Beyond the Break

by Heather Buchta

  Jake arches an eyebrow at me. “Is that where the word porn comes from?”

  “I don’t know! I did not Google ‘porn’ to see what would come up. But, anyway, it’s a whole bunch of things, including even”—I lower my voice—“bestiality.”

  “Great.” He looks like he’s lost his appetite.

  “But in that pile is sex outside of marriage. It’s one of the things. So God’s definitely like, ‘Hey, don’t do this.’”

  “I didn’t know you ever doubted that.”

  “I just wanted to know for sure.”

  “I’d like to know that you’re sure about competing.”

  “Of course I am!”

  “Well, you just missed a great set because you were reciting your research paper.”

  “It’s not a research paper. And I didn’t want that wave.”

  “You know who did want that wave? The winner of your heat, that’s who.”

  I splash him, but he seems nervous. He glances at me and then back at the horizon. I lie back down on my board, paddle so close to him our boards almost touch. “Gosh, it’s like you’re the one competing in two weeks.” I lean on my elbow facing him. “Why didn’t you, by the way? Sign up? You afraid of beating me, Hawaii boy?”

  He gives a half laugh. “Nah. I just knew this was your thing. That you needed it.”

  I reach out and touch him with my toe. “I did. Thank you.” And then I add, “There’s one more competition in May. Sign up for that one with me?”

  He looks at me, his eyes pained for a moment. “Maybe.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  But he answers, “Wave.” I turn, and a perfect one’s forming. I aim my board at the shore and go, then see in my periphery that Jake’s racing me for it. I grin, seawater shooting into my mouth as I stroke my arms harder.

  “Come on, mannequin!” he shouts. “Don’t be such a statue. Move!”

  We both pop up at the same time, and I smile at him over my shoulder. I’m in front, blocking out any move he can do. He rides slowly, I can tell, so he doesn’t collide with me, and I gloat by making extra rail to rails, tic-tacking down the line like I’m on a skateboard. I wiggle my butt at him. The wave is kind to me as I make a bottom turn and shoot back up its face. At the top, just to rub it in with a finale, I arch my back, stick my belly to the sky, and throw my head back, trying for a soul arch. Of course that’s silly to do on a shortboard, and I lose my balance and back flop into the water.

  When I emerge, he’s clapping, his applause sarcastic and slow.

  “Why, thank you,” I say, getting back on my board and meeting him to paddle back out.

  “Congratulations. You just got eliminated.”

  “Sore loser.”

  “Who was closest to the peak?”

  He obviously was closest to the breaking part of the wave, which meant he had the right of way.

  “You, but I thought you were only fighting me for the wave so you’d light a fire under my butt.”

  “We’re simulating competition. You just got penalized for interference, and they just dropped your best wave.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to have more than one.”

  “And don’t do a soul arch. It’s hardly worth any points. And you’ll never pull it off on a shortboard. Not with these waves and the way they drop out.”

  “Aye, aye, captain.”

  He shakes his head and looks out at a distant sailboat. It’s sweet how nervous he is for me. I decide to hold off on any more Bible verses until the fifteen minutes is over.

  Another set comes in during the last minute, and I ride it clean and neat, one bottom turn, and then end with a simple tailslide. Decent. Comfortable. Not fireworks, but safe.

  * * *

  Back on the shore, lying side by side on our towels, I continue talking to him. “But all the other stuff I read in the Bible—about avoiding sex unless they were married—it was weird for them too. It wasn’t like it was because they were all uptight back then. Guys could sleep with whoever, seriously, married girls, single girls, prostitutes—sorry, sex workers—and then Jesus comes along and he’s like, nope. Not okay.”

  “Shame.” My mouth falls open. “I’m kidding!” He pulls me close and reaches around the base of my neck. “Have I tried to have sex with you?”

  “No.”

  He kisses my cheek. “Then why all the defense?”

  “Because it doesn’t start that way! It’s not like you throw off your clothes one day and say, ‘Hey, baby, let’s do it.’”

  His eyes widen, a mix of amusement and incredulity. “Is that what I’m gonna say?”

