Riptide (18 page)

twenty-eight

Rubbernecker:
a person who
slows their vehicle down to look
at a wreck they’re driving past

Hanging out on my front porch after a great day at the office. Flip-flopping it. Playing guitar. My kind of late afternoon.

My cell dings. I check the message. It’s Grace. I feel kind of bad. We haven’t really hung out since we argued about Brianna. And I haven’t been blowing her off on purpose. Just kind of got caught up hanging out with Brianna. And then the guys had an epic poker tournament. After that much time with Little Hien, I feel like I could host
MTV Cribs
or something.

Can we talk?

Wow. I wonder what made her make the first move.

Yeah. Where?

Your place?

C’mon over.

See you soon.

It’s so funny, Grace’s text. Even her text speak is proper. Brianna would have written CU soon. And added a smiley face. Because she’s cute like that.

Grace can be all business. She can be a lot of fun, too. Not surfing with Grace the past week was weird. Things haven’t felt right. Like the world isn’t spinning on the right axis. I heard she surfed all week with Damien. He’s such a butt-munch.

Grace speeds into the driveway, parks her bike, and bounds up the steps with the biggest smile I’ve seen on her face in weeks.

I strum a chord. “Hey,
Mamacita
.” I set the guitar down and give her a big hug. Strangely self-conscious, I say, “Um, I need to snag a shirt.” I head into the house with Grace trailing behind, grab a shirt off the top of the laundry basket, and yank it on, enjoying this Grace. “You’re in a hella good mood. What’s up?”

She squeals, “I surfed the Point!”

I frown. “What?”

She squeals again. “Yeah. I surfed the Point!” Then she twirls around. “And I lived to tell.”

That’s crazy. “What the hell? You went without me?”

She jerks to a stop. “What do you mean?”

“Excuse me, but last time we surfed there, you almost died.”

She glares daggers. “Wow. I thought you’d be happy for me.”

I throw my hands in the air. “I thought we had a thing. I’m supposed to be your coach. Who watched out for you?”

She cocks her head, places her hand on her hips. “Newsflash—last time I checked, a coach goes with you to the beach. Some coach you’ve been. Since you’ve been MIA, Damien’s surfed with me. The comp is this week. What did you expect? Besides, I needed to go back there. Face my fears and all.”

She’s right. Sort of. But Damien? He’s a dillweed. Stab me in the heart. “Oh, so Damien took care of you like I would have, huh? Besides, the only reason I haven’t taken you there is because your dad specifically told me not to—”

“Well, Damien took care of me. It’s fine.”

Something about the way she said that really sets me off. “Oh, yeah, I bet he did. Did he watch out for you? Make sure you were safe?”

Grace narrows her eyes. “Oh. Like you, that day at the Point?”

Wow. Going in for the kill. “What are you talking about?”

She says, “Oh, wait, maybe I’m confused. I thought Kahuna Pete pulled me out. Where were you? Oh, wait, that’s right, you showed up right afterward to ‘claim’ me as your girl.”

Air quotes are the last straw. I say, “I can’t believe you went there. Is that what you think of me?” Palm to the face. “I’ve been reduced to a cheap cliché. You say we’re friends, but you sure as hell don’t act like it. See ya. Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.” I look up to watch her go. Like a rubbernecker on the highway. We’re a freaking train wreck.

She scowls, her eyes narrowed and forehead scrunched up.

I scowl back, but then I waver. I shove my hands in my pockets.

She says, “Fine. I’m outtie,” and heads toward the door.

I run after her, like the idiot I can’t help being. “Grace, wait.”

She throws a hand up in the air and doesn’t even look at me
.
She huffs out of the houses and marches toward her bike. This is crazy. “
Please
,” I say.

And she keeps walking. Away. From me.

And me? I trail after like a stray dog wanting a home. “C’mon, Grace. At least let me give you a ride.”

Nothing. A shove of her flip-flop on a pedal and she’s off. Gone.

