The Only Exception (2 page)

“Alright, tell Grammy and Papaw I said hi,” my mother reminds me. “And call me when you get to L.A. And when you arrive on Oahu. And if anything happens.”

“Okay, Mom,” I reply. “See you in September.”

“Be careful with your knee,” she warns. “Remember what Maria told you during therapy. Use your tape if you need, wear the brace if it’s tired, and don’t get in trouble.”

I have chondromalacia (also known as runner’s knee) in my left knee, and have for a long time. Basically, chondromalacia is when the cartilage at the bottom of your kneecap softens or deteriorates. When that happens, your knee slides around in the joint to sides or angles it’s not supposed to. Wearing a brace that holds your kneecap in place helps a lot of people, which I do sometimes, but it’s never been bad enough to need surgery. Corrective surgeries exist, but physical therapy works well enough for me. I wear a heavy-duty brace during snowboard and skateboarding competitions and training as extra reassurance, but I can’t wear one in the water. Instead, I just use a water-resistant tape that pulls the muscles into position, which relieves some tension in my leg.

“I won’t, Mom. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

“I love you, sweetheart,” she croons. She pulls me in for a hug and I echo her words.

“I love you too, Mom.” At that, I tote my duffel bag and gigantic purse back to security, thinking only of the summer ahead of me. With my shorts, teal rubber slippers and bright green “GEEK” sleeveless tee, I’m ready. Come at me, summer.

Once through security, I walk past all the little shops, restaurants and gates, coming to my own gate soon enough. I pass a Starbucks and a Panda Express, both of which I strongly consider buying something from, but decide against it when I glance at the clock. Not bad. Half an hour to spare. I sit down at the gate and pull my book out, wondering when Amy’s going to text me. Only thirty pages left, if that. Oh, wait. If my calculations are correct, the last thirty pages of the book are the also the saddest pages of the book. Great, I’m going to be sobbing like a crazy person in the middle of this airport terminal. Oh, well. Who cares if they think I’m insane?

So, of course, I sit here in my blue leather airport chair for the next twenty minutes, alternating between reading, trying to find a comfortable spot in these stupid chairs, crying and dreaming about the movie that comes out in a week until the gate agents call the economy plus passengers.

Ever since I had this big fight with both of my parents about flying first class every time I fly, they’ve put me in economy plus, which is about six inches more leg room than coach, but essentially the same thing. It’s the closest they can get to first class without me blowing up. Even so, sometimes, they still spring for first class around holidays, saying it’s “for a special occasion.” NEWS FLASH: It’s not special if it happens every other time I fly somewhere.

“Boarding pass?” the gate agent asks, extending her hand. I hand it over and she scans it. “Enjoy your flight, Miss Maverick.”

“Thanks,” I reply, following the elderly couple in front of me through the line.

I board the plane and find my seat fairly quickly. As soon as I stow my Nike bag in the overhead bin, I situate myself in my seat, pull out
This Present Darkness
(having finished
Three Hours Too Soon
) and my glasses and await a text from Amy. Sure enough, as some business woman sits down and gets comfortable in the seat next to me, my iPhone buzzes. “SHE SAID YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” it reads. A second later, it buzzes again in my hand. “IM GOING CAMPING WITH LOGAN AND HIS FAMILY AND HIS MOM SAID SHES REALLY GLAD IM COMING AND YEAH IM FREAKING OUT.”

“YAY!” I text back. “Have fun with Logan! On the plane to Oahu right now.” I tag a little smiley face on the end of the message.

“Once again rubbing it in my face I’m not going to Hawaii,” she responds with a little emoticon, who’s sticking his tongue out at me. “Love you girl! Have fun!”

“Thanks! You too!” I put my phone on airplane mode and dive into my book.

Two

Twelve hours and one flight transfer later, I’m walking off the plane in what would be sunny Oahu, if it wasn’t ten o’clock at night. Even so, I can see that the stars are bright and the sky is clear through the gigantic terminal window as I make my way to the baggage claim. I manage to dig my phone out of the depths of my purse, punch in my mom’s number and listen to it ring. “You’ve reached Charlotte Maverick. Please leave me a message with your name and phone number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you.”

