The Only Exception

by Abigail Moore

  Something you may not know about me is I’m multilingual. I speak English, sarcasm, whale, song lyrics and movie quotes. That’s one of my favorite moments in The Avengers. It’s a very accurate description of Sawyer and I, don’t you think?

  “You seemed to push each other pretty hard at Junior Champs and Pipeline with your smack talk,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

  “What about the bonfire?” I retort.

  “He apologized for that. You made up and you’re okay now. Come on, it will be fun.”

  “Nope. Not gonna do it,” I reply, folding my arms like a pouty little kid.

  “Annie,” she scolds gently.

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “Andrea Kalani Maverick, that boy has done nothing to deserve the way you treat him. The incident with your eye was a month and a half ago and it was an accident. He might’ve smack talked you, but you and McKayla smack talk all the time. McKayla threw paint filled water balloons at your favorite jeans once and you forgave her. All I’m asking is that you make an effort to be nice and start over,” she requests. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  “Fine, I’ll go,” I reply. “What am I supposed to wear? Sweatpants? A dress?”

  “They said they’ll have snacks and hang out first, then watch the movie,” she says. “Melissa said she’s making her boys dress nicely, so I expect you to do the same. Party starts in an hour. Make an effort!” I get up and go back to my room, wondering how that’s supposed to help me choose what to wear.

  It’s not that I just hate Sawyer. First of all, we’ve barely even spoken since the campfire. Second of all, I’m just not a party person. I don’t like being in big groups of people most of the time. The Emersons’ campfires are the closest I get to parties. I know, it doesn’t seem like it, but I would much rather sit and read of book than go and watch a movie with a bunch of kids who are going to talk through the whole thing. A cup of tea, some Nutella and a good novel definitely sounds better than pizza, pop and a group movie to me.

  After several minutes of staring at my closet and getting no where, I resolve to call Mac, who answers immediately. “What are you wearing to this stupid thing?” I ask.

  “I’m wearing a short purple dress over crop leggings,” she replies. “It’s a pretty casual dress though.”

  “Okay, I need help. Can you come?” I inquire, flopping back on my bed in defeat.

  “Be there in 2.”

  Precisely two minutes later, Mac is searching through my closet, unable to help but marvel at my clothing. I tried to bring only casual stuff, but even that is high fashion, name brand stuff my mom and dad bought me. She seen it before, but even I marvel at it sometimes. Most people never even see brands I own in person. Amy still goes crazy when I let her in my closet back in New York.

  “What about this?” she asks, holding up a white Forever 21 dress. It’s one of the few dresses I own that I like, mostly because it’s more like a tank top with a skirt than a froufy dress. “You look fantastic in white and always have.”

  “We’re watching a movie. You can’t kick back and watch a movie in a dress,” I counter.

  “Deal with it,” she says, throwing the dress at me, along with a pair of white lace leggings that come down just below my knees. She gasps suddenly. “You’re wearing these too!” she demands, pulling out a box of stiletto Christian Louboutin pumps. They’re slingback peep toes with a white background and have splotches of bright colors that look like they were painted on with delicate brush strokes.

  “Uh, no. I’m not wearing thousand dollar stilts to a birthday party,” I reject, even though the price is not my problem.

  “Please? Your grandma said make an effort,” she cajoles. I give her the look of death for a few seconds, but when she sets her hand on her hip and stares right back, I concede.

  “Fine,” I grumble, taking the shoes and dress from her. “These will make me almost as tall as him.”

  “Just put it on!” she bids. I go into the bathroom next to my room and change. I slide the stretchy white fabric over my head and stick my arms through the holes, then add the leggings. I slide my feet into the shoes and examine myself in the full-length mirror on the door. It’s definitely an effort, and I actually am almost as tall as him in these. The leggings are open lace, so they aren’t really any warmer than bare legs. The dress skirt comes down just below my fingertips and the waist is about two inches below the bottom of my rib cage. The slim tank top structure of the top shows off my toned and tan arms. It looks good.

  “Okay, one more thing,” McKayla prompts when I reenter the room. I raise an eyebrow and she pulls out my cosmetics.

