nineteen
It’s all about where your mind’s at.
—Kelly Slater
“C’mon. Ten more.”
“Are you nuts?” I fall flat on a beach towel, my face to the side. “I’ve already done fifty. I hate push-ups.”
“Your point?”
“They suck. Yours?”
Ford cops a squat closer to me, shuffling sand onto my towel. He leans over my face, which is still scabbed up. “The perfect wave, on a kickass day at the Point. You kicking butt and taking names at the Crazy John’s Surf Comp. You having the stamina and strength to know you can stick it.”
This week, I’ve been relegated to watching from the shore—part of the crummy taking-a-b18"reak-from-surfing deal. It’s only been a few days, but I’m fine now. A little sore. Like there’s any point to this time off besides the fact that it’s torture to watch from the sidelines. I groan and grunt through ten more push-ups.
When I flop back down, I just lie there facing the water lapping the shore. I space out and dream about catching a wave at the Point and not getting raked over Grimace rock. I know I got really lucky. There’s no room for luck, though. It’s all about skill and commitment. The day I got caught under, I didn’t fully commit, and that was a painful mistake. But how does a person figure out when to listen to their gut, when fear is in the way, and when they should go for it?
“Grace.”
I roll onto my back and squint up at Ford. “Yeah?”
“Are you ready to run?” He dangles worn blue running shoes over my stomach before dropping them at my side. “For the record, you’ve got game. I’m just helping you figure it out.”
Instead of saying anything, I toss the shoes to the side. I readjust my ponytail and hop up before Ford can get his shoes on. I start off with a full-out sprint and eventually slow down to a steady jog. The thunk thunk rhythm relaxes me. The burn in my calves feels good. For whatever reason, there’s something comforting about the ache that comes with pushing my limits. Maybe because it dulls the pain I can’t fix. Kind of like stomping on someone’s foot to help a headache. The headache doesn’t go away, but they darn sure become more concerned with their toes.
Ford lopes along behind me, keeping his distance, understanding my need for space. He’s my personal godsend. I focus on the feel of the sand giving way beneath my feet. Seagulls scatter in front of me as I cut through them. They dot the air with color and sound before fluttering back to the ground in search of some kid’s crumbs left behind. A light offshore wind carries the smells of salt and sea creatures. Everything about the beach is predictable, and not. It’s a thousand variations of an ocean concerto. It’s music that can’t be captured by notes on stanzas. It’s perfect.
At the end of our run, I fall back on the sand. Out of breath. Blood whooshing through my ears. That’s my kind of run. Stop when you drop.
Ford plops down beside me. He’s sitting up. I shade my eyes with my hand and squint up at him. My breathing is calming down but my pulse isn’t. Ever since I heard him say she’s my girl at the Point, my insides go into overdrive when we’re near each other.
Every month our church pulls together for a community service day. Instead of going to church, people sign up for a volunteer activity. This go-round, Mom signed our family up to serve food at a homeless shelter. So I show up at breakfast in a long-sleeved T-shirt and my favorite pair of worn Roxy jeans. They’re so comfy, and I like the way they fray at the ends.
Mom’s right eyebrow rises. “Tell me you’re changing before church?”
e=""Adobe Garamond Regular">Dad glances up from his bowl of oatmeal and looks me over. I take a deep breath and focus on keeping my mouth closed.
“Grace?”
Ack. She wants an answer.
“Well, I was planning on wearing this to the Give Fest today.”
She taps manicured nails on the table. “What does that say about you?”
Tap, tap, tap. Dad looks back and forth between us.
“Um, it says I like comfortable clothes. And besides, if I were to get all dressed up, it might make the folks we’re serving feel uncomfortable.” My T-shirt is a classic plain shirt and besides, it’s even got a boat-neck cut—which is sort of dressy.
Tap, tap, tap. Huff.
I’m silent during our little fashion standoff.
Dad looks at both of us again. “Oh come on, Elaine. She’s got a point about not overdressing. Besides, she’s a teenager—aren’t they supposed to wear worn jeans? If she shows up in a dress or pantsuit, she’d be ostracized. And she’ll be serving food, anyway—wearing an apron. People won’t notice anything but her smile and whether or not she gives ’em a good serving of mashed potatoes.” He grins. “So represent the Parker family well. No skimping on the taters.”
Tap, tap, tap. Mom throws her hands up in the air. “Fine. I give up. You win.” She makes her exit from the kitchen muttering, “Worn jeans to church.”
I shift back and forth.
Dad grins at me and whispers, “She’ll get over it.”
I grin back and mouth, “Thanks.”
At the shelter, everyone bustles about adding last-minute decorations, repositioning welcome banners, and gabbing. My mom laughs while balancing on a chair and hanging corny summer decorations. Dad’s chatting it up with other men while they finish lining up chairs around the tables. I enjoy the warmth of the kitchen as I help organize the serving dishes and plastic silverware. We look like the perfect family.
Mrs. Franks, a sweet old lady in her eighties, is in charge of the food. Or at least she’s one of the helpers. She’s a doll and naturally takes over. I guess after eighty years of living and raising her own family, she knows how to get food on a table.
“Grace, could you help me out with the drink table?” Mrs. Frank’s voice warbles toward me.
“Sure thing, Mrs. Franks.” I speed over to help the doddering woman before she disappears behind the five-gallon tea dispenser. I think she’ll tip over sideways.
After securing the tea dispenser, I ask, “Where would you like it?.
She points her faded papery hand to the far right end of the table.
I set it down. “Does that look okay to you?”
“A little bit closer to the center, dear. We don’t want it falling off the edge, and you can call me Sister Franks like everyone else.” She pats my back after I’ve adjusted the beast.
“Okay, Sister Franks.” I force the words from my mouth. It feels a bit odd, but she’s from a different time period so I roll with it.
Under her supervision, I set up the drink table to perfection, placing the last cup on the plastic red-checked tablecloth. Some kid runs through the room announcing our guests’ arrival.
Somehow Sister Franks and I have decided to be buddies for the day. So we stand next to each other serving mashed potatoes and green bean casserole. It’s fun scooping the mashed potatoes on plates for the sea of faces passing by me. And Sister Franks is off the charts. She has something to say to everyone.
“My, my, young man. I think a growing boy like you might need an extra scoop.” She winks at him.
“Oh, what a pretty dress you’re wearing.” The little girl’s face lights up and the tired mom smiles for a brief second.
Watching Sister Franks love on folks renews my faith in people. After an hour of this, I realize she means every word she’s saying. What a sweet old lady.
Every now and then I search the crowded room for Mom and Dad. Every time I spot them, they’re helping someone, cleaning up, or listening to one of our guests. Every time I inspect their faces, they look happy. My parents get so excited about helping people; I know this is one of the reasons they decided to attend this church.
A guy from the youth group stops by to say, “Jeesh, Grace. Your dad is hilarious. You’re so lucky.”
I nod and give a tight smile. “Yep, that’s me. Lucky Grace.”
A lump builds in my throat. I wish this feeling could extend to our family year-round. This happiness. This love. It’s confusing, mixed up, and it hurts.
“Grace. This good-looking young man needs a big scoop of mashed potatoes.” Sister Franks’ voice pulls me out of lala land.
I grin at a scruffy guy in his twenties. “Sorry about that.”
He smiles. “No problem. I know that look. Cheer up. Things can’t be that bad.” He moves on with his tray.
I look after him, startled. Am I that transparent? Surely not. If I was, people would have figured out my charade by now. No, this guy knows what it means to want something you can’t have. And here he is, encouraging me. I feel like the crumb that I am. So I paint a smile on my face, determined to love on folks like Sister Franks does.