“Hi Mom, it’s me. I’m in Oahu right now. No one kidnapped me, my flight didn’t crash and I’m okay. Love you.” I hang up, wondering if she’ll call me back just to say hi. Doubtful. Very doubtful.

Regardless of the time, my grandparents wait for me at the baggage claim looking more awake than if it was the middle of the day.

“Annie!” Grammy exclaims, smiling and holding out her arms. I grin and set down my bags to envelope her in a hug. Her familiar scent of perfume and baking ingredients puts me at ease instantly. “My goodness, you’re so tall! I don’t know whether you grew or if I just forgot what it’s like being face to face with my girl. It feels like forever since we last saw you!”

“I know, I missed you,” I reply, hugging Papaw, who smells of motor oil. Suffice it to say, he’s not as active in the kitchen as my grandmother. He’s a motorcycle guy.

“Amped for some surfing, Kiddo?” he asks, a gleam in his eye.

“You bet,” I laugh. My bright patterned luggage comes around the carousel and Papaw pulls it off for me.

“Gosh, you’d think she was staying for the whole summer, wouldn’t you?” he teases. Grammy laughs.

“I sure hope so,” she replies. The three of us head outside, hop in their car (a beat up, old minivan) and head off to their house.

Of all the places in the world, this one is the place that feels most like home to me. I like New York and I like California, but Oahu is just Oahu. There’s no place like it. And there’s no place like my grandparents’ house, either. 72 Alapio Rd. Big, but not huge. Modern, but not cold. Cozy, but stylish. When I was seven, my grandparents let me decorate one of the guest rooms as my own since I was already practically living there. I redecorated it about 3 years ago to what it is now.

I pass through the aqua and white entryway, living room and kitchen and head down the hall to the second door on the left. My small surfboard door sign still hangs at eye level with “Andrea Kalani” painted in delicate white lettering. As I push open the white door, the first thing my eyes travel to is the poster for
Chasing Mavericks
and my signed Bethany Hamilton poster. She was in San Fransisco to speak at a convention and my dad let me go for a day. It was great. She’s an awesome girl and a terrific surfer to top it all off.

My ukelele stands on my dresser, across from my bed. Dropping my bags, I hurl myself onto my
Endless Summer
graphic duvet and flop back, sighing. It’s good to be home.

In the corner stands my favorite guitar I had my dad send here. My mom’s brother that lives in Tennessee taught me to play when I was little, and I’ve never really quit playing. It’s easy to lose myself in someone else’s life when I’m reading, but it makes my own life better when I play music.

Speaking of music, I extract my phone from my purse and hit “Shuffle” on my songs. It lands on “The Reckless and the Brave” by All Time Low and I plug it into my speaker set on my nightstand. I start to unpack my many suitcases, so it can really feel like I’m home, as I sing along. I don’t know why my mother insisted I bring things like dresses and high heels to a place where I’m going to be in the ocean all day. Maybe it’s me, but I don’t even really get that whole concept. You know, like, you wear a fancy and probably uncomfortable dress to Prom to dance and have fun, but you wouldn’t wear a fancy dress to bed or when you’re just going to sit on the couch and relax. Same thing with sweatpants. You wouldn’t wear sweatpants to Prom even though they’d be ten times more comfortable than the dress, but you would wear them to the grocery. I just don’t understand. And I’m a bit of a sweatpants enthusiast.

The many fashion shows my mother drags me to are a different matter entirely, due to the fact that that kind of fashion is art that skeletons walk down a runway in. No one else on the face of the planet could physically wear almost anything I’ve seen during any fashion week ever anywhere but to walk down a runway, and even that would take some intense training. Why? Just why? Why would anyone want to wear a giant strapless dress that looks like someone just knotted a bunch of tulle together and added four bazillion layers of the stuff to the skirt to make it poofy and essentially walk on stilts? I just don’t get it.