  “No,” I state firmly.

  “Yes,” she argues. “Just a little.”

  “I hate you,” I grumble as she digs through my makeup bag, extracting foundation and powders and every other makeup known to man. I sit on the end of my bed and let her cover me in makeup.

  “Just a little” ends up being an entire makeover including a smoky eye that, I have to admit, looks really good. My bright red lipstick stands out luminously. As a finishing touch (or the final push towards insanity), Mac hands me the Christian Louboutin bow clutch that matches my shoes. I don’t bother to argue, I just take it and stick my phone and lipstick in it, even though I’d much rather have my hobo bag.

  After everything else is done, I brush out my hair and leave it down for once. It’s wavy from being in the french braid almost 24/7, but it looks good. I slip on the shoes, which, even if they are tall, are at least soft thanks to the silky fabric. Standing up, I give myself the once-over in the mirror on my closet door. With the makeup, it's no longer just effort. I am suddenly a striking young woman who can make heads turn without even trying. My dark brown eyes stand out, and my cheeks have just the right touch of color to them to give them definition. I also look like I’m headed out for Fashion Week. Oh, well. Grammy wanted effort. She can deal with this I suppose.

  She does more than deal with it, actually. “Oh, Andrea,” Grammy sighs as I enter the living room. “You look beautiful.”

  “Absolutely stunning,” McKayla agrees. She’s changed into her own purple tunic, a light lavender garment with cap sleeves and a lace overlay everywhere but the sleeves, paired with floral leggings that go down just below her knees. Just then, Papaw walks in. He whistles.

  “Where are you girls headed?” he interrogates.

  “Sawyer’s birthday party,” I reply.

  “Well, don’t get near me with that white dress,” he cautions. “I don’t want to get you all messy.”

  “Believe me, I’d love it if motor oil got on this dress right now,” I tell him.

  “Andrea! Effort!” Grammy repeats.

  What I say: “Sorry, got it, effort.” What I mean: “Sorry (not sorry).”

  “Good,” Grammy says, nodding. “In the car, both of you.”

  The drive is only about ten minutes to his house, which is a decently-sized Victorian with the garage on the right side. The driveway and street are both full of cars, so we park a bit down the road and walk up to the door. Mrs. Hensley answers it and smiles. “Look at you girls! McKayla, Michael is in the kitchen waiting for you,” she says, waving us in. Mac heads into the kitchen and I linger for a moment in the large, high-ceiling entryway. “Andrea, you look gorgeous.” I grin, unable to help myself. Mrs. Hensley is kind of impossible not to like.

  “Thank you,” I reply. “Your house is amazing.”

  “We like it,” she agrees, nodding, then she turns back to greet more guests. I slowly venture down the hall in what I think is the direction of the kitchen.

  I discover I am correct as I enter the room, lined with white cabinets and stainless steel appliances. It’s neat and big, but very cozy as well. My eyes travel around the room, taking in who is here until they land on Sawyer. His gaze is fixated on me from his spot across the room. He pulls at the red polo he’s wearing and smiles, making his way toward
s me. I take a few steps closer, but it only takes him a few strides to cross the space between us.

  “Andrea,” he greets breathlessly. “You look… wow, you look amazing.” A light giggle comes out of me, from where, I have no idea.

  “Thanks,” I say. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  “Thanks. My mum told me to wear something nicer than a t-shirt,” he laughs. I laugh, too.

  “Ditto. My grandma and McKayla both kept telling me to make an effort.”

  “Well, it looks to me like you made a huge effort,” he compliments. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your hair down before. Well, down and dry.”

  “I don’t wear it down very often,” I explain.

  “You should,” he recommends. “It’s nice.” I giggle again and glance down shyly. This girl is not me. I don’t know who she is, but it’s not me. This girl is gorgeous and giggly and getting along with Sawyer Jerkface Hensley. Although, he seems to be different, too in a way. “Do you want to head outside?”

  “Sure,” I answer, smiling.

  We exit through the sliding door in between the kitchen and living room and into the yard. The backyard is large and filled with people, most of whom I recognize from when I lived here or surf competitions, a few of whom wave or say hi.

