The Only Exception (6 page)

Ten

“Come on! Please! I never get to do anyone else’s hair!” whines McKayla.

I roll my eyes and take my hair out of it’s french braid, letting it fall around my shoulders. I stare at it in her bedroom mirror and finally respond: “Whatever.” I try to hid a smile, but it gets out before I can stop it.

“Yes!” she exclaims. She cranks up the volume on her laptop, blasting her music all around the room. Within minutes, her white vanity is covered in all kinds of bottles, brushes and tools. She pulls up a Pinterest board on her laptop and starts looking for a hairstyle for me. “Okay, do you want Victoria’s Secret Angel curls, this waterfall braid or…” She trails off, still scrolling.

“I want nothing to do with anything that has Victoria’s Secret in front of it,” I state.

“Ooooh!” she squeals. “We’re doing this one!” She points to an elaborate curly undo with a white rose pinned in it. “I even have a rose clip like that.”

“That looks like a bridal hair do,” I protest.

“It is, but it’s gorgeous! And it’s not like we can’t simplify it for tonight,” she fights back. I groan and she claps. “Yay!”

The “simplified” version of this complicated updo takes the next three-and-a-half hours. First, she curls my entire head of hair, which alone takes ages. Then, she carefully pins the curls up into elegant sections, creating one big curly updo at the nape of my neck. After expertly placing a few small curls around my face, Mac pins in a fake off-white rose, which I have to say, gives it the perfect touch. I still say it looks way too formal for a plain old campfire, but I can’t hide the fact that I like it.

Given that we only have a half an hour left, Mac settles on letting me french braid her hair like Elsa from
Frozen
. The only real difference between a french braid and an Elsa braid is that with an Elsa braid, you tease it like crazy.

“Now, for outfits,” she says. “Wear the blouse Grammy made you. The hand-painted silk one. Pair it up with off-white bottoms and your gold sandals.”

I salute her. “Yes, ma’am!”

We give each other one final hair check, then slip on our shoes and I run across the street to my house. “Andrea!” Grammy calls.

“Hang on!” I call. I pull the light pink blouse McKayla instructed me to use out of my closet apprehensively. Examining it, I sigh. “It’s not like I’m going in the water,” I say to myself. The hand-painted off-white flowers and delicate material can’t be washed, so salt water obviously would not be a good idea. I slip on the cool silk blouse over my light pink tank top and throw on a pair of off-white, high waisted shorts. I tuck the silk in carefully, situating the collar and ruffles delicately. I grab my favorite guitar in it’s sticker-covered case from my room and head back out to the living room.

“What’s up?” I inquire.

“Your hair is so cute!” Grammy compliments. I laugh.

“McKayla insisted. I said it looked like something for a wedding, but you know McKayla,” I inform her. I follow her outside and hop in the car, waving at Mac and her family. “See you there!”

“See you there!” she calls back.

A few minutes later, I jump out into the sand, guitar case still in tow. I spot a cluster of people on the beach, huddled around a soft glow. The sky is lit up over the water with the most brilliant shades of orange, red, pink and purple, reflecting on the crystal clear surface of the sea. “Andrea! Wait up!” McKayla calls from behind me.

“Go faster, Gidget!” I return. I spot Michael by the fire. “Come on, your boyfriend’s waiting!”

“You know, not all of us have perfect ballerina legs!” I laugh and slow down a little bit. “How are you doing this with a huge guitar case in your hand?”

“A lot of practice, Mac,” I reply, adjusting my fingers on the black leather handle in my right hand.

McKayla and I are headed to one of the many beach bonfires the Emersons host over the course of the summer. Regardless of how much Sally hates me, her family is nice, and these bonfires are what Oahu teenagers do in place of when Mainlanders go to parties with their friends. I’ve only ever been to one party and it wasn’t nearly as fun as even five minutes at an Emerson bonfire.

“Hey, there you are,” Michael greets his girlfriend, slipping his hand into McKayla’s when we reach the fire. “Hey Annie.”

“Hey Michael,” I reply. Michael was one of the neighborhood kids Mac and I grew up playing with, so I’m not surprised he asked Mac out. He was the one who put up with being our knight in shining armor when we played princess and had to be either the dad or the dog every time we played house.