“Annie! Weather’s on!” my grandfather calls. I run out to the living room, pausing the music and leaving my unpacking and thoughts about fashion behind, and jump over the back of the couch, legs outstretched. Yes, I watch the weather. That’s one of the unique things about Hawaii. The weather is never just the boring old weather channel. The weather is the surf conditions for the upcoming days, thus bringing with it a tide of excitement because, surfing (duh). “So what do you think? Need a couple of days to get back in the swing of things or ready to get back in the pocket tomorrow?” Papaw jokes.

“You kidding? We may not have waves up north, but I can hold my own on a skateboard,” I boast with a playfully cocky smile. “Didn’t think I would stop training, did you?”

“A true Maverick,” my Grammy calls from the kitchen. “Wild and free.”

“And of the sea,” Papaw adds, smiling warmly. My grandpa picked the name Kailani for my middle name because it means “of the sea.” He was the one who taught me to surf. A long time ago, my dad used to surf, too. He enjoyed it a lot, but decided his company was more important. Add it to the list.

“Alright, we can check the conditions for Sunset and Waimea. Let’s wait a few weeks until we head to Banzai,” Papaw plans. I nod, thinking of the nasty cut I got two years ago on the coral reef at Banzai Pipeline. Great surf spot for people who know what they’re doing, but there’s a coral reef just a short distance under the surface that makes it a hundred times more dangerous. “Oh, that reminds me. There’s a couple of competitions coming up that signups close for this week. We can go get you signed up tomorrow if you want.”

“Yes!” I determine quickly. “Yes. Absolutely. How’s McKayla?” McKayla is my preschool best friend that I grew up surfing with. I see her every time I come for holidays, and we always make it a point to go surfing together like old times. We still text back and forth when I’m in New York, but it’s just not the same.

“Good, last time I saw her,” Grammy assures. “She’s got a boyfriend now. Michael, the boy you two used to play with all the time when you were little.”

“Michael Chase?” I ask. “He’s not bad.”

“He’s quite a nice boy,” she agrees, nodding.

“There’s also a family that moved here from Australia about a year and a half ago,” Papaw updates me. “The dad’s a board maker and owns a surf shop. All handmade boards, no pop-outs. His two older boys work in the shop with him and his wife. One of the boys is your age and the other is in college. There’s a younger girl, too.”

“Great,” I reply, not really paying attention. I’m watching the flashing lights on the TV screen around Waimea Bay. Good. Not the winter swells, but not quite the summer calm either. Decently sized waves to get me back in the swing of things. By the way, pop-outs are mass-produced, machine made boards that are generally not as good as a handmade board. I have a board that was made by a huge company, but it’s not considered a pop-out because it’s handmade. I yawn. “Well, if I’m getting up and getting back into the island schedule, I better get to sleep. Wake me up when you’re ready to go.”

Papaw kisses my forehead and Grammy pecks my cheek on my way out of the room. I finish emptying all of my suitcases into the closet and dresser and switch my denim shorts for flannel PJ ones. After brushing my teeth and weaving my hair back into a french braid, I burrow down into the covers and glance at my bright green surfboard in the corner, before drifting off to sleep.

Three

The next morning, I wake up from the most amazing dream. I was back in Oahu for the whole summer and— wait. Slowly, my eyelids flutter open. It wasn’t a dream. I’m really home for the whole summer.

I hear several knocks on my bedroom door and Papaw pokes his head in the door. I yawn and stretch, hopping out of bed and rushing to get my things together. “Ready to go?” he inquires.

“Almost. Let me get my suit on and I’ll be ready,” I reply. He heads back into the living room and I quickly change into my favorite plain black bikini, accompanied by my short sleeved green rash guard shirt. Throw on a pair of cotton shorts and I’m ready to go.

For swimming, I’d wear a tankini or a one-piece suit, but since I wear a rash guard, it’s easier to wear a bikini. If I don’t, the fabric bunches up under my shirt. The rash guard is to prevent chafing from the sand or wax on the board and irritation from the water. They’re also used in competition to identify one surfer from another in the water, kind of like jerseys. Competition rash guards each have a number on them and usually come in five colors, as the rounds of a competition have four or five surfers a heat typically.

