The Only Exception

by Abigail Moore

  “Can I go back out now?” I plead. Papaw laughs.

  “No, I think it’d be best to keep that on ice a little longer,” he responds, gesturing at my eye. I make a fake pouty face and cross my arms, but he just laughs again.

  After bidding Sally goodbye and driving home, McKayla decides to go back out on the waves. “Gotta get a jump on the competition,” she says, winking. I laugh and head back to my room, calling a hello to Grammy on the way.

  Five

  I crash on my bed, crank up the stereo and select Mayday Parade’s version of “Somebody That I Used to Know” on my computer. Using my one good eye and holding a new ice pack on the other, I scroll through Twitter. Amy’s already posted a ton of photos from camping with Logan. It looks like she’s having a blast. I pull out my iPhone and take the ice off my bruise to capture a selfie. Ouch. Now I know why people have been so shocked all day. The bruise is dark purple with blue around the edges, encompassing my entire right eye socket and a bit below. It does not look pretty, to say the least.

  I snap a quick photo and add the caption “1st day back in Oahu. Surfing, got kicked in the eye, suffice to say, my day has been interesting. #trainingmishaps.” Tweet. I continue to scroll, until the little device buzzes with a text from Amy. “So… Logan kissed me at the campfire a few minutes ago…” I roll my eyes, but text back “Aww sweet :) congrats. Loved seeing your pics on Twitter.”

  It’s not that I hate love. I don’t. In fact, I frequently read love stories and watch all those chick flick romantic comedies. Jane Austen is one of my favorite authors, and pretty much all she ever wrote was romance. It’s just that I know that’s what they are: stories. Fiction. Love like that is too good to be true, and I don’t want my best friends getting hurt because they’re mistaken that it is true.

  Speaking of stories, I pull the sequel to This Present Darkness off my bedside table and try to read with my one eye. Unfortunately, I can’t wear my glasses with the ice pack and it’s a pain reading with the one eye. I don’t need glasses all the time, but I depend on them heavily for up close reading or working on the computer. Well, scrap that idea.

  I turn off the music and pick up the guitar in the corner. A beautiful instrument, made of all Koa wood, a gorgeous Hawaiian wood that almost all surfboards used to be made out of, and some still are. It’s my favorite out of the three I have. I have my favorite acoustic that stays at my dad’s house most of the time, a black Fender Strat and amplifier at my mom’s house and a black Taylor acoustic at my mom’s house.

  My left hand fingers skim over the neck and my right hand hits the strings, damping them slightly and start playing “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood. Sometimes, a good Carrie Underwood breakup song is the only way to let out frustration. Even if you haven’t broken up with anyone, they’re still great for letting off steam.

  After a little more guitar, I hop up and head out to the living room, taking my pillow with me. Browsing the DVD case, I’m in the mood for an old favorite. Something to cheer me up. “What are you thinking?” Grammy asks, settling into the couch. I hold up the case for the 2005 Pride and Prejudice starring Keira Knightly and Matthew MacFayden, based on the Jane Austen novel. She smiles. “Good idea,” she replies as I slide the disc into the player.

  “I love this movie,” I sigh. She nods.

  “How’s your eye?” she inquires. I shrug and take the ice off for her to see. She inspects it and nods.

  “Sawyer gave you quite the bruise,” she states. “You really can’t hold this against him, though. He’s as sweet a young man as you’ll ever meet.” I laugh.

  “You know the phrase ‘adding insult to injury?’” I inquire. She nods and I point at my eye. “He added injury to insult.” She laughs that familiar musical laugh I love.

  “I’m serious, though. He’s a very nice boy,” she remarks after she’s stopped laughing.

  “I’m sure he is,” I retort. “When he’s not dropping in on other people’s waves and kicking them in the face.”

  “Yes,” she laughs again. I lay back with my legs over her lap and hold the ice to my face, watching Elizabeth Bennet’s tale of the ups and downs of her and her sisters’ love lives unfold for the next two hours in front of my eyes. Well, eye.