I’m not letting her do this to me. Treat me like a cheap throw-away. I yell after her, “Oh yeah? If you’re gonna act like a cold-hearted B, then good luck at the comp. You’re on your own.”

twenty-nine

Courage, sacrifice, determination,
commitment, toughness, heart, talent,
guts. That’s what little girls are made
of; the heck with sugar and spice.
—Bethany Hamilton

Today is a welcome diversion even if it means surfing by myself. The comp’s tomorrow and I feel so screwed up, but Ford or no Ford, I’ve gotta surf. Mom even let me borrow the Jeep, which is a total first … she didn’t even grill me about why I needed transportation. Whatever is going on with her, she’s too stressed to care about what I’m doing. Of course, she’d have a conniption if she knew I was surfing by myself. I didn’t want a ride from Damien, even though he would have been cool with it. Part of me is nervous about surfing with him after our day at the Point. I’m worried about what he’ll say and if he’ll bring up my dad.

Anyway, all my energy needs to be focused on the comp. On controlling myself and my moves. On figuring out the 360. On my own. On wowing the UCSD surf coach. On not losing the only thing I have in life, surfing my favorite beaches.

So I drive into Black’s with music blaring, feeling the need to surf until I burn off some stress. I wriggle into my wetsuit, unload my board, sling a backpack over my shoulder, and head for the beach.

Waves are breaking right and a handful of surfers are out. I didn’t see Esmerelda in the parking lot, not that I expected Ford to be here. My eyes are raw from crying for the past few days. They feel like someone took Coke bottles, smashed them up to tiny pieces, and taped them to my eyelids. Salt water is going to suck today. The thing that I never wanted to happen—losing my best friend—happened. I lost him to the girl I told him to date. ’Cause I’m an idiot.

I wax and comb my board, watching guys rip moves I need to perfect. The last thing I need is to be a joke at the comp. This is my chance. All I need is to maintain better control of my life. I slipped up. Let emotions get in the way. Well, no stupid boy is going to get in the way of my dreams. Neither are my parents. I will do it. I will kick ass. I have to win. That’s all I have.

After a quick glance around, I shove my backpack in an inconspicuous spot half-covered by a rock and schlep toward the ocean. A gust of cold wind reminds me that I haven’t zipped up my wetsuit, and why would I? Ford does that for me. But I don’t need him. I can zip my own freaking wetsuit. It’s not like it’s that big of a deal. Wetsuits have long tags attached to the end of the zipper so the user doesn’t need anyone else. Damn it, why did Ford and I have to fight the week before the comp?

As I finish fixing my wetsuit and lean over to snag my board, a little strand of hair at the nape of my neck rips out. Grr. Stupid Ford. Stupid zipper. Stupid me.

I huff out to thigh-deep water before jumping on my board and paddling out. I don’t even wince at cold water attacking me in all the wrong places.

I make it out to the breakers, winded. I hope I didn’t use all my pissed-off energy up getting here and then not be able to catch anything. There are five other surfers out here, but they’re all guys. Surfing without Ford or Damien makes me a smidge nervous. Nobody has my back, but maybe that’s been true all along. The one person I thought I could count on … well, forget it.

Some college-age jerkwad with his roots showing says, “You paddled out to play with the big dogs, so don’t expect any free rides. Unless you want one in the backseat of my Hummer.”

I flip him off. “Trying to impress me with your gas guzzler? No thanks, Assclown. The only thing I plan on riding? Waves that you want.”

Another dude in a deep blue wetsuit says, “Nice one. Don’t pay attention to Assclown. He’s all bark and no action …
anywhere. And since he gave you such a warm welcome, take your pick off the next set.”

“Thanks.” If Ford were here, Assclown wouldn’t have given me more than a second glance.

Assclown doesn’t argue about me picking out my wave. He grumbles, “This ain’t no tea party.”