“Have fun, Kiddo!” my Grammy calls as I dash past her.

“Love you! See you later!” I yell, running out the door with my surfboard in tow. Papaw straps it to the top of the van and I hop in the passenger seat.

“Somebody going surfing?” a familiar voice calls. I turn to see my childhood best friend, McKayla, jogging across the street with her own bright purple board under her arm. “Mind if I hitch a ride?”

“Mac!” I exclaim. “Come on, we’re headed to Waimea.”

“Aw, no Pipeline?” she jokes. “Somebody’s going soft! Not becoming a shubie, are you?”

“No, you kook,” I tease. Shubies are people that dress and talk like surfers, but can’t actually ride and kooks are beginners that only surf to try to look cool. They’re not popular in the surfing community. Papaw straps her board on top of mine as McKayla clambers in next to me. “If anybody’s going soft, it’s the girl who didn’t think I could surf Mavericks!”

“Hey, you can’t blame me for wanting you to come back alive! It’s basically you and Laird Hamilton that are crazy enough to surf those waves,” she fires back.

In addition to watching the pros surf it, I may have surfed Mavericks. Just once. Or twice. Even though the waves didn’t kill me, my mother almost did when she saw the videos, but it was worth it. Definitely the ride of the lifetime. Gliding down the face of a monster wave with nothing but a leash on your ankle tying you down. “Did you just put me in the same category of surfers as Laird Hamilton?”

“Don’t get a big head just yet,” she reprimands, twisting her long black hair into a bun. “You can do that after you win the Pro Curl if you would ACTUALLY COME IN THE WINTER!” She exclaims the last part loudly, being less than subtle about her wishes.

“I know, I know, I’ve tried,” I answer as Papaw pulls out of the driveway. “My parents would never let me. Not for that long.”

“You do remember you’re turning 18 at the end of the summer, right?” she suggests. “You know, legal adult, you’ll be able to vote and not to mention, buy your own house.”

“Yeah, uh, how?” I ask, french braiding my brown locks. “My parents would disown me.”

“Win the Pro Curl, get fifty thousand dollars in prize money, get some sponsors and live the dream!” she shouts.

“Oh, of course, I forgot,” I reply sarcastically. “Silly me.”

“Before you two take on the Pro Curl, you’d better start training for those local competitions,” Papaw points out, throwing the beater into park. McKayla and I hop out onto the patch of grass we parked on and start unstrapping our boards. I glance at the waves. Good size, nice pace and there’s almost no one out there. “Pick you up for lunch?”

“Nah, we’ll walk down to Tara’s, then walk back from there,” I reply. He nods.

“Okay, see you groms later,” he calls, pulling out. Groms are what little kid surfers are called.

“Later, grey belly!” I shout back, calling my grandpa the surfer slang for old guy. McKayla glances at me with an evil glint in her eye.

“Race ya!” she shouts suddenly, dashing to the sand. I run after her, my long legs quickly outrunning her shorter ones.

“What was that you were saying about going soft, Gidget?” I shout. Gidget = girl midget. Surfer lingo for short girl surfer. At 5’ 9”, I’m not exactly a Gidget. She laughs.

“Okay, point taken,” she pants. Moments later, we’re paddling out to the lineup (just behind where the waves start to break) and battling it out to catch the first wave. In the end, I win, dropping in on my first wave in what feels like forever. I love this feeling. It always feels like flying, no matter how old I get or how many times I’ve done it.

Like it’s nothing, I swerve my board to snap the lip of the wave, which is basically doing a sharp turn that causes a shower of sea water to spray up behind me. “And she’s still got it!” McKayla yells as I do a couple more tricks.

“Now let’s see you, paddlepuss!” I call back as I paddle back towards her. She goes after a wave and passes me on my way back out. On my next wave, I start playing with some of my favorite skateboarding tricks, adapting them just a bit for the water.