  After the movie, she heads into the kitchen and I decide to sit at the bar so I can keep talking to her. “So what’s new in the world of Andrea?”

  “Not much,” I reply. “School year was good. Read a lot. Read, like, the best book ever.”

  “What book?” she asks, wiping down the counter and preparing to make dinner.

  “Three Hours Too Soon,” I sigh. “Lots of great lines, great love story, very tragic.”

  “Maybe I’ll read it,” she supposes.

  “Movie comes out the day before Junior Champs,” I add. “If you want to read it, read it before then. I probably won’t be able to shut up about it after going to see it.”

  “Maybe I’ll just go see the movie then,” teases Grammy, winking. She and I have a thing for reading the book before watching the movie. The only thing I don’t read before I see it is Shakespeare and that’s because it’s easier to follow the story line if you can see what’s happening instead of just reading the script. Boy, kids at school drove me nuts about that when The Hunger Games came out. Almost none of them read the books, so, of course, they missed nearly half the details of the plot line.

  “I’m excited for competition,” I state. My fingers start to trail around the counter in various patterns.

  “Good. How often did you skate back north?”

  “Every day, or as close to it as I could get,” I reply. “A lot of the local skaters taught me new tricks that I can’t wait to try on the water.”

  “Sawyer skates, too,” she informs me. “He competes at surfing and apparently used to snowboard back in Australia during the winter.”

  “Cool,” I reply absentmindedly. “I kind of figured he did. He was doing skating tricks before he kicked me in the face.”

  “So do you really not like him?” Grammy asks.

  “Grammy, he kicked me in the face,” I respond shortly.

  “Yes, but I hit you in the face on accident and knocked out your loose tooth when you were ten,” she points out. “And you still like me.”

  “That’s different,” I argue. “That was an accident and you’re my grandma.”

  “You really think he meant to kick you?” she asks skeptically.

  “No, but he dropped in on my wave on purpose,” I explain. “The kick in the face was a byproduct of that.”

  “Sweetheart, he got too close and couldn’t correct the mistake before it was too late. He didn’t see you,” she defends. I huff and hop down off the barstool, climbing over the back of the couch to lay back again. I know he didn’t really mean to kick me, but the thought of letting him get off easy after dropping in on my wave makes me want to keel over and die. And the whole “it wasn’t my fault you almost drowned” thing doesn’t exactly boost his position on my “People I Like” list. It does, however, raise him a few places above Sally Emerson and just below Veronica Roth on my “People I Want to Punch in the Face” list. I’m sorry, but Divergent? Immense wasted potential. Great first book. I thought it could recover from the second book in the trilogy and get better, but boy, was I wrong.

  Regardless of my aggravation with authors who missed the “Unless Your Name is Shakespeare, Don’t Kill Your Main Characters” memo, Sawyer Hensley is not on my good side right now.

  The steady rhythm of my grandmother’s knife chopping pineapple on her wooden cutting board pounds away as I pick up my phone and scroll through Twitter again. Nothing new. Instead, I switch to Instagram, glancing at my friends’ photos intermixed with my favorite celebrities’ pictures. Taylor Swift’s cat did something adorable; Harry Styles took a random photo; Michael Clifford dyed his hair again; the usual. Social media. What would we do without it?

  Grammy calls Papaw i
n to dinner a little later from the garage. Did I mention my Papaw restores old motorcycles? He spends most of the day in the garage, fixing up old pieces of junk into well-oiled vintage beauties. Hands coated in grease, he immediately heads to the kitchen sink. “Why can’t you get scrubs that smell like seawater or motor oil?” Papaw questions, using the “Vanilla Breeze” sugar scrub to get the black goo off his hands.

  “Because you get enough of that on your hands as it is,” Grammy replies plainly, her eyes twinkling. I smile, happy to watch the playful banter between my grandparents. I envy them sometimes. My grandparents are among the lucky few that got it right.

