Jake whoops for me after I kick out of the wave. His clapping echoes across the surface. “Attagirl!” he shouts.
He rides, too, and because it’s a small surf day, he looks effortless on his longboard. We switch boards a couple times just for fun. For almost two hours we keep at it, never tiring, cheering each other on through every attempt. Even the surfers around us join in on the clapping when we catch a particularly sweet ride. The whole morning is golden.
At school, we both sprint to first period, and I slide into my seat as the tardy bell rings. When my test second period is returned to me and I tip my head down to look at it, a cupful of seawater drops out of my nose like a gushing faucet, splashing all over my test, and I giggle.
Mr. Jenkins frowns. He knows I got a C-, which normally I’d care about, but there’s a puddle smearing my C- into a blur, and it reminds me of my perfect morning and perfect waves and perfect-imperfect Jake, which blots out any bad test grade.
At lunch, neither of us can shut up about our morning. How we rode smooth, like it was a lake of glass. How Jake had this one great cutback. How I pumped down the line.
“Pumped?” Kelly interjects.
“Yeah,” Jake explains. “It’s when you compress your stance with each bottom carve and extend your stance with each top carve. Creates momentum. She was flying. You should’ve seen—”
“But not as good as when you did that perfect roundhouse cutback and then went right into an aggressive top turn.”
We keep talking over each other, and our friends—well, except for Kelly—are amped by our excitement, interrupting us with questions about waves and wipeouts. They “Hell yeah!” me and pat me on the shoulder, impressed by Jake’s stories. He’s so proud of me, he’s glowing, and it’s weird to see someone reflect what I feel inside. I can’t believe I’m actually out there doing it again. It feels incredible, and it’s like he knows it and is pumped by it. As Jake gushes, I see Lydia trying to make eye contact. I look once, and she waggles her eyebrows. I look away, but I’m smiling, and she knows I saw. By Kelly’s frown, I know she saw, too.
“Seriously,” Jake says, “if we keep this up every morning until February, she’s gonna be like—”
His phone vibrates, interrupting him by break-dancing all over the lunch table. He looks down, and there it is for us all to see, that caller ID name.
HANNAH
It’s in all caps, no last name needed. My stomach twists.
Our entire table of six grows quiet. Everyone stares at the phone shaking and rumbling, announcing those six letters, H-A-N-N-A-H, that palindrome that says the same thing whether you read it forward or backward:
Ex-girlfriend.
This time it’s Kelly who waggles her eyebrows. I don’t look in Jake’s direction, but I can sense he’s also looking at me. I can tell in my periphery that he looks concerned, but I keep my eyes on the phone as it dances, transfixed.
“Sorry, guys,” Jake says. “I have to get this.”
He takes the phone off the table and stands. I don’t dare look up at any of my friends, especially when he walks away. Before his voice trails off, I know they hear his words, too.
“Hey, babe. It’s okay, I’m here . . .”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say, and with my head tucked down, I head to the bathroom so it’s not a lie. After splashing cold water on my face, I look in the mirror.
“Sorry, Jesus,” I whisper. “That was hard.”
I want to say more to God, but there’s a lump in my throat. Jake’s never told me we’re more than friends, but my friends treat us like we are. It’s become What are Jake and Lovette doing? Or Where are Jake and Lovette? Secretly, I like how they’ve started to look at us. And in one phone-rattling caller ID word, they were reminded that we are not what they’ve made us. My face burns thinking of my friends’ faces, jaws tight, sucking in air through clenched teeth, those saucer eyes filled with pity.
I need to get out. For the second time in less than a month, I walk off campus without looking back. I have my backpack and Mike’s skateboard. Everything I need. The ocean is never closed during school hours.
* * *
I’m out in the water in no time, the ripples of waves slapping and licking the edges of the board. I’m on the longboard today. I wanted something steady, something solid that I could rest my whole body on. It’s more like lying on a table. Sturdy. Reliable. I sigh, and my stomach sinks deeper against the hard fiberglass. My board is in its “no-no” position, parallel to the shoreline, but I’m out beyond the lineup so I don’t have to worry about being sideswiped.