  In the corner of the yard to my right as I exit through the back door, a PVC rectangle with a white sheet strapped over the edges stands erect just off the patio, with a projector sitting on an old table about twenty feet back. Just after the table, the yard begins to incline up to a lovely little garden that I’m guessing is Mrs. Hensley’s. On the hill, blankets and pillows cover the lawn.

  To my left on the patio is a table, overshadowed by an umbrella. Various candies, popcorn and other snacks are scattered across the table, with two blue coolers underneath for drinks. “Want something?” Sawyer inquires, noticing me looking at the spread.

  “Actually, water would be great,” I respond. He reaches into the cooler and retrieves a water bottle for me and a Mountain Dew for himself.

  “This seems to be our most common way of getting along,” he comments, smiling and handing me the water.

  “What?” I ask, puzzled.

  “Going to a movie,” he clarifies.

  “Oh, yeah,” I laugh. “So was Divergent your choice or…”

  “My choice,” he replies. “I figured everyone’s already seen Catching Fire a hundred times, and Divergent is another of the few movies I’ve seen that I’ve actually read the book of.”

  “How far did you get?” I inquire.

  “I read the whole trilogy and I really don’t know why I didn’t quit in the first two chapters of Insurgent,” Sawyer says honestly.

  “I quit about halfway through Insurgent and made my friend who read the whole thing tell me what happened. Suffice it to say, I was glad I stopped.”

  “I think Insurgent will be better as a movie, but the first one was better as a book,” he estimates.

  “Same,” I agree. “It helps to have Theo James and Shaliene Woodley as your lead love interests.”

  “They are good,” he says, nodding.

  “Hi Sawyer,” giggles Sally from behind him. He rolls his eyes at me and makes a face, turning around towards her. I stifle my own giggles, biting my lip.

  “Hey, Sally, nice to see you,” he greets.

  “Oh, Annie, you look nice,” she compliments in her high-pitched voice, sweeter than the entire layout of candy next to her.

  “Thanks, so do you,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady as Sawyer makes more faces at me.

  “Something the matter?” she inquires as my laughter bursts forth from me.

  “Yeah,” I answer, still laughing. “He’s an idiot.” I shove Sawyer’s shoulder playfully. He wears a smug smile for a moment, and then I gasp as he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder, spinning me around. I scream and laugh. “Put me down!” I shout.

  “Not until you say I’m totally awesome and not an idiot!” he retorts.

  “Fine! You’re totally awesome and not an idiot!” I say. He throws me down on a stack of pillows. “Thanks Jerkface,” I joke.

  “You’re welcome, Madame Banshee,” he replies, feigning a British accent and giving a little bow, before collapsing next to me. “I think you broke my eardrums.”

  “Ha, ha,” I say sarcastically. “I’m not that loud.”

  Sally seems to stick to Sawyer like pine tree sap, joining us seconds later. McKayla also has emerged from the house with Michael to join us in the grass. “You wouldn’t last a minute in Dauntless,” he says, referring to a group of characters in Divergent, who, since they value bravery above all else, do crazy and dangerous things to prove their bravery every day. “You were screaming like a crazy person.”

  “I would too!” I counter. “I’m totally dauntless.”

  “Prove it,” Sally interjects, flicking her eyebrows up in innocent question.

  “How?” I ask.

  “Walk the top of the garage,” she dares. “Or if you’re too chicken…”

  “I didn’t say anything, Sally,” I retort. McKayla gives me a look that says “You’re really even considering this?”

  Standing, I take my shoes off and hand them along with my clutch and water to Sawyer. “Can you hold these for me?”

  “Annie, don’t be stupid,” he says. I huff and put my things down on the blanket instead. I turn towards the garage, but he catches my hand.

  “I’m not,” I promise. His bright blue eyes are full of worry and maybe even a dash of panic, both of which surprise me.

  “Just,” he begins. “Just be careful.” I nod and squeeze his hand to reassure him.