  I suppose I’ll amend my earlier statement: True love doesn’t exist anymore. Back before “love” meant two people making googly eyes at each other, it worked. They paid attention to each other’s personalities, quirks and other things that matter so much more than appearance. My grandparents were best friends for three years before he asked her out. By then, they knew what made each other tick. She knew he had a passion for fixing up old things and making them new again. He knew she loved pre-1900s history. True love existed back then because their generation was smart. My generation just wants to have a good time with no strings attached. Unfortunately, that means girls with standards end up as old cat ladies, or divorced and trying to drown the pain in something else, whether it be work, drugs, alcohol or other men. It might not be pretty, but it’s true.

  Grammy brings a large pot over and I smell one of the best scents known to man: My grandmother’s Char-siu. It’s a Chinese version of barbecue pulled pork with a sweet and tangy Hawaiian glaze and a slice of pineapple on Hawaiian rolls. Hawaiian rolls are the best bread on the face of the earth. Sourdough is close second, but Hawaiian rolls have a sweet flavor that goes with anything and nothing can match. Yet another thing my New Yorker friends didn’t understand about me. Amy still swears that New York style pizza is better (but that’s unfair because it’s pizza. Pizza trumps all).

  “Annie? Would you like to pray?” Grammy asks. I shrug.

  “Sure,” I reply. They bow their heads and outstretch their hands toward each other and me. I do the same, linking hands with each of them, and try to come up with a decent prayer. “Lord Jesus, thank you for today. Thank you for bringing me back home to be with Grammy and Papaw. Thank you for this wonderful food Grammy made. Please bless it and let it nourish us to serve you. Amen.” They echo my last word and dig in to the food.

  Honestly, I don’t really know what I believe. My parents and grandparents are Christians, but I don’t really know where I fit. I don’t get it. A God that loves and protects and all that wouldn’t let me get caught in the cross-fire of the fight between my parents, right? Well, here I am. What’s up, God? Still working on that plan? I could use some instruction right about now. Or anytime between now and ten years ago would’ve been nice.

  “So, training,” Papaw starts. I listen attentively while chewing the most delicious thing in the world. “I’d say we’ll go on dawn patrol and get up at six-thirty and get you to Sunset, a ways down from Pipeline.”

  Sunset is Sunset Beach, which starts at the notorious Banzai Pipeline and goes on for about two miles. It’s one of the spots where the Vans Triple Crown of Surfing competition is held in the winter. Unfortunately, summer break happens during summer. The best big waves happen in the winter, so all the big competitions are in the fall and winter. It’s also where the Oahu Junior Championships are held, so I’ll be competing there in a week.

  “Sounds good,” I say, nodding. “What do I do about my eye though? Can the saltwater hurt it worse?”

  “Power through your training and I’ll give you some drops to put in when you get back. You can ice it, too,” Grammy consoles. I nod.

  “Since I didn't stay to watch you yesterday, I’ll just let you do what you like for a few waves and see where we should start with training,” Papaw suggests. I nod again, alternating between excitement about surfing and utter bliss over Grammy’s Char-siu.

  After dinner consists of my doing the dishes, Grammy wiping down the kitchen counters and Papaw flipping channels until he finds some news program to watch. As interesting as this is, I decide to go to my room and see if my parents have any time for me whatsoever.

  Upon viewing the gorgeous floral environment outside my back sliding door, I opt to head out there instead of flop on my bed. Settling down in the beach chair just outside my sliding door, I debate who to call first while listening to the far-off sound of the waves. I settle on Dad, because he’s in my same time zone, so he’s most likely done with work, or as done with work as is physically possible for my father.

  Punching in the numbers, I hit “Call” and wait. He answers on the first ring. “Hey, surfer girl, how’s it hanging?” he inquires. I laugh, wondering what my dad’s clients would think if they heard him talking like a surfer.

  “Hanging loose, Dad,” I shoot back. “How is it up on the mainland?”

  “Oh, business as usual,” he sighs. “Lots of meetings, just winning over a high-profile client.”