Standing around the campfire is a group of kids that, when in the water (and sometimes out), hate each other, but right now are laughing and joking together. Kara Vanderbilt is chatting with Paige LeGroe and Sally, next to some other kids from around the island and the surfing community. Suddenly, I feel a light tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I see Julia Hensley. I smile.

“Hey Julia,” I greet. “What’s up?”

“Can you sign this for me?” she asks, holding out a notebook and permanent marker. I laugh, surprised.

“Of course, but I really don’t know why you would want my autograph,” I reply, taking the notebook from her. I write:
To Julia, the coolest sister anyone could ask for. I wish I had a sister like you :) Keep surfing! Love, Andrea
.

“My brothers say you’re gonna be a pro surfer someday,” she explains as I write. I hand back the notebook and cast a glance at Sawyer, who’s laughing with his brother.

“Well, then, you’d better get your brother’s autograph, too,” I tell her. “He just as good as me, maybe better.” She gives a soft giggle and says a quick “Thank you” before running off to her friends. I laugh as Sawyer and Daniel join us at the fireside.

“What’s so funny?” Sawyer inquires.

“You,” I answer. I laugh again at his puzzled expression. “Apparently you two think I’m going to be a pro surfer someday and convinced your sister she needs my autograph.” He and Daniel laugh.

“What’d you say?” he inquires. I glance at him, wondering if I should tell him what I really said.

“I told her she should get your autograph, too,” I reply honestly. “If she’s collecting future pro surfer’s autographs, she’ll need yours in the set.” He looks at me, intrigued. “What?”

“I thought you didn’t like me,” he says, still furrowing his brow at me.

“I don’t,” I answer, turning my face back towards the fire. “But even pro surfers acknowledge their opponent’s skill level. I’d be stupid not to think you a good surfer, regardless of what I think of you out of the water.” I turn back to him for a second. “Besides, you told her you thought I was good enough to go pro. I was just being honest.” I turn back to the fire, but suddenly I feel hot, and it’s not because of the massive cluster of flames in front of me. Sawyer’s breath warms the right side of my face and the heat rises in my cheeks. I’m glad it’s getting darker quickly.

“So was I,” he whispers, making me blush harder in spite of myself. I’m still blushing, but my cheek feels cold when he straightens up and faces the bonfire again.

“Annie, get your guitar!” McKayla calls. A couple other people cheer and I roll my eyes. I open up the big, black, sticker-covered hardshell case. Every time I go to a concert or travel somewhere, I get a sticker and add it to my guitar case. My favorites are the Taylor Swift RED tour sticker, the Sting “Bring On the Night” tour sticker that took me months to find and the large OAHU sticker right in the center.

“Alright, what do you want to hear?” I call.

“Play us some Taylor Swift,” Mac replies. I start to pick the strings and sing.

“The way you move is like a full-on rainstorm, and I'm a house of cards. You're the kind of reckless that should send me running, but I kinda know that I won't get far,” I sing. “And you stood there in front of me just close enough to touch. Close enough to hope you couldn't see what I was thinking of.”

After “Sparks Fly,” the requests keep coming, so I keep playing. I play until they break out the marshmallows and switch out the guitar for a s’more with two chunks of chocolate and two marshmallows between the graham crackers, the way I’ve always done it. The marshmallow’s insides burst and spill out of the little sandwich, coating my fingers in goo. Sawyer, who is now standing behind me, flings his hand out to emphasize his point that the Eric Clapton concert he went to was amazing (which I don’t doubt is true) and accidentally whacks the back of my head, covering it in sweet stickiness. “Oh, gosh, I’m really sorry,” he apologizes. He tries to remove his fingers from my hair. I cry out sharply as he keeps tugging every way he can. “Holy hair product, Batman, what the heck do you have in here? Rubber cement?”

“McKayla!” I shout. Her eyes widen at the situation. “Can you help?”

“I can try,” she replies. I feel her fingers working to untangle his gooey hand from my long, curled strands of hair. After what feels like an eternity, she finally announces she’s done. “As far as your hair goes, the only thing that can help with that is a shower,” she says.

“Or saltwater,” Sawer says deviously.

“Wha-“ I don’t have time to finish before he picks me up and runs down to the waves. “Sawer! Stop it! Quit it!” My shrieks are suddenly cut off as he drops me in the water. I stand up and walk straight up to Jerkface, soaked to the bone with what I’m sure is a murderous look on my face. “Here’s a tip: when a girl who spends all day in the ocean tells you not to get her wet, there’s probably a reason!” I shout at the top of my voice. I storm past him and to the car, Grammy following close behind. “Holy…” I let out a breath through my closed lips, puffing them up with air to keep from cursing.

