Riptide (13 page)

eighteen

chilaquiles:
fried tortilla chips
with eggs, salsa, and cheese

Ai
. Mr. Parker’s going to let me have it. I’m screwed. For once I comb my hair. Like that’s going to save me. I dropped Grace off on her porch Saturday night with a face that looked like it had road rash. And it was my fault. Well, maybe not totally. But I took her there. I didn’t paddle out with her. I wasn’t nearby when she got thrashed. A clear-cut case of negligence. Case closed. My ass is grass. Good-bye future internship hookups.

I run my hand across my jaw. Then I trudge to the kitchen as if one of Ma’s cast-iron skillets is hanging around my neck. The smell of
chilaquiles
perks me up. One of my favorites.

“Coffee’s in the French press.” Ma waves a hand toward my mug. Then she goes back to stirring fried tortilla strips, onion, and eggs. “Hand me the hot sauce,
mijo
.”

I grab the jar of salsa she made yesterday. My mouth is watering. “So what’s the occasion? “

“Your impending head on a platter.” She dumps half the sauce into the pan, where it will simmer until it’s thick. Man, I love that smell.

“Gee thanks, Ma.” I pick at the cheese waiting to melt over it all. “You gonna show at my funeral?”

She swats my hand away. “Pour yourself some coffee. And
mijo
? Refill mine,
por favor
.”

“Yes ma’am.” I sit at the bar.

She turns toward me, waving a wooden spoon. “You need
chilaquiles
this morning.”

I sip black coffee. “Yeah. I do.”

“So how are you planning on handling this?”

I shrug. “Don’t know.”

She sprinkles cheese over the skillet in a circular pattern. Always making things look good. “
Mijo
. You find Mr. Parker. Tell him you are sorry. And then stand there and take what you have coming.” She raises an eyebrow. “Within reason.” She takes the skillet off the stove and sets it on a hot pad near me.

I reach out and pick off a gooey tortilla strip. “
Ai, caliente
.” I blow on it fast a few times before popping it in my mouth. Then I tuck it to the side so my tongue doesn’t get too burnt to enjoy breakfast.

Ma whacks me on the head. I pull back grinning. She says, “Use a plate.”

I slide her coffee cup to her. “It was only a little piece.”

She hones in on me. “A plate,
mijo
.”

That
mijo
wasn’t the term of endearment. It was the war-
ning one. The
I’m your mama and I can take you out
kind. I make a big show of walking over to the cabinets and pulling out two plates. I hand Ma one.

“Madam. May I serve you
chilaquiles
? I heard the cook is exceptional.”

She chuckles. “You’re too much,
mijo
.”

“Ah. Now that
mijo
is music to my ears.” I scoop a small portion onto her plate, teasing her.

She makes a big show with her hands and winks. “That’s the perfect amount. For a single-celled amoeba! Give me a real portion.”

I shovel a large serving on her plate. After plopping two giant scoops on my plate, I say, “Thanks, Ma.”

She nods and pats my arm. “You’re a good boy, Ford. It’ll work out.”

I walk into the office ten minutes early.

Teresa looks down her glasses at me. “Mr. Parker wants to see you.”

I stop short, hovering my soon-to-be nonexistent butt over the chair. “Might as well get it over with, right?”

She frowns at me, concerned. “
Que paso
?”

“I screwed up. Took his daughter surfing at a place she wasn’t ready for … apparently. Her face looks like it got in a fight with a meat grinder.”

Teresa gasps.

“Well, I might be exaggerating a little bit.”

She whispers, “It was nice working with you, Ford.”

My head drops. I haven’t even thought about getting fired. I’ve been more focused on the getting-reamed-out part. My folks don’t yell, but since I’m dealing with a lawyer, I expected a verbal assault of sorts. Not getting canned. I whisper, “My rec letter.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” Teresa says. “Recommendations. Anything.”

“Thanks.” Man, this is too heavy. I straighten up and comb at my bangs. Teresa gives me a strange look. Then I grin. “Might as well look good when my head’s on the chopping block. I mean, I am a pretty boy.”

She smiles back. “I don’t know what to do with you.
Buena suerte
, Ferdinand.”

“
Gracias
.” I walk tall down the hallway. I’m a Caudillo. Well, a Caudillo-Watson. We don’t tuck tail and run.

I knock on Mr. Parker’s office door.

“Come in.”

I walk right in. “Excuse me, sir? Could we talk about this weekend?”

He gives me a disgruntled look. He’s puffed up like a rooster at a cockfight. Looks like the man version of Grace when she gets ready for a fight. It’s kind of funny.

He says, “Well, I sure as hell didn’t invite you in here to shoot the breeze.”

Whoa. Starting off easy. “I’m sorry about Grace’s accident,” I say. “Sorry about not walking her inside—she thought it would make things worse. But I shouldn’t have dropped her off on the front porch without taking the heat with her. That’s been bothering me.”

