Riptide (12 page)

But I don’t want to open my eyes. Drifting. Away from everything. Sounds so good.

I feel the weight of his arm across my waist. Then he lifts me off the board and I’m weightless as he cradles me in his arms. The
thunk thunk
of his walk jostles me. I wince. I was rescued by an ogre.

I whisper-croak, “Head hurts.”

“I’m sure it does, girlie. Bitch as much as you want; don’t go to sleep.”

Thunk, thunk.
Jostle, jostle. Torture.

He stops and lays me down on the sand. A sea of voices buzz like a swarm of angry bees. It hurts my head so much. Someone peels my eyes open and shines a bright light in. I try to pull back, but the sand has me hemmed in.

I attempt to sit up, but my shoulders are pressed back into the sand. Someone holds a towel to my forehead. Why is there a crowd of people around? It’s not like I’m that important. Besides, if I can survive seventeen years in my house, what’s it matter if I get sucked over the falls?

“Everybody back the hell off.” The big blurry guy speaks sharply, motioning at my audience.

“The rest of you back way the hell off. I’m not going anywhere. She’s my girl.”

Ford. He’s here. His girl? My brain feels scrambled, but I like the sound of that.

“Grace, baby, open your eyes. Help us out here.”

His voice feels safe. It floods me with relief. I force my eyes open. He lifts a tangle of wet hair out of my face. I whisper, “Hey.”

sixteen

remorse:
a gnawing distress arising
from a sense of guilt for past wrongs
—www.merriam-webster.com

Grace yawns, sprawled out across my living-room couch. “I’m cashed out. I’m not dying. Quit with the twenty questions and quit being so anal about keeping me awake.”

How can she be so irritating and lovable at the same time? “You could have fooled me. I was flipping out when Kahuna Pete paddled you in. You were
limp
when he carried you onto the beach. You barely responded at first. Gave me a freakin’ aneurism. If I hadn’t promised to take stellar care of you, they might have swung in the direction of the hospital instead of bringing you here. I swore I would keep a tight watch over you.”

She shields her eyes from nearby lamplight. I rush to turn it off. She peeks out from under her hand sheepishly. “Okay, okay. Sorry. It’s just … my head hurts and I feel like I’ve been run over by an eighteen-wheeler.”

I look at her, concerned. And part of me wonders if she was with it enough to hear me say she was my girl. Total slip. Just got caught up in the drama of the moment. We’re not anything. Period. I pat her knee. Then I stand up, hands in my pockets. “Do you want
migas
? PB&J?”

“Do you have any rice, or cheese and crackers?” She closes her eyes for a second. She looks so helpless laid out on my couch. “And maybe some water?”

Guilt hits me like a Mack truck. I slap my forehead. “Of course, you want water. What was I thinking?”

I run through the kitchen like guys raiding it on Superbowl Sunday. In minutes I’m juggling a plate of cheese and crackers, PB&J on a separate plate, and a glass of water.

Grace winces out a smile. I feel like a jerk. Shouldn’t have taken her to the Point. I pushed her too hard. Her dad is going to be
pissed
.

She says, “Wow. Now that’s service. Maybe I should get shredded at the Point more often.”

Ouch. To my core. “Not funny. I’m really sorry about that. I shouldn’t have pushed you into it.”

She sets down the cracker. “You didn’t. I got annoyed by a couple of guys teasing me and wanted to prove them wrong. Instead, they probably think I’m a total kook.”

I snort … of all things for her to be worried about right now. Typical Grace. “Who cares what they think? I’ll tell you what I think. Surfing the Point was a bad idea. We’ll stick with other breaks. Cool?”

She sips water and then frowns. “Not cool. I’m not giving up. I’m going to paddle back out there and catch a stupid wave. I can do it. I messed up on my timing. Come on. I’m serious about joining a surf team. You think the college coach is going to want someone who says, ‘Excuse me, sir, I’m too wussy to surf this break. I’ll work on blah blah blah a few jetties down.’ Yeah, right. Paddlepusses don’t make the big leagues.”

I slide my hands down my face and stop at my cheeks. “
Ai, Mamacita
. What am I going to do with you?”

“Keep me. And let’s start training again. Harder this time.”

“Harder?” I only get to surf with her like three times a week. How is that going to happen?

“Yeah. Don’t go easy on me.”

“You’re not gonna like it.” I drop my hands to my side and stare at the floor, wondering if I’ll even get to go surfing with her again. Mr. Parker was clear about his expectations for protecting Grace from other guys; I’m pretty sure protecting her from rocks at the Point would be implied in the general agreement. I’m in Shitville, pretty much. And genius that I am? I drove there myself.

Grace grabs my hand. It’s like she’s lightning and I’m thunder. One touch and I’m ready to roar. She rubs her little fingers across my thumb and says, “That’s okay, ’cause I like you.”

I burrow next to her on the couch, dying at the awkwardness of this situation. She’s got to cool off—she’s always so hot and cold. First we’re a no-go for a lunch date, then cozy at Huntington, then off at the bonfire, then hot as all
get-out this morning, and now she’s about to make me come unglued.

“What can I say to that?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Fine. But we’ll wait a week for you to recover. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The front door clicks. Aw crap. Ma just got home from her morning girls’ coffee. I wait quietly, hoping she won’t go through the living room. Nope. No such luck. She takes one look at Grace on the couch, drops her purse, and speeds over.

She clucks over Grace. “
Mija
.” Then she turns accusing to me. “Good God, Ford, what did you let happen to this poor girl?”

I hang my head, annoyed and guilty. I don’t want to look her in the eyes. She’s right. I don’t need her looks or scolding to know that I screwed up.

“Mrs. Watson, it wasn’t his fault.”

Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see Ma’s hands fly up in the air. “It doesn’t matter. You are my princess and he should guard you like royalty.”

Join the club. Like I don’t
know
that. I mutter, “I know,
Mammi
.”

Ma says, “Do your parents know about this yet?”

I look over at Grace. She starts to shake her head no, but ends up clenching her eyes shut.

I sit up and stare Ma in the eyes. “You’re stressing her out.”

Ma grabs a blanket and puts it on Grace. Another thing I didn’t do. She says, “Let me know if you need anything,
mija
.” Then she shoots me a dirty look. I’ll be getting an earful later.

seventeen

Champions keep playing
until they get it right.
—Billie Jean King

Ford and I decide that the best approach with my parents is to tell them as little as possible about today’s events. So after dinner, Ford drives me home, unloads my surfboard, and drops me off at the front door. I’m wearing one of his too-big-for-me surfer jackets to cover my arms; it’s my face that we can’t cover up.

Right as I’m about to head in to face the firing squad, Ford makes a sign of the cross and runs around to the driver’s seat. We’d agreed that if he came in it would seem like a bigger deal—he never comes inside my house after surf sessions.

He jumps into Esmerelda and bolts.

Jeeze, it’s not like he’ll go to prison or something. It was my screw-up. I clap my flip-flops together to shake the sand off and leave them on the front porch.

I unlock the door to find my parents hanging out in the living room looking cozy. They’re going through a good phase right now, which will hopefully work in my favor. Then I try to not hobble too noticeably as I cross the room.

Right as I’m about to round the corner, Mom says, “My God, what happened to your face?”

I stop. “Nothing really. I fell off my board and got a few minor scrapes. The lifeguard checked it out. Everything’s okay.”

“The lifeguard? Minor scrapes? You fell?” Mom is no longer relaxed or leaning against Dad; she’s sitting up straight. “Your face has more Band-Aids covering it than skin showing, and you say everything’s okay?” The loud, shrill tone in her voice makes my headache worse.

I clench my hands into fists at my side to keep from holding on to my head.

Mom rushes over to give me a hug, and when she pulls back, she examines the scratches on my face.

I pull back, annoyed. “It’s nothing. I took a tumble … got sucked into the falls.”

Mom rejoins Dad on the couch and grips his arm,
a stressed look on her face. Dad eyes me with a semi-exasperated look of concern. “You’re going to have to spill more than that to diffuse your mom’s red alert signal. What the hell happened? Those Band-Aids are going to hurt like hell when you rip them all off.”

I grin somewhat sheepishly. We’d swapped out a large bandage covering several scrapes on my cheeks for lots of small, flesh-colored Band-Aids in hopes of attracting less attention. Now I know why Mama Watson clucked, shook her head, and wished me luck.

“Ford and I surfed the Point at Turmo and I caught this epic wave, but my nose pushed downward and I flew off the board and got rolled into the wave. It was big waves today, so I hit bottom for a little bit before I came back up. Someone was there to help me out. The lifeguard checked me. I’m fine.” I stop to catch my breath after rolling all that out without stopping.

Dad says, “The Point? You know better than to surf that. It’s not a beginner break.”

I huff. “And I’m not a beginner. Besides, how can I get better if I don’t surf harder waves?”

Mom scoots to the edge of the couch. “You won’t get better because you won’t be surfing any more waves. I’ve never liked you surfing. And what about your future? College? What if you’d really gotten hurt?” She turns to my father. “And you—you helped get her into this mess.”

Dad scoots back. He does a double take between Mom and me.

“Are you kidding me?” I say. “I’m almost eighteen. You can’t ban surfing.” My head is pounding and my face hurts from talking so much. “I’m ahead on all my studies. I’m number one in the class. What more do you want? My college apps in blood? This is crazy.”

“Whoa,” Dad says. “Everybody slow down here. Elaine, don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

“Overreacting? Our daughter comes home with her beautiful face all scraped up and I’m out of line? I don’t think so.” She turns on me, her face a bright pink, and points her finger at me. “What if you got knocked out or brain-damaged? There goes the Ivy League. There goes your future. Don’t expect me to take care of you when you’re a quadriplegic in diapers. Ask your dear old dad or one of your surfing buddies. Do you think Ford’s going to stand by and feed you carrots through a straw the rest of his life? Because I don’t.”

“Grace is plenty ladylike, and she needs some sort of physical activity besides school,” Dad says. “She needs an outlet. And for God’s sake, she’s not going to end up a quadriplegic. Let’s chill out on the melodramatics.” He turns his body toward Mom and scoots over until their legs touch. “Can’t we find a middle ground? She knows her limits now. Right, Grace?”

I bite my lip and nod. Ouch—I forgot my lip is cut.

Mom tears up. “How? I don’t want someone knocking on our door saying my baby drowned.”

Dad puts his arm around her and she collapses into him, sniffling. I understand her being worried, but I wish she got the irony of her concern for my physical welfare. She worries about the beach, but what about Dad’s tirades?

Dad points to a nearby chair for me to sit in. I sit and wait, my heart in my throat and my lifeline in his hands.

He says, “How about if Grace doesn’t surf the Point again—”

“But—” I start.

“Don’t interrupt when I’m helping you,” he growls.

I shrink, nodding silently.

“How about she not surf the Point anymore? And she takes a break from surfing this next week? That gives her time to heal and you time to relax.” He looks back and forth between us. “Deal?”

I say, “Deal.” Then I keep my mouth shut. Besides, I have to sit this week out anyway.

Mom shrugs and says, “I wash my hands of this. Don’t come to me for sympathy if you get hurt again.”

Dad shoos me out of the room. Before he turns his attention back to Mom, he gives me a wink.

I slink down the hall, grateful and determined not to screw up the next time I surf the Point.