I’m embarrassed that I feel empty in the rib cage, like hollow and achy. Strangely, that makes me think of the second book in Twilight, how Edward left Bella, and from October to January, an entire eight pages were left blank to signify that nothing happened. Literally nothing was worth anything outside of Bella’s relationship with Edward. Life was over if she couldn’t have her man. I remember how girls swooned, and I rolled my eyes. Ohmygosh, Jesus, am I turning into Bella?
This prayer makes me laugh out loud, and I feel a little better. I guess outside of Jesus, everything would be about finding the perfect guy. The perfect job. The perfect image. But there’s more to this life. There’s more to me. God’s taught me that, and I can’t un-know it. Why do my feelings try to make me forget? I groan and prop up on my elbows.
“What do you think about all this?” I ask Him, my voice bouncing lightly off the lapping waves. “Are you getting me out of something before it gets worse? I didn’t feel crummy about guy-girl stuff before I met Jake. Maybe if I stop talking to him, I’ll feel better. Maybe that’s what you want.”
But if I stop talking to Jake, that feels petty, like I’m someone dramatic who’ll ask him for a glass of water and then pour it on his head and say, “That’s what you did to my heart!” or slam his locker closed when he opens it and yell, “Thanks for doing the same to me!” I grin imagining it, and there’s a part of me that wishes I could be that person for a day.
I slide my elbows off and place my left ear against the wet board, and it makes a few suction cup noises as I settle. My eyes focus on the horizon, the light bluish white against the dark water, and I feel His presence so close as I stare at His handiwork.
The word handiwork is in the Bible, I remember. “For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”
My hands trace the smooth curves of the board. The guy who shaped this board was meticulous—I know that without ever asking him. I know he took great care. His handiwork is the only evidence I need.
This makes me smile. I’m God’s surfboard. He’s shaping me. And the smallest imbalance or rough edge, He’s going to find. And He won’t settle until I ride perfectly.
But then, is Jake just a rough edge? Or is he part of the finished product? What if he’s the rough edge, and God’s taking the sandpaper to him, rubbing him off and out of my life?
Oh my gosh, I am Bella.
I’m not in the mood for catching waves, but I paddle around saying the second part of that verse as if it’s a song on repeat—how God has created me to do good works for Him—and a boyfriend is unnecessary. I don’t need to be an uneven board. I don’t need Jake. I don’t.
* * *
When I get home Monday evening, Mom is already there. Morning migraine, she informs me.
“Your boyfriend stopped by after school. Where were you?”
“I had some things to do,” I say. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Well, I hope you’re not sleeping with a stranger!” She laughs, and my jaw drops.
“I’m not sleeping with him!”
“Okay, that’s your story, but I thought maybe you were called in to work, so I sent him there. I imagine that’s why the school called
, wondering why you weren’t in sixth period.”
“Oh.”
I fiddle with my backpack, pulling it off my shoulders. She watches me, waiting for more. “Jake seems nice. Your father invited him to dinner on Friday.”
I cringe. “Mom!” This is horrible. He cannot come over. “I have to work Friday,” I say, and make a mental note to ask Kim for a shift switch.
Mom pouts her lips. “Oh, that’s too bad. You never have to work on Fridays. Well, he declined too. Why don’t you invite him next week? Make sure you don’t get scheduled. And while you’re at it, tell Billy’s Buns never to schedule you again during school, or I will have a talk with your manager.”
I sigh. I don’t have the energy to argue. I’ll figure it out later. “Okay, sounds good.”
I shuffle to my room, snap my blinds shut, and crawl into my bed with my clothes on. “He declined too.” I looked up at my Kelly Slater poster. He’s tucked in a barrel, the fierce water circling him but not taking him over, like it’s there to protect him, not take him down. “Like you,” I say to God. I throw my head against my pillow. “Stay in the barrel,” I remind myself as I nod off to sleep. “Jake’s not your barrel.”