  “As much fun as that sounds, I’m stuck here. I start training for competition tomorrow,” I inform him.

  “Annie, you didn’t say anything about competition! That’s awesome!” he answers. I actually did say something about competition. A lot of somethings, as a matter of fact. Is it bad that I barely notice what my dad forgets about our conversations anymore? Practically everything I say is apparently not worthy of his attention or memory.

  “Thanks,” I say instead. “I’m excited. I’m signed up for two local competitions and, depending on the results from those, I might have a shot at regionals.”

  “Your mother agreed to regionals?” he asked. “That uncharacteristic of her.”

  “We’re not certain about it yet,” I dodge, trying to weave my way around the question. “Right now, I’m just focusing on my first competition in a few years.”

  “Well, you were pretty good at skateboarding and snowboarding competition,” he rationalizes. “I doubt being in your natural element will hurt you.”

  “I know,” I reply. “It is different though, and I’m nervous.”

  “Well, hang in there, hon. I’ve gotta go. My assistant is calling me.”

  “All right. Love you, Dad,” I bid.

  “Love you too,” he says, hanging up.

  Before I call my mother, I simply put my head back, close my eyes and listen to the rustling of the palm trees. The warm breeze washes over my face and I take a deep breath, smelling the fragrant Hawaiian flowers drifting on the salty breeze. This is my favorite feeling. Relaxed, warm with a little wind touching my cheeks, devoid of cares or worries. The feeling of being home.

  Next, I tap in my mom’s number and wait for the rings to end. Just as I think her voice mail is about to begin, she answers. “Hi sweetheart!” she says. “How’s my girl?”

  “Good,” I reply. “I signed up for those competitions I mentioned today.”

  “Fun,” she sighs. “How’s McKayla?”

  “She’s good. She has a boyfriend,” I answer.

  “How sweet,” Mom replies quaintly. “You should invite a boy from your school over sometime this fall. Or maybe that snowboarder you used to train with— Jake, right?”

  “Mom, the guys at my school are idiots,” I respond matter-of-factly. “And Jake moved to Colorado to train for the Olympics.”

  “Have you met any boys on the island yet?” she inquires.

  “Two. One is nice, but his little brother is a jerk.”

  “How old is he?”

  “The little brother is my age and the nice one is twenty,” I remember.

  “Are they cute?”

  “Mo-om!” I whine.

  “Sorry,” she laughs. “I just can’t help it! I want to see my baby fall in love someday.”

  “I can’t make guys fall for me mom,” I say, trying to avoid explaining the hideous truth to her again. “If the
y like me, they like me. If they don’t, they don’t. I can’t do anything about it.”

  “Except go out with them if they do like you.”

  “Mom!”

  “Sorry, honey,” she laughs again. “Alright, I’ve gotta go. Client calling.”

  “Okay. Love you mom.”

  “Love you too.” Dead line. I sigh.

  I’ve explained the whole “I don’t believe in love” thing to Mom before. She just doesn’t get it. It’s incomprehensible to her that a hormonal teenager would be able to resist going after every other boy she sees. I think she feels bad, too. She wants me to fall in love because she feels like it’s her fault that I believe this. Like she can somehow erase the pain of the divorce by getting me to fall in love.

  “Why is life so complicated?!” I shout at the flowers. Sadly, no one can answer that question.

  I pop inside to grab my book and settle back into my chair. I disappear into the world of This Present Darkness’s riveting sequel and don’t come out until Grammy taps my shoulder, telling me it’s almost ten and she’s going to bed. I nod and yawn, following her inside to ready myself for bed. I have to be well-rested for tomorrow morning to pull out all the stops.

  Six

  “Alright, I don’t want you to hold back,” Papaw instructs the next morning. I dig my toes further into the hot sand as I nod. The warmth of the sun filters through my rash guard, heating up my shoulders. “I want everything. New tricks, old tricks, whatever. Be careful on that knee, too. Clean rides, okay?”

  “Got it,” I affirm.