Faker

Here's a short story I wrote as an example for my ELA class. It's called "Faker."
Were I to tackle it again, I don't think I'd make the main character a surfer. Not enough background knowledge to feed the story
Students were supposed to write fiction based on their own life experiences. My germination point for this story was that I did not learn to swim until college--and often had to fake my way through swimming with friends. Fortunately, where I grew up, few of our "swimming spots" were more than waist-deep.

Faker

The cafeteria at Mac’s new school was weird. The food line exited onto an outdoor courtyard, lined with palm trees and a circle of picnic tables. Back in Michigan, Mac’s friends would already be wearing their snow boots. Here, tanned kids were kicking off flip-flops on the lawn while enjoying mediocre, greasy, high-school pizza.

        Mac adjusted the sling on his left arm. Wandering into the lunch line, he finagled a tray onto his sling. Balancing precariously, he moved down the food line, grabbing a grilled-cheese sandwich, a cup of hummus, and a banana. He thought it was strange that the cafeteria served hummus, but he was learning to like it. It was one of the few things he’d adjusted to easily.

        Peering around the cafeteria, Mac saw a table full of...friends? Acquaintances? He wasn’t sure what to call them yet, but they were—for the most part—nice to him.

        He gripped his tray tightly and balanced it on his arm, atop his sling. Choosing a seat at the table next to his group, he listened to their excited chat about their Friday afternoon activities.

        “I’ve got my board waxed and ready! Can’t wait to hit the waves this afternoon,” said one.

        “Got a new wetsuit to break in. Gonna be awesome,” shared another.

        “How about you, Mac? That shiny new surfboard going to get wet this weekend? Or are you going to sit this one out, too?” snapped Grace, spinning in her cafeteria stool to confront him.

        Grace was a puzzle. She was more sarcastic and cynical than the other kids. She was always close to friendly, but most of her comments had a sharpness to them that made Mac uncomfortable. He couldn’t really tell if she was mocking him or not.

        “Yeah, I’ve still got this sling on. I hope to break it in soon, though!” Mac laughed, nervously.

        “Oh, yeah, the sling,” Grace chuckled, “why do you need it again?”

        Mac was suddenly not hungry. “My arm hurts,” he grunted, moving around the hummus with his grilled-cheese sandwich. “I’ll see you all at the beach this afternooon.”

        He took a final grudging bite of his lunch, picked up his tray, and returned it inside.

        The rest of his afternoon passed quietly. Mac sat in class, his left arm casually dropped in his lap. Occasionally, he’d fidget with his sling. Leaving school, he hopped on his bike, rode a few blocks away, and stopped. After looking around, he removed the sling, stuffed it in his backpack, and raced home, both hands gripping the handlebars.

        Arriving, he dropped his bike on the garage floor. Mac ran inside, threw on his swim trunks, grabbed a snack and took the brand-new short-board off the wall of his bedroom. He remembered the sling in his backpack. He wouldn’t be able to carry the surfboard with it, so he shoved it in his beach-bag and walked to the beach.

        Walking onto the sand, he looked around before dropping to sit and putting the sling back on.

        Mac sat on the beach, his unused surfboard propped in the sand behind him. He stared somewhat longingly at his pack of friends lolling in the surf on their boards. The waves just weren’t coming today, but they seemed to be having fun, anyway.

        The teens balanced on their knees; wobbling in the surf. Grabbing hands, they parried in the water, playing a kind of salt-water “Chicken Fight.” Losers would burst from the waves—smiling and spitting out gobs of ocean water.

        Mac desperately wanted to try. He tugged at his sling again.

        “So, is today the day we’re going to see that wall-hanger float?” Grace jogged up from behind him towards the water, nodding at his unused surfboard.

        Already clad in a beat-up wetsuit, Grace dropped her towel and beach-bag at Mac’s feet. “Watch this, will you?” she tossed over her shoulder as she ran off towards the waves.

        “Is that it?” Mac thought. “Am I stuck as the beach babysitter?”

        He tugged on the strap on his sling, staring at his perfectly-functioning elbow. Letting loose a deep sigh, he tugged it off and flexed his arm.

        Butterflies slam-danced in his stomach. He turned around and picked up his short-board. Tucking it under his arm; he scuffled towards the surf. Knee-deep, he heard his friends laughing.

        “Hey, Mac! Come on in! The water’s fine!” one joked.

        “Yeah, the waves stink, though,” another friend complained.

        Mac thrust the board in front of him, laying on his belly like he’d watched his friends do bunches of times. Paddling his arms, his board wobbled a bit as he slowly moved towards his friends.

        “Oh, glad your arm feels better,” said Grace. Her sly smile and cocked eyebrow were typical of her sarcastic nature, but there was a warmth to her voice that hadn’t been there before. “Try to haul your hips up a bit more. Finding your center of gravity will give you confidence when it’s time to stand up.”

        Mac smiled back. He scooted up on his board, as instructed, and nosed it out toward the horizon. He didn’t think he’d be ready to ‘stand up’ today, but ‘find my center? Yeah, that sounds right,” he thought.

        “Thanks for the tip,” Mac said, eagerly, paddling towards Grace. “What’s next?”