“What was that?!” she yells as I swim towards her.

“A skateboarding trick,” I answer.

“Maybe I should get into skateboarding.” I paddle up next to her and lay out on my board, my stomach against the deck of the board.

“Maybe you should,” I suggest. “It’s good for coming up with tricks. Although, it’s not so good for keeping your bones all together.”

“Ever broken anything?” she asks, taking a cue from me and laying back on her board.

“Nope. I’ve seen kids fall at the skate park before though and there were one or two that were particularly nasty,” I reply.

“Like, how particularly?”

“Like, bone sticking out,” I respond nonchalantly.

“Yeah, that’s a little… gnarly…”

“Yeah, but only a few people have that happen, and that’s when they’re doing what’s called extreme stupid,” I point out. “Or they’re just barneys.” Barneys are the same thing as kooks (not big purple dinosaurs that sing “I Love You”). Don’t worry, I’m used to explaining this stuff. You have no idea how long it took me not to say the surfer slang for everything in school in New York. My classmates used to stare at me like I had turned green or something. “So, moving on. New around the island?”

“Well… Michael may have asked me out,” she admits. She smiles widely, unable to contain her grin.

“That’s awesome,” I reply, smiling back. “You’ve known him for practically forever.”

“So you’re not mad?” she clarifies.

“Mac, just because I don’t think true love exists doesn’t mean I can’t be happy for you,” I assure her. “No matter your decisions, I’ll stand by you. But some decisions, we’ll be having a serious talk about.”

“Don’t worry,” she laughs.

“Good,” I return. “Seriously, though, be careful, okay?” She nods. I notice a surfer about twenty yards or so away. Pretty tall guy, decently skilled. After further observation, I notice he’s doing skateboarding tricks, like I was a minute ago. Choka, dude. I turn my attention back to McKayla. “What else is new?”

“Um, about a year and a half ago this Australian guy, Mr. Hensley came over and started a business and bought a house and all that,” she updates me. “Then halfway through the school year, his kids and wife came over too. There’s a boy that’s twenty, I think, Daniel, a boy our age, Sawyer, and a girl that’s about in 6th grade, Julia. They all surf and they’re all great. Sawyer’s about the most fun person you’ll ever meet. Smart, not exactly ugly, and, well, Aussie.” She pronounces “Aussie” like “Ozzie” that way Australians do, to which I laugh.

“Sounds like quite the superman,” I reply, glancing back over at the other surfer. He’s gotten a bit closer. Just so long as he knows his wave etiquette, as my grandma calls it. Surfing is a bit like driving. Just like a driver has the right-of-way in certain scenarios on the road, a surfer has the right-of-way on certain waves. No one likes a drop in.

“He’s not as good as Mikey, but he’s nice,” McKayla agrees. “He had us rolling on the floor at youth group with some of his stories, though. He tells us what he does and what the Australian stereotype would be for stuff, and I don’t believe a word of it, but it’s hilarious.”

A sick wave starts building behind us and I sit up, lean forward and start paddling. Zoning in, I drop into the wave and push myself up on my hands, about to pop up, when out of nowhere, someone cuts in front of me and what I think is a foot hits me in the right eye. I lose my balance and roll off my board, getting dragged under and knocked around in the swirling water as the wave passes over me like the spin cycle of a washing machine. The leash of my board tugs on my ankle and my lungs scream for air. My vision starts to go fuzzy and I’m seeing colorful spots.

Somewhere in the confusion, my head comes up and I start gagging. My board pops up next to me and I grab on. My head is throbbing. I don’t think I can open my eye. Whether I can or not, it hurts. The other eye, though full of saltwater, can see just fine. I know, because I can see a figure about fifty yards towards shore, paddling back in my direction.

“Annie! Are you okay?!” Mac calls, paddling up beside me. It’s probably a good thing my ability to speak has been neutralized, otherwise I’d be spewing as much profanity as I am water.

