The refs must’ve pulled the last two people out from that round because I hear Brett holler, “Hit the deck!” and the masses drop to the ground. I don’t. I can’t. Everything in me’s stiff as a surfboard. Not sure I even blink.
“Ooh, Lovette, no replay needed,” Brett says through the microphone. Candy, one of the youth leaders, touches me on the shoulder to move me to the wall with the others who are out, now four of us.
What’s he doing here? How did he find me? Did he ask my coworker Kim, and did she rat me out? It’s too much. I step outside for some air.
“You okay?” someone says in my ear, and I practically jump out of my clothes. It’s Candy. She’s in her thirties, and holy Bibles, she’s intense about the Lord.
“Oh. Yeah, just needed a bathroom break.”
“Praise God.”
“I suppose.” Should I praise Him for that too?
“I just mean you looked like something was wrong. I thought you might need prayer.”
“Don’t we all?” I smile.
“Amen.” She extends her arm for a high five. I slap her hand. Should I tell her about Jake? I imagine her praying in tongues over me for protection.
“Thanks, Candy. I’m good.”
“No one’s good but God.”
“Right. Okay, well, I’m just gonna go pee.”
“Be blessed!” she calls.
On my way back to the youth room, someone taps me on the shoulder, and I jump again. What’s with Candy sneaking up on me? Then I remember she’s probably on “pot patrol.” Every week, one of the adult leaders is designated to do the rounds of the church property, making sure that none of the teens are slinking away to engage in activities that would make Baby Jesus cry. We call them the “pot patrol.”
I turn and say, “I swear I only peed,” but I’m face-to-face with Jake Evans.
He grins and scratches his head right above his ear. “I’m not keeping score.”
Chapter Four
“Ohmygoshyou’renotCandy.” I’m more breathing than talking.
“No,” Jake says. “Candy would’ve probably told you not to swear.”
I smile and stop. “Wait, how do you know that?”
He starts to say something and then doesn’t. He cocks his head, and his hair falls to the side. “You really don’t remember me.”
“Of course I do,” I say, as professional as I can. “You bought a sandwich from me.”
He smiles, looks up at the ceiling, and then down again. “Yes. Yes, I sure did. I, uh”—he rakes his hand through his hair—“I was in youth group here in sixth grade. It was called Fire, right? The first year you started coming to church. Mine too.”
“How do you—”
“We were new the same night. I remember because I was so glad they didn’t make me stand in front of the group by myself.”
I’m drawing a blank. That following year was rough for me, but I don’t remem—and then I look. Really look. Dark brown eyes. It’s a faint memory, like the wisps of a dream as you wake up. “Jacoby,” I murmur. We weren’t close; I mean, not that I remember. Not sure we even talked.
“Just Jake now.”
“You were so little,” I blurt. He really was. Like a doll. Scrawny with a buzz cut. “I’m sorry, I just—”
“No, no. I get it.” He laughs. “Yeah, I was a drop in the bucket. Anyway”—he motions toward the youth room, and we start walking back—“I just moved back. Well, for the weekdays. Long story. Military brat.”
I feel my shoulders relax. “Me too. Military kid, that is. Well, Dad’s retired.”
“Yeah? Look, we weren’t that good of friends back then. But I remember you. Maybe your name stuck out. When I saw you at the sandwich shop, I thought, she has to be the same Lovette. Anyway, I was going to tell you all that when you got off work, but you rushed off, so . . .”
Oh man, I feel like such a tool. He wasn’t trying to flirt with me at all.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I don’t feel the giddiness of that first night. I just feel kind of self-absorbed.
He shoos my words away with his hand. “Please. I shouldn’t have bugged you at work. Probably looked like a creeper. Anyway, I’m a senior, and it really sucks being the new kid. Just was trying to—”
“No, I get it! And I’m so sorry. It was one of those days.” Was it? Am I non-lie lying again?
He repeats, “One of those days,” as if he had one, too, and now I wish I did have one.
We enter the youth room as kids are filing out to their small groups. “Oh, by the way,” I say. “You’re in room fifteen. Senior guys.”
“Right. Thanks.” He smiles again. He has a dimple in his left cheek. “I’ll, uh, see you back in here for worship?” I nod, and he turns to go, but then he turns back. “Hey, do you still surf?”
Something catches in my throat, stopping my words. I lick my lips, and I can taste my Dr Pepper ChapStick. I shake my head. At least it’s not a lie—it’s true, I don’t surf—but it feels as crummy as a lie.
“Aw, that’s too bad. You were amazing.”
The compliment warms me, and I find my voice. “Eh. Maybe for a sixth-grader.”
“Nah. For anyone. You could’ve competed against high-schoolers back then.”
Wait. That means he does remember more about me than just my name.
The rest of youth group’s a blur. In our junior girls’ small group, Kelly draws designs on my jeans with her finger as we all talk about effective ways to evangelize at school. The girls are having side conversations about “the new guy,” who really isn’t the new guy but the old guy who’s just been out of town for five years. Only Kelly knows this. “Jacoby Evans,” she whispers in my ear as Nicole suggests leaving encouragement notes from Jesus in student lockers.
“Just Jake now,” I whisper, and Kelly stops drawing on my jeans. “I ran into him at the bathrooms.”
Charlotte suggests making cookies and giving out plates of them for free with a Post-it that says friendship with Christ is free too.
“I can’t believe how different he looks,” I say. He’s nothing like I remember.
Kelly shifts like the floor got uncomfortable. “Oh, but you still don’t date, right? Besides, I totally said—”