  “No! I’m just giving an example. Be serious.”

  “I can’t. Not with all the ‘Hey, baby.’” He pulls me on top of him. “Hey, baby, let’s touch lips.”

  I crane my neck away from him. “You’re impossible.”

  “With God, all things are possible.” He grins, knowing he took that verse way out of context. But I feel his muscles through our layers, and I wrap my arms around him and kiss him deeply. We lose ourselves, and the chill in the air becomes less as our body heat warms the thin layer of seawater trapped in our suits.

  Lately at the beach, we’ve been kissing lying down on our towels, and it’s my new favorite thing. We’re in our wetsuits, so it’s not like anything bad can happen. We lie side by side, or I lie on top of him, and when he lies on me, he’s careful not to crush me. It’s usually only from the waist up, but there’s something different about our bodies connecting and not just our mouths. It’s an intense feeling of closeness, like the best hug I’ve ever received. I told that to Jake the first time we lie-down kissed, asked him if he felt the same thing, and he smiled and kissed my forehead. “Something like that,” he laughed. “Guys are wired a little differently. Sorry, designed.” When I asked him what he meant, he shook his head.

  “So, Six-Sport Saturday,” he says, peeling himself away from me.

  “What about it?”

  I can’t believe our annual lock-in is this weekend. It feels like just yesterday they were announcing the six-sport theme at youth group. We start at 6:00 a.m., drive to Mt. High eighty miles away, and snowboard for three hours. Then we drive back down the mountain and meet at the beach for lunch. The whole afternoon from 2:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m., we compete in four other sports, each lasting an hour: surfing, volleyball, cornhole, and Ultimate Frisbee. We play Ultimate with a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee since it’ll be pretty dark by then.

  When we get back to church, we eat dinner and then play our final sport: capture the flag. I think the leaders hope we’ll be so tired afterward that we’ll all pass out in our sleeping bags as they play some John Hughes movie that they’ll claim is the best movie ever! At 6:00 a.m., before heading home, we’ll stuff our faces with too many doughnuts and hold an award ceremony to receive our official Six-Sport Saturday certificates, bragging rights to our non-California friends that we surfed and snowboarded in the same day.

  “You know.”

  “You mean because it falls on Valentine’s Day?”

  Pastor Brett says it’s perfect so that we celebrate the love we have for our friends and not just the romantic love we have for one other person. I’m excited I get to celebrate both.

  “No, the whole surfing part—” Jake starts.

  “Oh, that. Don’t worry. I know, I know.” There’ll be too many eyes watching, too many people whose parents know my parents, who could run into them at Trader Joe’s and say things like, “Wow, your daughter’s quite the surfer.” And then Dad would have a coronary and there’d be no surf competition, not with the funerals and all. His funeral first, then mine when Mom murders me afterward.

  He brushes my cheek with the back of his pinkie. “It’s too risky.”

  I nod, the pit in my stomach gnawing at me. I used to think it was my own
guilt, but now I’m thinking it’s the Holy Spirit bugging me to tell the truth. I know it’s not coming from me because I feel fine about keeping it secret. What my parents don’t know won’t hurt them.

  “Too bad it’s not Five-Sport Friday, right?” I say, and he leans in and thanks me with a kiss. I lose myself for the next hour, lying next to him, on him, and under him, kissing until my face is raw and red and a single star appears in the twilight.

  Chapter Forty

  We arrive early at church on Saturday to make sure we get the good fifteen-passenger van and not the one that smells like chicken nuggets and spoiled milk. We all know which van’s used for the elementary day-camp Youth Adventures, and whenever Pastor Brett takes two vans anywhere, it’s the one time high-schoolers arrive early. A line forms outside the good van by 5:20 a.m. After we fill up, the overflow crowd groans and makes the funeral march to the Youth Adventures van. Many of us have our own boards and skis, so one of the leaders stashes our equipment in his pickup. A couple of students luck out and ride with leaders who are holding backpacks and beach supplies for later today.