* * *
I think Jake got the hint after Mom sent him to work to find me, and Kim told him that I wasn’t scheduled that day. He’s been polite, but we both have taken a step back. We say hi, and we talk at lunch with our group as if nothing happened. But a film of tension has settled at our table, like everyone sees that we’re not showing up together or talking about each other, but no one wants to point it out. Everyone laughs and jokes, but their eyes shift around at one another, and no one asks what we are doing after school. It’s back to Jake or Lovette. It’s no longer Jake and Lovette.
At youth group, I avoid him during big-group game, and at the end, I leave right after the final amen of the sermon. I sit in front, and he sits in back. Kelly stays glued to me, squeezing my arm and telling me it’s better this way. Dave sits on the other side of her, and it’s a little weird to have her holding both of our hands.
On Friday, I work Kim’s shift at Billy’s Buns until eight, and then I head over to the Venue. I’m late, but Lydia doesn’t seem to notice. She also doesn’t bring up Jake, and for the first time in months, she doesn’t complain about Kaj, which is so weird that even Uncle Joe asks if she’s feeling okay. She waves him off like, “Not now, I’ll fill you in later.” Then she tips her head at me and gives Uncle Joe a shake of her head. I don’t mention that I have these things called eyes and that she’s as subtle as a tsunami.
Every morning I wake up at five thirty and surf, skate, or read my Bible. I fill my time as much as I can. On the water, I practice my cutbacks, my momentum building, and even after a few sessions, my surfing feels natural. But it’s lost some of the joy, especially when I have a great ride and I don’t hear Jake’s voice yelling, “Attagirl!” or his hand slapping the water.
On our second Friday apart, I see Jake in the hallway after second period. I nod and give a quick wave. He smiles the polite way—without teeth—just lips pressed together and slightly upturned. This has happened a few times, and it seems to be our new distant way of communicating. Yesterday he even said, “How are you?” and I said, “Fine.”
Progress.
After fifth period, I head to lunch. My fifth is on the far corner of campus, so I get to the lunch quad by circling around the outside of the school rather than cutting through the interior walkways. I pass a few kids and they snicker. I think it’s about some inside joke, but then the next two girls laugh also as I walk by, their eyes on me and not each other. I feel for the zipper on my jeans. Nope. I look down. No toilet paper on my Chucks. An uneasy feeling is spreading upward from my toes.
A guy shouts, “Hey, Lovette, can I be your first?”
Another guy shouts, “First what?” and they both laugh.
I turn the corner and push through the double doors to the cafeteria.
Papers.
That’s the first thing I see, even before all the students.
Papers, like confetti after a concert, are blowing in every direction. So many students I know and don’t know, papers in their hands. All looking at me. Giggling. Shushing. This stuff only happens in movies, I think, but no. They really are all looking at me. Against the walls of the cafeteria, under the sports banners, on the backs of chairs, on the sides of the food kiosks, there are papers plastered with Scotch tape.
A guy walks by. “Don’t get too close. You know what might happen.”
I reach for the wall next to me and pull off one of the papers. It rips from the tape, and the top part stays on the wall, but I recognize the writing. It’s my writing.
I decided back when I was twelve that I was going to wait until I was married. And not just for sex.
Oh no. I feel light-headed.
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.
Cecilia. I search for her, and she’s not hiding. She’s standing there, her two clones with their swishing soccer sweats giving her a wide berth so she can hold the spotlight for this moment. She smiles like she’s scored a winning goal, her ponytail high, her shoulders back. There’s no mistaking who’s behind this. She wouldn’t dare let anyone else get the credit.
I look at the paper, and it’s hard to read because it’s shaking in my hand. Cecilia blacked out some of it with Sharpie before she made the megazillion copies. The part where I said I wasn’t sure if I felt the same way anymore. She cut that out. I read the next part without breathing:
I even signed a purity contract.