I ignore him. When the next set comes in, I paddle hard for the first wave, almost too hard. I ease up and catch the sweet spot. My mind goes blank to anything but this. I
love
it—the sheer joy that wells up inside me as I carve switchbacks up and down the wave. As the time to exit or ride it in approaches, I’m pumped and decide to end with a 360. But I hesitate near the end of the spin, and down I go. Water collides with my face and I reach for my nose to keep water from rushing up it. Ugh—that split second where I don’t have control? I can’t stand it, and it bites me in the ass every time. I have three days and I still haven’t perfected a move that says
I’m
here to win
.

Of course, oh yay. Here comes Ford, paddling right toward me. Am I supposed to pretend we didn’t have an argument? There’s no way I’m apologizing. The words “cold-hearted B” are freshly etched in my mind. Those three little words pretty much add all the fuel I need to continue my fire. The only other person who’s ever called me a bitch was my dad. Using the first letter doesn’t soften the blow. It gives me something to use when I need ammo to win my next argument with Ford.

I pooch my lips, give a quick raise of the eyebrows, and pull my mouth up to one side. Whatev. I’m here to surf, not play footsies. Everything I’ve worked for is going down tomorrow and the last thing I need is more crap from Ford or my parents. I still haven’t completed more than one page of one Ivy League essay app yet. Not gonna happen. I categorically refuse to go to college out of state. I just have to figure out the right timing to break it to them, when they’re ready to be rational and listen.

Ford parks a shiny new longboard a couple of feet from me and doesn’t even say hey.

Two can play that game. I ignore his new toy, give him the slightest nod, and then turn away to focus on the next set coming in. He follows suit. Thank God there’s actually one rushing at us. It’s a competition now. I pop back around and lie down on my board, ready to paddle with everything I’ve got. When it’s a couple of feet behind me, I dig deep into the water with forward strokes, feeding off my anger, and propel myself forward as hard as possible. It’s a paddle battle, but I’m in a better position to catch the sweet spot. I grin as my board gets pulled up into the top of the wave and watch Ford float over the top.

I laugh, enjoying the blast of ocean on my heels, as I make my bottom turn and pull a couple of cutbacks. I zip across the face, gain momentum, and then catch a little air off the backside before making my exit. A little spray, a little show to let Ford know I can do fine on my own.

I paddle past him as he carves on his own ride. He pulls a floater and then does some fancy cross-stepping before managing to hang five like it’s a breeze. Showoff. I pull my board up on the outside of Assclown’s group. Not close enough to have to fight them for waves, but just on the outskirts where I can kind of pretend I’m with them … if I want.

Ford paddles over and settles in a few feet away from me. He says, “Nice ride.”

I give him a curt “Thanks.”

Silence. Tension.

I decide to make the next move. “So, new board?”

Ford nods. “I’ve been eyeing this for a while. Jake at the surf shop let me borrow it for the day. I’ll probably buy it. It has a good feel.” He hesitates. “Wanna try it?”

That’s the ultimate peace offering, but I won’t let myself forget our argument. He didn’t even call to apologize. Besides, I have the comp to train for, which means I should stick to my board. I say, “Nah. Thanks anyway.”

His face falls. So I add, “I’ll take a rain check for after you buy it. Gotta stick with mine until the comp tomorrow.”

His forearms flex as he grips the board, and my eyes travel up his torso. My cheeks burn, embarrassed to be wishing I could see his washboard abs.

He says, “Yeah, right. How’s your afternoon been?”

My eyes take in his dimple and lock with his eyes; I realize he totally knows I just checked him out. I blush and look away, wondering if Brianna checks him out like that and if she realizes all the other things to love about him—like how smart or funny he is and how thoughtful he can be.

He kicks his board over to mine, the distance between us fluctuating with the gentle slopes of the ocean. I breathe in and remind myself that I should be mad, that I
am
mad. It’s the principle of the matter.

He touches my thigh. “Grace?”

I sigh and look at him. “Yeah?”