A little air goes out of him. “Well, I’m glad you can own up. Grace—she’s my little girl. If I let someone take her out surfing, I expect that person to take care of her. We made a deal. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, but part of watching out for her includes not taking her to the Point and then letting her fend for herself. She could have been … Well, you and I both know she’s damn lucky.”

I force myself to look him in the eye. “Yes sir.”

“You ever play poker, Ford?”

I resist the urge to loosen my collar. “Yes sir.”

“You know what happens to people who welch on their bets?”

I clear my throat. “No sir.”

He leans forward. “They get kicked out of the game. How do you feel about that?”

“Not too hot, sir.”

“Her mother doesn’t want her to surf again. Ever.” He sits behind his desk, comfortable. Holding all the cards.

That’s bogus. No way would Grace quit surfing. “How do you feel about that, sir, being a former surfer yourself?” I ask.

“That’s a good question, Counsel. I’m not in favor of that.”

This is a game to him. Reaming me out. Making me sweat. It’s bullshit. I pull my shoulders back. “And what would you be in favor of?”

“Grace needs to take a week off. She needs to focus on college applications. She needs some time away from the waves. I don’t want her getting right back out there. She could use a little time to develop some healthy fear. The ocean’s big stuff, son. It demands respect. Something you both seem to be short on.”

I grit my teeth before asking, “Where do we go from here?”

He gets a hard look on his face. “Grace doesn’t surf the Point. And you keep a better watch on her if you want to continue to be surfing buddies. Now, there’s just one other thing I need to talk to you about.” He pauses, staring at me with narrowed eyes. “I may work long hours, but I know there’s somebody taking her out on the days you’re in my office. Who is it?” He leans in, his face worried. “There’s nothing going on there, right?”

I shove my hands in my pockets and ball them into fists. I remind myself he’s helped a lot of people—my people. Then I smile like everything’s golden. He’s not firing me; he’s playing cat and mouse. And yeah, I might deserve to sweat a little. I dropped Grace off injured without even walking her in. That was pretty much asking for it.

“Damien?” I answer. “Not a chance anything’s going on there, not if I have anything to do with it. Is that all, sir?”

He leans back into his chair. “For now.” Then he does that whole two fingers from his eyes to me, the
I’m watching you
sign, which would be funny if it were a joke.

nineteen

It’s all about where your mind’s at.
—Kelly Slater

“C’mon. Ten more.”

“Are you nuts?” I fall flat on a beach towel, my face to the side. “I’ve already done fifty. I hate push-ups.”

“Your point?”

“They suck. Yours?”

Ford cops a squat closer to me, shuffling sand onto my towel. He leans over my face, which is still scabbed up. “The perfect wave, on a kickass day at the Point. You kicking butt and taking names at the Crazy John’s Surf Comp. You having the stamina and strength to know you can stick it.”

This week, I’ve been relegated to watching from the shore—part of the crummy taking-a-break-from-surfing deal. It’s only been a few days, but I’m fine now. A little sore. Like there’s any point to this time off besides the fact that it’s torture to watch from the sidelines. I groan and grunt through ten more push-ups.

When I flop back down, I just lie there facing the water lapping the shore. I space out and dream about catching a wave at the Point and not getting raked over Grimace rock. I know I got really lucky. There’s no room for luck, though. It’s all about skill and commitment. The day I got caught under, I didn’t fully commit, and that was a painful mistake. But how does a person figure out when to listen to their gut, when fear is in the way, and when they should go for it?

“Grace.”

I roll onto my back and squint up at Ford. “Yeah?”

“Are you ready to run?” He dangles worn blue running shoes over my stomach before dropping them at my side. “For the record, you’ve got game. I’m just helping you figure it out.”

Instead of saying anything, I toss the shoes to the side. I readjust my ponytail and hop up before Ford can get his shoes on. I start off with a full-out sprint and eventually slow down to a steady jog. The
thunk thunk
rhythm relaxes me. The burn in my calves feels good. For whatever reason, there’s something comforting about the ache that comes with pushing my limits. Maybe because it dulls the pain I can’t fix. Kind of like stomping on someone’s foot to help a headache. The headache doesn’t go away, but they darn sure become more concerned with their toes.

Ford lopes along behind me, keeping his distance, understanding my need for space. He’s my personal godsend. I focus on the feel of the sand giving way beneath my feet. Seagulls scatter in front of me as I cut through them. They dot the air with color and sound before fluttering back to the ground in search of some kid’s crumbs left behind. A light offshore wind carries the smells of salt and sea creatures. Everything about the beach is predictable, and not. It’s a thousand variations of an ocean concerto. It’s music that can’t be captured by notes on stanzas. It’s perfect.

At the end of our run, I fall back on the sand. Out of breath. Blood whooshing through my ears. That’s my kind of run. Stop when you drop.

Ford plops down beside me. He’s sitting up. I shade my eyes with my hand and squint up at him. My breathing is calming down but my pulse isn’t. Ever since I heard him say
she’s my girl
at the Point, my insides go into overdrive when we’re near each other.