  The van’s quiet the entire way, most of us sleeping with our foreheads against the row of seats in front of us. There’s only one carsick incident, which of course happens in the chicken-nugget van.

  * * *

  At the mountain, Brett prays with us as a group, gives us check-in times, and then sets us free. It’s only 7:30 a.m., and we’re not meeting back at the vans until 11:00 a.m. We all disperse, grabbing our equipment, getting in line for passes, or heading to rentals.

  “Hey, Kells,” I say, as we buy our tickets. “You wanna board with us?”

  She looks surprised. “Huh? Okay. I may slow you down.”

  “I’m not racing.”

  Dave looks at her, and there’s this eye conversation that goes on. Then she says, “Nah, you’ll probably be too fast for me, even on a slow day. Why don’t you guys go have fun?”

  “Come on, Dave,” Jake says. “You afraid to be outboarded by a girl?”

  “Me? Nah, nah.”

  “Okay, then, let’s go!”

  Dave hesitates and then lifts his snowboard. Kelly hoists her skis over her shoulder, and we trudge up the icy slush to the chairlift.

  For the brief few hours that we glide on waves of white groomed powder, Kelly forgets she’s “concerned” about my relationship with Jake, and Dave forgets he’s supposed to remind her of that. And they both forget that they’re supposed to be shunning him. He high-fives them and leads them through fun tree sections. Kelly smacks me playfully with her ski pole, and when she stops to adjust her glove, I carve hard and spray her with snow. When we finally take a break for hot chocolate and french fries, our faces are flushed from the icy wind, and Kelly’s holding my hand and twisting my hair into ringlets. Carrie and Jessica join us, and we watch out the window and score people’s wipeouts.

  We’re back to the vans and on the road by 11:36 a.m., record timing for thirty-five teenagers. Everyone passes out again but gets a second wind the moment we arrive in Manhattan Beach. Lunch is set up, and we scarf down sandwiches from Billy’s Buns. Once the blue bags of Doritos are gone, we’re fortified for our next sport.

  For growing up near the ocean, we should be pros at beach volleyball, but you wouldn’t know it. We punch the ball back and forth and hope it lands on the other side. Carrie’s our ringer, spiking it like she’s president of the AVP, but the rest of us fall over it mostly, rolling in the sand and laughing.

  Meanwhile, the truck arrives with the rented foam surfboards, and the leaders disappear to bring them over. Kelly eyes me. “Don’t worry,” I say to her. “I’m not surfing today.” She sighs with relief and then looks at Dave, like “See?”

  I wonder if Kelly’s told him I’m not allowed to surf. I wonder if he was planning on telling my parents if he caught me today. Or worse, I wonder if he was going to have Kelly do it. I shake that out of my head. I’m making up thoughts, judging people before they’ve even done anything wrong. I mumble an apology to God and jog into the water.

  Dave yells, “I thought you weren’t allowed to swim.” I look at Kelly, who looks away. So she did talk.

  “I’m peeing,” I yell back. “Wanna come in? It’s warm over by me.”

  “Ha. Ha,” he says and splashes in, temporarily giving up his crusade. Jake and Kelly join me, and the four of us body surf and have the best time. The surfboards are brought in to the white water, and I watch as everyone gets tumbled. Boards slingshot in every direction. I can’t take it.

  “Come on,” I say to Jake. “We can at least help them.”

  We stay in waist-high white water and steady their boards, point the noses toward the shore, and help them wiggle onto their stomachs. We shove the boards to make sure they have enough momentum for the wave to take hold. Many of our friends crawl to their knees, or lose their balance and flop to the sides, but once in a while, someone will stand with shaky legs and airplane arms and everyone will cheer and applaud.

  An hour later, cornhole’s much more laid-back, with everyone tossing beanbags and just hoping they plop through the hole in the board. Dennis, who was sliding on his backside anytime we saw him on the mountain, and who couldn’t even get on the surfboard without falling back in the water sputtering, is now shouting, “Who’s your momma?” and landing every beanbag on the surface or in the hole. Jake and I lose in the semis to him and Tricia, and I run over to get a drink from the water fountain, hearing him yell, “Boom!” behind me.