“I really wanted to come out and pretend like everything’s okay. It took me two beaches to find you. But I can’t pretend we haven’t fought anymore than I can ignore the fact that you hurt me. What you said about me not watching out for you enough at the Point … like that was all my fault. As if you had no role in that.”

I grip the sides of my board. “It’s a good thing you’ve got Brianna to console you.” The words spew out of my mouth like a plume of smoke from a volcano about to blow. It’s like I can’t help myself.

He pulls away from me. “Dang straight. Heck, you even gave her the thumbs-up. So is that why you’re acting like this? Somebody is interested in me and I take her out on a date. And you’re jealous. All your drama. It’s ridiculous. I deserve someone who appreciates me. Someone who wants me. Drama? This isn’t me. I can’t stand it.”

I narrow my eyes. I’ll give him drama. Like he hasn’t been jealous of Damien all summer? I steel myself not to look into his eyes, knowing they’ll melt my resolve. I’ve got to do what’s best for me right now, and that includes protecting myself from all guys, Ford included.

“I’ve got news for you, Ford Watson,” I say. “It’s fine with me if you want to take Brittany out. In fact, Damien and I went on our own little date after the Point that day.”

“Are you kidding me? Damien?” He shakes his head side to side, slowly. He seems to be realizing something I’ve been worried about all this time—that I’m not worth it. Then he says, “I don’t know you anymore. I’m out for reals this time.”

I think it’s the word
anymore
that hurts the most. It feels like salt water in my eyes … and up the nose. But I take it. I deserve it. Because in the end, I know it doesn’t matter.

He paddles away from me until he catches a ride in.

I sit on my board, watching him from behind. My world just went from color to black-and-white, and I’m too worn to do anything about it.

I walk into our house with slightly pink cheeks, hoping no one will notice and wondering what my parents are both doing home. I am so busted.

The first thing I see is the two of them sitting on the couch, lit up like neon lights, waiting for me—I freak out on the inside. I’m in big trouble, but I can’t figure out what I did that was so bad they both decided to come home at the same time. Did Mom figure out I haven’t started the college essays?

Mom greets me with a smile and says, “Hey, honey.”

Now I’m really freaked.

I stand on the welcome mat, hoping to God I’m not dripping water and not wanting to go in any further. Did I rinse all the sand off my feet? And crap, I forgot an extra sand-free towel to use when I enter the house. Of all the days to—

“Grace, why don’t you come sit down with us?” Dad points to a leather chair.

I pat at my rear end. Yep. Still wet. “Um, I know I’m wearing shorts, but I’m also wearing my swimsuit bottoms underneath them. They’re still damp.”

Mom says, “No big deal, sweetheart. It’s just leather. Take a seat, we’ve got exciting news for you.”

I look back and forth between them and cautiously take a seat. On her leather chair. In my wet swimsuit. This is the Twilight Zone.

Dad says, “Tomorrow is your big day to shine, Grace.”

Crazy. Aliens have inhabited my parents’ bodies. Unsure, I say, “Yeah. I mean, yes sir.”

Mom leans forward, excited. “Jack, tell her about it!”

What the crap? She sounds like a game show host.

Dad totally plays into her charade, booming, “You’ve been invited to a private, unofficial Ivy League schmooze!”

“What?” My emotions are in overdrive and the warning sensors in my brain are starting to go off. Retreat is not an option though.

Mom places a hand on Dad’s forearm and leans forward eagerly. “You know Warren Driscoll, one of the senior partners at your dad’s firm?”

I nod in slow motion. I’ve heard the name on occasion, followed by a string of curse words.

Mom continues. “Well, he’s hosting the brunch, and he remembered Dad mentioning that you’re hoping to go to one of the Ivies, and we got an official invite.” She ends an octave higher from sheer excitement.

I’m floored. Totally blindsided. Brunch? The comp starts in the morning. But I’m not going to cry. I have to keep it together and figure out how to get out of this nightmare. Breathe in. Breathe out.

“He sent you an invitation the day before his party …
isn’t that kind of last minute?”