Every month our church pulls together for a community service day. Instead of going to church, people sign up for a volunteer activity. This go-round, Mom signed our family up to serve food at a homeless shelter. So I show up at breakfast in a long-sleeved T-shirt and my favorite pair of worn Roxy jeans. They’re so comfy, and I like the way they fray at the ends.

Mom’s right eyebrow rises. “Tell me you’re changing before church?”

Dad glances up from his bowl of oatmeal and looks me over. I take a deep breath and focus on keeping my mouth closed.

“Grace?”

Ack. She wants an answer.

“Well, I was planning on wearing this to the Give Fest today.”

She taps manicured nails on the table. “What does that say about you?”

Tap, tap, tap. Dad looks back and forth between us.

“Um, it says I like comfortable clothes. And besides, if I were to get all dressed up, it might make the folks we’re serving feel uncomfortable.” My T-shirt is a classic plain shirt and besides, it’s even got a boat-neck cut—which is sort of dressy.

Tap, tap, tap. Huff.

I’m silent during our little fashion standoff.

Dad looks at both of us again. “Oh come on, Elaine. She’s got a point about not overdressing. Besides, she’s a teenager—aren’t they supposed to wear worn jeans? If she shows up in a dress or pantsuit, she’d be ostracized. And she’ll be serving food, anyway—wearing an apron. People won’t notice anything but her smile and whether or not she gives ’em a good serving of mashed potatoes.” He grins. “So represent the Parker family well. No skimping on the taters.”

Tap, tap, tap. Mom throws her hands up in the air. “Fine. I give up. You win.” She makes her exit from the kitchen muttering, “Worn jeans to church.”

I shift back and forth.

Dad grins at me and whispers, “She’ll get over it.”

I grin back and mouth, “Thanks.”

At the shelter, everyone bustles about adding last-minute decorations, repositioning welcome banners, and gabbing. My mom laughs while balancing on a chair and hanging corny summer decorations. Dad’s chatting it up with other men while they finish lining up chairs around the tables. I enjoy the warmth of the kitchen as I help organize the serving dishes and plastic silverware. We look like the perfect family.

Mrs. Franks, a sweet old lady in her eighties, is in charge of the food. Or at least she’s one of the helpers. She’s a doll and naturally takes over. I guess after eighty years of living and raising her own family, she knows how to get food on a table.

“Grace, could you help me out with the drink table?” Mrs. Frank’s voice warbles toward me.

“Sure thing, Mrs. Franks.” I speed over to help the doddering woman before she disappears behind the five-gallon tea dispenser. I think she’ll tip over sideways.

After securing the tea dispenser, I ask, “Where would you like it?”

She points her faded papery hand to the far right end of the table.

I set it down. “Does that look okay to you?”

“A little bit closer to the center, dear. We don’t want it falling off the edge, and you can call me Sister Franks like everyone else.” She pats my back after I’ve adjusted the beast.

“Okay, Sister Franks.” I force the words from my mouth. It feels a bit odd, but she’s from a different time period so I roll with it.

Under her supervision, I set up the drink table to perfection, placing the last cup on the plastic red-checked tablecloth. Some kid runs through the room announcing our guests’ arrival.

Somehow Sister Franks and I have decided to be buddies for the day. So we stand next to each other serving mashed potatoes and green bean casserole. It’s fun scooping the mashed potatoes on plates for the sea of faces passing by me. And Sister Franks is off the charts. She has something to say to everyone.

“My, my, young man. I think a growing boy like you might need an extra scoop.” She winks at him.

“Oh, what a pretty dress you’re wearing.” The little girl’s face lights up and the tired mom smiles for a brief second.

Watching Sister Franks love on folks renews my faith in people. After an hour of this, I realize she means every word she’s saying. What a sweet old lady.

Every now and then I search the crowded room for Mom and Dad. Every time I spot them, they’re helping someone, cleaning up, or listening to one of our guests. Every time I inspect their faces, they look happy. My parents get so excited about helping people; I know this is one of the reasons they decided to attend this church.

A guy from the youth group stops by to say, “Jeesh, Grace. Your dad is hilarious. You’re so lucky.”

I nod and give a tight smile. “Yep, that’s me. Lucky Grace.”

A lump builds in my throat. I wish this feeling could extend to our family year-round. This happiness. This love. It’s confusing, mixed up, and it hurts.

“Grace. This good-looking young man needs a big scoop of mashed potatoes.” Sister Franks’ voice pulls me out of lala land.

I grin at a scruffy guy in his twenties. “Sorry about that.”

He smiles. “No problem. I know that look. Cheer up. Things can’t be that bad.” He moves on with his tray.

I look after him, startled. Am I that transparent? Surely not. If I was, people would have figured out my charade by now. No, this guy knows what it means to want something you can’t have. And here he is, encouraging me. I feel like the crumb that I am. So I paint a smile on my face, determined to love on folks like Sister Franks does.