  There’s a ladder on the side of the garage that I scale quickly without trouble. Sally has a smug look on her face as I stand and wobble on the metal ridgepole. My bare feet grip the hot metal. It’s only a few inches wide and rounded, so it’s not easy. I walk forward carefully, going heel to toe. Suddenly, I am at the end and relief floods through me. That wasn’t so hard.

  “Bring the ladder to the side,” I call down. Sawyer moves to help me, but Sally holds him back.

  “Walk back,” Sally counters. I roll my eyes.

  “Sally, no-“ Sawyer begins.

  “Don’t you think she’s brave enough to do it?” Sally asks him.

  Well, I guess it can’t be that much harder than last time. I step carefully and it’s going well, when suddenly, a few steps from the edge, I twist my left foot a little bit and a quick, sharp pain shoots up and down it from my knee. I lose my balance and fall forward off the roof, hitting my bad knee on the edge and feeling a piercing pain a hundred times worse than the one a few seconds ago. I hear Sawyer cry my name, but it sounds much further away than he is. I can still catch the desperation in his voice, though. A strangled noise I didn’t think I would ever hear, let alone feel come from my own throat, escapes me. I hit the ground and am a little dazed for a minute and my vision is slightly fuzzy. My entire left leg is full of shooting pain that would be enough to make anyone shriek, but for some reason, nothing but heavy breathing comes forth. I can only form one coherent thought, and even that’s a little woozy: Thanks, Sally. Thanks a lot.

  Twelve

  Unbelievable. Let me get this straight: I’ve surfed Mavericks (a surf spot where people have died because they wiped out), Pipeline (again, people have died) and taken on surf and snowboard tricks that only pros do without getting hurt, and I just got injured for walking on a stupid garage roof? My mother always said my pride would be my undoing. For some unknown reason, it took me until now to to realize she was right.

  “Annie!” Sawyer repeats, dropping to his knees beside me. “Oh, that’s not— Daniel get mum! McKayla, call Mrs. Maverick!” He brushes the hair out of my face gently.

  “Guess I was a little stupid, huh?” I joke as I try to sit up. I whimper in pain as my knee moves.

  “Don’t,” he commands, lay
ing a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t. Just lie still and we’ll get you help soon.” He takes my right hand in both of his and gently rubs it, and I try to focus on the soft, circular movement of his thumbs to distract me from my knee.

  “Sorry I ruined your party,” I apologize.

  “Don’t be,” he consoles. “This is a million times more exciting than just watching a movie.” I smile a little.

  “Sawyer, Daniel told me what happened,” Mrs. Hensley says, appearing next to her son.

  “Sorry Mrs. Hensley,” I say sheepishly.

  “Oh, don’t apologize, I always knew that Emerson girl was trouble,” she replies, pulling out a cell phone and calling 9-1-1. “Yes, hi, I have girl here who was just dared to walk the ridgepole of my garage roof at my son’s birthday party, and she fell off and appears to have twisted her knee. Yes, she is conscious. 4589 Clemray Drive. Have you had knee problems before this?” she asks me.

  “Chondromalacia in the knee that’s twisted,” I reply. “No surgery, though.” She repeats my answer into the phone and it continues like that for a few minutes. Mac informs me that my grandmother will meet us at the hospital. A few minutes after she hangs up, I hear sirens headed our way. A first response team somehow manages to stabilize my knee as much as they can before they lift me up and put me on a gurney, wheeling me out to the ambulance. Sawyer keeps hold of my hand the whole way. I’m beyond grateful for the support.

  “I don’t know if I’ll be back, just keep everyone calm. Turn on the movie and I’ll call when I know about all this,” Sawyer tells Daniel. “I’ll see you at the hospital, okay?” he tells me. I want to protest and tell him to stay at his party, but all I can to is nod as they lift me into the ambulance. McKayla, Mrs. Hensley and Sawyer get in the truck parked in the driveway and they shut the doors to the ambulance.

  Everyone on the first response team starts to ask me questions and I answer them as best I can, but thankfully, it’s a very short trip to the hospital. Upon arrival, the team rolls me out and through a series of hallways into a room. “Your family is coming, okay?” a nurse says as I lay there.