“WHAT in the HECK was that supposed to be?!” I cough/shout towards the other surfer. I wretch and hack a few more times and climb up on my board, closing my non-injured eye to keep the bright sunlight out. “No snaking, barney! If you learned yesterday, pick a different spot to surf!”

“Hey, woah,” an unfamiliar voice replies. “I didn’t mean to hit you! And I’m not exactly a barney. What did I do that was so wrong?”

“Oh, nothing, except you dropped in on my wave, kicked me in the eye and caused me to almost drown,” I reply tartly.

“Oh, yeah, I caused you to almost drown,” the voice scoffs. “Let’s not forget that you weren’t looking where you were going in the least. I’m not entirely to blame.” Wow, talk about nerve! I don’t even have a face to match the voice yet and I already don’t like whoever’s voice it is. It sounds like a teenage boy’s voice that’s deep, but young and has a foreign accent that I cannot place in the middle of my jumbled, under oxygenated thoughts. He sighs and says, much more calmly, “Here, let me see your eye.” Slowly, I peel my fingers off of my right eye. Reluctantly and painfully, I open both of my eyes, waiting for the receptors to adjust.

As I become accustomed to the light, a pair of deep blue eyes stare into mine worriedly. A boy about my age sits on his surfboard, dressed in light blue board shorts and a white rash guard. His wet brown hair is finger-combed in a swoop off to his left so as to stay out of his eyes. “Oh, gosh, that’s gonna be a shiner. It’s already swollen a bit, but that’ll be black by tomorrow.”

“Great. First day back and I’m already banged up,” I sigh. “Well, Mac, you staying out or coming back with me?”

“What do you think, gremmie?” she asks. Gremmie is another word for inexperienced or young surfer. “By the way, nice to see you, Sawyer.” She takes off, paddling into a wave to ride in to shore.

“I’m really, really sorry. My name’s Sawyer. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?” he asks. It’s only then that I manage to put two and two together. His accent is Australian, watered down a bit with some American pronunciation, but none the less Aussie. This must be the kid Mac was raving about a minute ago.

“Just don’t cut me off on this next wave,” I request cooly, paddling into the wave. The ride is smooth, so I do a couple of snaps, just to make sure it doesn’t go completely to waste and to blow off some steam. I meet McKayla on the beach, talking to an older boy that looks similar to Sawyer, but with hair that’s darker than his brother’s.

“Nice going, Sawyer,” the boy yells in Sawyer’s direction, with a thicker version of his accent and not as deep of a voice. “My clueless brother clocked you in the face?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” I call back, throwing my board down in the sand and running one hand over my salty, drenched, braided hair.

“I’m Daniel,” he introduces, extending his hand to me. I take it and shake it.

“Andrea,” I reply. Sawyer has caught up and drops his board next to mine.

“Do you guys have a ride?” Daniel inquires. McKayla shakes her head. I, meanwhile, have a headache the size of Texas and just watching her shake her head makes mine hurt. My jaw doesn’t feel to good, either. This kid has some leg strength, man. I’d expect nothing less from a surfer, but I’d be lying if I said I guessed anything even close to getting kicked in the face by a fellow surfer to happen anytime soon. “I’ve got my car with me if you want one.”

“We were going to walk down to Tara’s at lunchtime, but obviously, that’s not happening,” McKayla fills them in. “Annie? What do you want to do?”

“I don’t care,” I reply, just trying to get away from this idiot as soon as possible.

“I’ve had plenty of black eyes in my life,” Daniel says. “Head’s probably pounding right about now, right?” I nod slightly. “Yeah, we’ll get you home. Sawyer, get the boards. Mac, do you want to get her situated?”

“I’m fine,” I lie, not wanting to seem wimpy. “I’ll be okay.” Sawyer picks up both his and my board and straps them to the back of Daniel’s navy blue, open top Jeep, pausing to open my door for me. I slide in and lean my head back against the headrest, hoping for relief that doesn’t come. The other three climb in and Daniel talks directions with McKayla. I try to alleviate some of the pressure and ease the pain in my head, but it doesn’t help much. Fantastic. Simply fantastic.