  Around the corner of the public bathroom, I notice Dave and Kelly talking heatedly about something. I’m too far away to hear, but she’s waving her arms, and he keeps trying to calm her.

  “Hey!” I hear Jake’s voice and turn from them. He’s by the outdoor showers. He places his palm on the shower knob and pushes with a jolt of his shoulder. Water shoots down from the spout. He wiggles his eyebrows. “I seem to remember this triggering something.”

  I grin and walk over to him. “You know we can’t kiss here. Not in front of our whole youth group. Can you imagine?”

  “Yes. I like to imagine it very much.”

  I splash him with the water. The shower does its automatic shut-off thing. “Nope.”

  “Wait. Where are you going?” he asks, as I head toward the beach crew. “This is the part where you turn it back on. With your palm. And the eye thing. And then the kiss thing. And the water falling on us . . .”

  When my eyes scan the public bathrooms again, Dave and Kelly are gone.

  * * *

  During the first ten minutes of Ultimate, Abe Montez gets an elbow to the nose and a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee to the eye, so while the boys are “tending to him,” but really just going in for a closer look at the blood, I find Kelly. “Hey, you okay?”

  She scrunches her nose and eyes. “Of course. I wasn’t even near Abe or the Frisbee.”

  “No, ya goof. I mean with Dave.”

  She hesitates. “Why?”

  “I dunno, I saw you over by the bathrooms. You seemed—well, you both seemed bothered.”

  “Oh.” She rolls her neck around. Digs a foot in the sand. “I mean.” She clears her throat. Gosh, she’s bad about hiding things. “Maybe it looked that way. But you know.” She licks her lips. “Are you sure it was us? It’s dark. Look what just happened to Abe.”

  “No, it was earlier. What’s going on, Kells?”

  Her eyes glisten. She opens her mouth, but then Dave comes lords-a-leapin’ across the sand. “Duuuude. That was rough. Gonna leave a mark for sure. He got an A-kicking. But he’ll have one H of a story.”

  When I look again at Kelly, the tears aren’t there.

  “Are you both okay?”

  He looks at me and then Kelly. She shakes her head once.

  Dave frowns. “Not sure what you mean.”

  I explain what I saw by the bathrooms
. Kelly’s flailing hands. Dave’s soothing touches.

  “Right. Right.” He nods like it’s all coming back. “We’re wrestling through some things right now.”

  “Things? Are you back together?”

  “No!” he answers so quickly, Kelly flinches. “Kelly’s like a sister in Christ. I love her like a sister.” I look at Kelly but she’s looking at her hands, kneading them as if they lack circulation. “We courted for two months,” he continues, “but then we prayed and we didn’t feel prompted, so we’re trying to be intentional. You know, I’m trying to guard her heart. Be a brother.” This doesn’t answer why they were arguing, but I let it go.

  On the way back to the vans, I reach for Kelly’s hand like old times, and she takes it gratefully, squeezing it as if to acknowledge that I’m not crazy. Something was going on.

  At the church, after the pizza boxes are empty, we pick teams and turn off the lights for a capture the flag across the inside and outside of the church property. Students scurry in every direction, disappearing into the night. Jake’s by my side, and as we creep along an outdoor walkway, I couldn’t care less about the game. His arm’s around my waist, and I keep feeling his finger trace my side, up and down, up and down.

  A back door’s open to the sanctuary, so we let ourselves in, hunters on the prowl. It’s a good shortcut to the other side if you can make it through without getting caught, but we hear squeals and gasps in distant rows on the other side. It’s going to be a hairy exit if we go that way. My hand moves along the back wall and I feel the door to the prayer room. I open it and pull Jake inside just as I hear footsteps padding down the carpeted hallway. The person passes, we wait a minute, and then I tug Jake’s hand to go back out. He leans close, touches my neck with his lips. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he murmurs, and I melt. He pulls away, but I pull him back, and then we are kissing, really kissing, and I whisper, “You okay not winning capture the flag?”