You ready to take on the church hill?”
My head feels wobbly as I nod. Kelly squeezes my hand with a goodbye and skips off to find Dave fingerpicking his guitar on one of the couches.
Chapter Twenty-Two
At dinner on Friday, Dad goes through his usual checklist. Did I clock in ten minutes before work? Did I make my bed with hospital corners? Yes and yes. He air high-fives me across the table. He asks if I’m doing more than what the teachers assign, and when I tell him I’ve been studying my ACT math, he draws a graph on a napkin. I don’t need any help, really, but I act surprised and impressed when he shows me slope-intercept form. He clicks the pen loudly and drops it like a mic. It clatters onto his plate next to his peas and chicken, and my mother scolds, “Honey!”
Mom shares about her latest home designs
, and just when I think it’s a normal Friday, she asks me how swimming at the Y is going. I ignore her mischievous grin and instead pass the potatoes to Dad. I gather my courage and say, “Speaking of swimming, did you hear they’re having a local surf competition in February?”
Dad scowls. “Not run by a professional organization?”
My parents are never an easy audience with anything surf related, but I thought this would be an easy in. “It’s run by the community. Some local surfers got together and are putting the proceeds into our beaches.”
“Parking tickets can pay for that.”
“Parking tickets cover Hermosa’s summer concerts on the pier,” I counter. “But this will go into keeping the beaches clean, sand maintenance, extra trash cans. It’s a good cause.”
“Run by a bunch of locals?” Mom says, which is basically what my dad said.
Dad stabs at his peas. “That doesn’t sound safe.”
Mom waves her fork at me. “Sounds unsafe if you ask me.”
It’s like we’re in the Grand Canyon of echoes. Shoot. Both are jabbing at their food, and I’ve barely mentioned surfing. Not even surfing plus me. I pour a glass of milk.
“So when’s Matt driving home for Thanksgiving?”
* * *
Friday night at the Venue, there’s no Jake. No Kaj, either. Just the good ol’ days of me, Lydia, Uncle Joe, and a lot of dishes and poorly understood Spanish. I’m getting better, though. I can’t speak it, but I’m understanding more. Tonight Lydia is telling Uncle Joe about her latest fight with Kaj, which sounds remarkably similar to last time. Words in every fight: mentiroso (liar), tonto (dummy), pendejo (coward and/or pubic hair—actually, a lot of other meanings, too, but those are the kindest).
Tonight she ends with an easy one: El burro sabe más que él (The burro knows more than him).
“Ay, mija,” Uncle Joe says, handing her a highball glass to rinse. “You’re so hard on him.”
When she says no, she holds on to the N for a long time like she’s winding up with a big gust of wind for her O. “Nnnn-oh! He’s un burro.”
Uncle Joe asks her the same question every week. “So you gonna break up?”
“Por supuesto que no. Of course not.” She says it in both languages for emphasis, as if Uncle Joe is the burro. “Es tan patético, que resulta entrañable.” That one goes over my head, but she doesn’t translate. “Speaking of breaking up, where’s Jake?”
“He had to be back at the base.”
“What’s the latest?”
“We’re surfing Monday! He says I’m ready.”
“I meant what’s the latest with you and him?” She bounces her hip into mine.
I shake my head, thinking of Kelly at youth group, and try to focus on drying silverware. “Nothing. We’re friends.”
“Mentirosa, but okay.”
“Really. He still talks to his ex, and I don’t date. It works out great that way.”
She clucks her tongue. “Hay días tontos y tontos todos los días.”
“What?”
“Lydia!” Uncle Joe chides. He shakes his head at her.
What’s that supposed to mean?
“Nothing.” She reaches for a clean dishrag. “Tell me about surfing.”
I’m giddy just thinking about it. “We’re hitting the water before school. He’s picking me up at five thirty.”
She crosses herself.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“That’s an ungodly hour.”
I throw some soapsuds at her, and she tells me we should FaceTime him from the dance floor. I say my phone’s dead because I don’t feel like explaining why I still haven’t given Jake my number. It feels like a big deal. I almost asked for it the day he showed up with a black eye, but that would’ve seemed like I was getting it just to check on him. Which I totally would’ve been.
I know he’s not my boyfriend, but the truth is, I feel like we have something better than a relationship. I like that when we have a moment together, nobody gets to experience it except me and him. And God. There’re no texts, no pictures, no forwards or retweets or screen captures. It’s just ours. And somehow that feels more special.
It’s refreshing to be with Lydia when lately Kelly’s felt judgy. She never used to feel that way, and I don’t know if it’s me or her who’s changed. “Lyds, do you think I’m different?”
