Passion? I know what my passion is. It pulses through my veins and wakes me up before dawn and keeps me up at night. But I can’t write about it because no one knows. Well, I mean, God knows, but that doesn’t count, and I can’t chance my parents ever finding out. I’d never see daylight again. So it stays off the paper, except for a little wave I draw in the margin, but I scribble that out too. No evidence.
The only thing that I seem to be passionate about right now is sweating. I can feel my body perspiring as the time ticks by. Great. Now I’m going to smell AND fail this assignment.
With seven minutes left, I write about my other passion, which is God, even though I’m missing the point of this assignment because I’m sure Ms. Jensen wanted us to think about our futures. She doesn’t even read these; she gives everyone five points and a sloppy star on top of our scribbly paragraphs, so I fill my paper with whatever comes to mind:
Jesus is my passion. I love Him with everything, like more than ice cream or the smell of the sidewalk after it rains. Or dolphins, and if you know me, I really love dolphins, even though I still eat them. I mean tuna, but the safe kind. Anyway, Jesus. I love youth group. It’s where I get filled up for the week. Also, I’ve made big commitments there, and when you stand for things no matter what, that’s kind of like passion. For example, I decided back when I was twelve that I was going to wait until I was married. And not just for sex. My first kiss is going to be at the altar when the pastor says, “You may kiss the bride.” It’s the most romantic thing I can imagine. Well, used to imagine. In seventh grade, it sounded cool. I even signed a purity contract. Now it feels like forever. Saying you’ve never kissed a guy sounds really dumb and embarrassing, and maybe that’s what Paul meant in the Bible when he said to consider it pure joy when you face trials. But it’s not like people walk around asking that, so it’s fine. Anyway, if you read this, Ms. Jensen, which I know you won’t, no kissing and telling. Lol. Get it?
The bell rings as I’m filling the bottom line of page one. My hand’s cramped, and I can see dark red under the armpits of my light-red Jesus tee. How’d that happen? I’ve been nervous all day, I guess. I say a quick prayer that I have an extra shirt in my locker and then hurry there because if I go fast enough, people won’t read my shirt and think, Do all Christians stink like this? Plus, it would be just my luck to run into Jake. I spin the numbers on my lock, for a moment forgetting my combo. “Hey,” I hear over my shoulder.
Chapter Six
I exhale loudly. Lydia’s voice, not Jake’s. She continues, “Are we going out tomorrow night?” Oh, man. There’s a full moon this Friday. Which means a fully lit ocean. Perfect conditions for night swimming, which I only get once every twenty-nine days.
“I can’t, Lyds.”
“But it’s Friday!”
“Nope.” I click open my locker.
“Friyay!”
“I work.”
“A, You don’t work Fridays. B, It’s Friday! And three, what if your true love is out there?”
I know Lydia’s waggling her eyebrows, even though I haven’t turned to look. “I have to study.”
“Girl, love takes residence over education.”
“It’s precedence,” I correct, grabbing my physics book. Dang it. No extra shirt.
“Obviously, Lovette. That’s what I said.” She gives me an all-hips hip check like we’re out on a dance floor, and I go sailing and slam into my locker. A few students stop and look, so I straighten up. Not because I’m embarrassed, I try to convince my hot face, but so they can read my shirt. Instead, they look at one another and move on.
My best friend Lydia’s not perfect at grammar, but it doesn’t matter. She’s perfect at being perfect, which would make sense if you knew her. No matter what you’re doing, you’re having a good time if Lydia’s around. She’s fun in a way that makes you feel like you’re always seeing Disneyland for the first time. Sure she’s a little wild, but who doesn’t want a friend who makes you believe you can scale buildings? And if you’re ever feeling knocked down, she’s the best to be with because she struts around as if she holds the entire world in checkmate. And if her personality weren’t already perfect enough, she’s also known at our school as “the pretty one,” which sounds like our students are shallow, until you see her. Like you wonder what she’s doing at school when she should be on a modeling shoot somewhere. She has the most gorgeous ebony skin, but she’s not African American. Her family’s from Colombia, but I’d sound like I had a stuttering problem if I called her South American American. I told her that once, and she said, “You stutter?”
Oh, she’s also not the best listener.
Lydia slaps the row of lockers. “You’re zoning out again. Did you hear me? We’re going out tomorrow night.”
“Going out” involves going to an eighteen-and-over dance club, the Venue, and no, this sixteen-year-old doesn’t have a fake ID. Also, my mom knows I go there, so I’m not being sneaky. Lydia’s uncle works in the dish room, and he lets us in through the back entrance. We do dishes for an hour and practice our Spanish with him, so I get smarter and work on my domestic skills, and when I tell my parents what I learned, my mom says things like “muy bien” and my dad salutes. He was in the Navy for thirty-four years, and I think he misses it. He gives me salutes for everything: homework, feeding the fish, walking through the front door. I’d tell him to stop, but I kinda like how important he makes me feel for brushing my teeth.
I’m honest with my parents, but I might skip the part in the retelling where Lydia drags me out of the kitchen and onto the dance floor while she dances and I stand there doing my award-winning impersonation of a pole. Her Latin blood just needs to “let loose” as she says, and so I go with her because she always counters my “No, thanks” with “What else are you gonna do? Go out on a date?” Which is a joke because she knows I don’t date. So I say, “Of course not.” And after Family Dinner Friday, I ride my bike to the Venue, where I meet Lydia and her uncle. Every week.
Lydia grabs my hand at the locker and spins me so I’m facing her, and I suck in my breath. Jake’s standing a few feet behind her with an amused expression as he watches. How long has he been there? Did he see me fly into the lockers? My pit stains? I keep my arms by my sides and wave with just my fingers. Great, I’m a penguin.
Lydia says, “Come on. Come with me. What else are you gonna do? Go out on a date?”
I lift my eyebrows to communicate that there’s a cute guy behind her who I’d like her to play it cool around. Instead, she screams and then blesses herself with the sign of the cross. She’s Catholic in the big moments, and I’d explain, but I really can’t.