More Sharpie. Then:
Saying you’ve never kissed a guy sounds really dumb and embarrassing.
More Sharpie.
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?
Underneath, Cecilia tried to mimic my handwriting, adding:
Everyone knows you can get pregnant from kissing.
“That part’s not me!” I want to scream. And it doesn’t even fit after my last words: Lol. Get it? I’m sure it all sounds ridiculous. But that. That part makes Jesus sound positively absurd.
After the past two weeks, this is all I can take. My eyes get glassy. No, no, no. Blink. Hold it together, Lovette. It’s a dumb prank. I look at the carpet of papers strewn across the linoleum. This took a team of people. Cecilia didn’t work alone.
Someone walks up from behind and says in my ear, “You’re fine, Lovette. Just don’t let her see you cry.” I was fine. But it’s Jake’s voice in my ear, and he’s standing right next to me, and he’s saying my name as if we haven’t had two full weeks of monastery silence between us. I feel his gentle touch on my waist, and it’s all I can take. The tears spring forth. I whip my head 180 degrees from Cecilia, so she can’t see the waterfall cascading down my cheeks.
“Aw, shit,” he whispers, and I think he realizes that it’s him who’s made me cry. He throws an arm around me, and I want to throw his hand off and yell at him like in the movies, but everyone is watching, so instead I burrow my face into his armpit. It doesn’t smell of aftershave and soap like the books say. It smells like it’s been five hours since he put on deodorant. Still, it’s better than looking at Cecilia. He guides me out past the tables, our feet sliding on the paper like sneakers on an ice rink, past the kid who says that Jake should wear a condom if he’s putting his arm around me. Jake only pauses enough to shoulder-check the kid, sending him stumbling backward with a middle finger in the air. He ushers me through the double doors into the parking lot, and when we’re away from the world, I crumple to the curb and put my head in my hands.
Chapter Twenty-Four
My hidden face feels hot against my hands. My nose drips s
not to the pavement like a long strip of taffy, which is fine because I don’t plan on lifting my eyes to where Jake can see them. The strange thing is that I’m not hated at our school. I’m not popular, but I’m not hated. So to be the butt of something so calculated, so grandiose—feels shocking. Yes, planned by Cecilia, but executed by more than one person. She got others to agree to help her. That’s the part that gets me.
I wonder what Jake is thinking as he rubs my back. Is he going to say we should ditch school again and go surfing?
“I can’t ditch school again,” I say after five minutes of curb silence.
He doesn’t respond. Is he planning to tell me not to worry about what others think? Maybe he wants to remind me how I play to an audience of one—Jesus—and how nothing else should matter. Or—oh no—he’s going to say something cheesy like, “Buck up, buttercup,” or worse, quote Notting Hill when Hugh Grant’s character says, “Today’s newspapers will be lining tomorrow’s wastepaper bin.” Like, who cares? And who does care? I know this. It’s just everything all together.
“My dad went to Afghanistan,” his voice begins, gravelly and strained. I don’t move. He’s never shared specifics about his dad’s deployment. “A few months in, guess someone got word that there was a soldier encampment, and the rebels came in and bombed. His best friend was in the market grabbing some food for them.”
I look up from my hands, not at Jake, but out at the parking lot. I want him to know I’m listening. I clean my snotty face with the back of my sleeve. Two students are walking off campus, one lighting a cigarette as they go. I pull my knees to my chest and rest my chin on my forearms.
Jake removes his hand from my back, strokes the sidewalk open palmed. “He wasn’t alive when my dad found him, but Dad carried him out, got third-degree burns on his arms from touching his best friend’s skin. He only set him down when he found a little Afghani girl, six . . . maybe seven years old, who was riding her bike home from school when it happened. The wheels of her bike were melted to her leg. He held the girl until she stopped breathing.”
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