She narrows her eyes. “I feel like this is one of those questions that I’m going to be in trouble no matter what I answer. Are you trying to be different?”
“Yes. No. Maybe. I dunno!” I set down a coffee cup. “Kelly says I’m not creating good boundaries between me and Jake.”
“Girl, you’re like Alcatraz. Where’s she getting her info?”
“I dunno. Jesus?”
“Don’t you talk to Him, too?”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t mean I can’t make mistakes.”
“Aaaaah,” she says and points an index finger up like a light bulb just dinged over her head. “Maybe she wanted to be the one making mistakes with Jake?” She does a little hip shake, which makes me giggle.
“No, she has a boyfriend now, remember?”
“Right. Dave from youth group. Well, then maybe she’s just on her period.” Lydia’s phone lights up, and she smiles ear to ear. But when she picks it up, she acts angry. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t hang up right now.”
I know that’s the last I’ll get of Lydia tonight. She and Kaj will be at it over the phone, their anger building in volume, until she stalks off to the dance floor to shake it out of her or he shows up to kiss it out of her.
When I asked Lydia if I was different, she didn’t answer. Which means I am. Maybe as I’m getting closer to Jake, I’m getting further from God. Lydia wouldn’t know. She likes God and all, but He stays on the cross, so to speak. They don’t talk much. Maybe Kelly’s being judgy, but it doesn’t mean she’s wrong.
* * *
I forget all of that by Monday morning when I hear Jake’s car humming outside for me. I prance out the front door like a deer, leaping into his passenger seat.
“Let’s do this,” he says and cranks up the music.
At Old Man Mike’s, we slide into our wetsuits in record time. School starts in two hours, and I want as much time on the water as I can get. I’m nervous, but more from excitement than from fear. Jake takes one of the LED longboards for himself, but instead of handing me the other, he motions at Mike’s shortboard. “Do you think he’d mind?”
I grin. I love Jake’s confidence in me. “I think he’d love it.”
* * *
Down at the shoreline, I strap on my leash and start toward the water, but Jake holds me back by the elbow. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I check Mike’s board. It looks waxed.
“Every time we go in the water, you either bow your head or look up at the sky for a few seconds.”
Oh my gosh. He’s right. I’ve never gone in the water without praying first. I’ve never forgotten. Like, ever.
His comment is a wave that knocks me down. I stand my board upright next to me and lean my cheek against it. “Maybe Kelly’s right about you.”
“Me?”
I didn’t mean for it to sound that way. “Well, not you. Me. Kelly doesn’t think I’m setting good boundaries with you.”
“Does it matter what Kelly thinks?”
“No. But what if she’s right?” I lower my voice, embarrassed. “What if I can’t think of God and you? Like, I always pick one over the other?”
“Well, then stop.” He puts an arm around both me and my board. It’s friend-like, but whirlpools swirl in my stomach. “All I meant was that you always pray before you get in the water. So you forgot. Big deal. It’s not because of me. Think about it. We’ve been skateboarding for the past two weeks every day
until we both had blisters on our blisters.”
I lift one foot out of the sand and wiggle my toes. A couple Band-Aids wiggle back.
“And now you’re getting back in. To surf.”
He’s right. I’m nervous. Excited. A lot of things. I say a silent apology to God for overlooking Him. I look out at the ocean and speak aloud. “Jesus, please go with us out there today. And thanks for this. All of it.” I squeeze Jake’s arm, so he knows I’m thanking God for him, not just the ocean. As an amen, I stand up, but Jake stays sitting for a minute. I wait, watching the direction of the break, until I hear him shuffling to stand.
He tucks his board under his armpit.
We sprint at the water.
The waves thunder in the quiet morning, small breakers with intimidating voices, but I pierce my board through each as I paddle out. There’s no time to think before a glorious set comes my way. I see the bumps of water building as they head for me, and I flip my board around and go.
My arms strain to keep up, but just when I think I’ve missed it, I feel the mountain rising below and propelling me forward. It’s small, but it’s breaking cleanly, and I’m lined up in perfect position.
I pop up, and for a split second—the second when I hold my breath because God stops time—my board hangs on top of a hill of ocean, and then drops eggshell light, with a speed that pushes the air out of my lungs and forces me to breathe again.
I don’t jump off this time but instead attack it like it belongs to me. My stance is familiar now. I’ve lived like this for the past two weeks on a skateboard, and I have no problem keeping my bare feet glued to the waxy base. I carve back and forth, creating a wake through the sloping face just like all those tic-tacs I did from the pier to Twenty-sixth Street. Strands of wet hair whip into my wide open mouth, and I can taste the seawater dripping off the ends from the wind.
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