“Alright, sweetheart, take the blouse off and we’ll see if we can do something about the silk,” Grammy consoles. I peel off my wet blouse and tank top, leaving me in only my pink bra and soaked white shorts. I climb in the old van and pull the rose out of my hair. Thankfully, I find a green
Wicked
sweatshirt of mine on the floor and pull it over my head. I climb back out trunk of the beater, pulling bobby pins out of my hair. Grammy takes the beater and pulls away, going to try and salvage something out of it. I make my way back to the fire, sitting down in one of the beach chairs beside McKayla.

“Are you okay?” she inquires. I huff.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Your gorgeous hairstyle and my shirt aren’t, though,” I reply bitterly.

“Hey, Andrea!” Sally’s brother, Kyle calls. “We need some more entertainment!” I put on a smile and grab my guitar.

“Any requests?” I ask.

“We’ve given you requests all night,” Mac interjects. “Play us something you like.” I slide my capo up to the fourth fret of my guitar and slowly begin to strum “The Only Exception” by Paramore.

“When I was younger, I saw my daddy cry and curse at the wind,” I sing. “He broke his own heart and I watched as he tried to reassemble it. And my mama swore that she would never let herself forget, and that was the day that I promised I’d never sing of love if it does not exist, but darling, you are the only exception.” The lyrics float around my mind as I sing one of my favorite songs.

The song is about a girl like me, a girl who’s seen too many hearts break and doesn’t believe love exists, finding someone who’s the exception to the world’s lack of love towards her. When I first heard it, I loved it. It’s just… It’s me. It’s as if I wrote it. I guess I’d be lying if I said I never thought about finding an exception to the world’s lack of love towards me. I just know there isn’t one. I don’t get an exception. And in the long run, that’s better for me. It might hurt for a minute or two here and there, but it keeps me from hurting twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.

After a few more songs, someone taps me on the shoulder. Turning around, my eyes meet striking blue ones. “Hey,” Sawyer greets softly. “Sorry about earlier. Your grandma told me about your shirt.”

“It’s okay. It’s only a shirt,” I brush off, clasping the locks on my guitar case. I stand up and start making the trek to the car.

“A really special shirt that I almost ruined,” he corrects. “Sorry about the marshmallow in your hair, too. I only threw you in the ocean just because I thought it’d be funny.”

“Hey,” I say. “It really is okay. It’s just a shirt. Even if it is Chinese silk my mom got me and I hand painted it, it’s still just a shirt. I’m sorry I blew up at you. I don’t have the greatest track record of keeping my temper.”

“It’s cool. I kind of deserved it,” he replies with a small smile. I give him a little smile in return and climb in the car. “See you later.”

“See you,” I agree. I sigh and put my head up against the trunk of the van as I sit on the rear fender. McKayla comes over and sits down beside me. “That’s the last time I let you talk me into letting you give me a makeover.”

McKayla laughs. “You always say that and you always end up doing exactly what you said you wouldn’t do. I’ll get my way eventually.”

Eleven

“He what?” I ask my grandmother, shocked.

“He invited you to his birthday party,” Grammy repeats. “It’s nothing big, just a group of kids going to his house and hanging out. They’ll be watching a movie. I think Melissa said it’s
Divergent
. Mac and Michael will be there, and so will Sally, Kara, Paige, Lexi and bunches of others.”

Since it’s been a while, I’ll bring you up to speed. It’s now July 12
^th
, and I am the reigning under eighteen women’s Pipeline champion as well as Junior champ. Almost all of my time between Junior Champs and Pipeline has been taken up by training, so I haven’t seen Sawyer much, except of course at Pipeline two days ago. Pipeline went fantastically, but now I am faced with a challenge that seems even bigger than taking on the famous (and deadly) waves of Banzai Pipeline: Sawyer Hensley’s 18th birthday party.

“Why the heck would he want me at his birthday party? Me, of all people?” I wonder aloud.

“Because you make a good team,” she replies. I look at her like she’s grown a few extra heads.

“In the words of Bruce Banner, ‘we’re not a team. We’re a chemical mixture that creates chaos. We’re a time bomb,’” I quote.

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 towards 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.”