Riptide (20 page)

thirty-one

Eddie would go.
—Mark Foo

I barely slept last night. All I could think of was attending the comp and facing the wrath of my parents, or attending the stupid Ivy League party and schmoozing with people who might give me some incredible rec letters for colleges I don’t want to attend. And oh, bonus, I’d miss out on the opportunity of my life—the surf comp I’ve trained for … with Ford, who’s probably done with me … where one of the judges is the surf coach for UCSD.

It should be such a no-brainer, right? Go to the comp. Screw the last-minute party invite to buddy up to people I don’t know or care about. But what happens if I do all that and don’t advance past the first round of the comp? It would all be for nothing.

But the thing that really kept me up was the other part of the
what happens if
question. If I skip the party, what will Dad do to me when Mom’s not home? It’s bad enough when I set him off randomly—forget doing something on purpose. I can’t even fathom what would be waiting for me at home this afternoon. Mom’s likely to give the
I’m disappointed in you
speech and the angry
how could you embarrass us by not showing up
speech, but when it’s just me and Dad—which is inevitable—what will he do? Sure, I can handle being cussed out, and yeah, usually his violence is erratic and who knows what will really set it off, but this scenario is premeditated. It’s an
I know I’m gonna piss you off beyond belief when you’re standing there without your trophy daughter to show off
scenario.

After a night of no sleep, I still don’t have any answers on how bad it would be.

The one thing I do know is that I’d regret skipping out on the comp for the rest of my life.

And that’s my answer. Maybe that’s kind of what Mama Watson was talking about.

While I spent the night panicking over what to do, my parents were up late yelling. That’s working in my favor now, as they’ve slept late instead of getting up and running errands this morning. There’s no way I could go through with this if I had to talk to them right now. I’d be freaking out too much. Of course, I’m counting on the note I leave on the counter to work in my favor, too:

Good morning! I know y’all have a busy schedule before the brunch. I’m headed out to wash the Jeep and take care of a few things myself. See you later.

Love, Grace

Everything’s loaded and ready. I back the Jeep out of the driveway with the lights off and hope to God they don’t hear it. I don’t turn the lights on until I’m out of our neighborhood.

I hope the note buys me the time I need. I’m heading for the comp. I’ll be on the waves—where I belong—when the brunch starts.

I speed down the highway, wishing Ford was here with me. The image of him paddling away from me … well, it hurts. I’m wrapped up in my own world the entire ride to the comp. I pull into the crowded parking lot emotionally exhausted. Lack of sleep equals shaky Grace. My body’s humming like it’s filled with a thousand bees, and all I can do is move at the speed of their wings.

The place is packed—people of all ages milling about unloading their cars, teenage girls carrying their boards. If that wasn’t enough of a reminder that today is anything but normal, the tents and banners are reassurance that yes, today is the Day. That yes, I skipped out on my parents. And all the people here, in groups or as families, make the ache in my stomach that much bigger.

Being alone around crowds of people is way worse than being alone by myself.

I munch my second bagel and slurp the last of my coffee. Then I take a deep breath and pray my first real prayer with all my heart.

Mama Watson’s God? Everything’s screwed up. I’m screwed up. I need your help. I’d really appreciate it, you know? This is weird, talking to you like this, but Mama Watson seems so sure of you. And if I could have anybody in the world on my side, well, it seems like you’d be the best option. Um, thanks.

I hold back on making the sign of the cross. Not sure about that. And while it felt a little awkward, my heart feels lighter, like it’s floating in a little puddle of hope.

I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder, unload my board, and walk to the sign-in tent. There are about ten other girls in line already and I fall in behind them. It seems like several of them know each other from other surf comps. A few of them look familiar, but I feel way behind the curve. Like I should have been doing these my whole life, not entering my first one at seventeen. Everyone else seems to have some sort of cheering squad, whether it’s family or friends. I’ve got nobody. How’s that for Loserville?

Twenty minutes later, I reach the front of the line, where a cute Asian guy with blue tips on spiky bangs is checking people in.

He shoots me the pearly whites. “You got your paperwork all filled out?”

I rock back and forth on my tiptoes. “Yep.”

He glances over the page and then back at me. “This your first comp?”

I pull at my board shorts. “Yep.”

He grins. “You nervous?”

I’m noticing a pattern here; I give him a tiny smile. “Yep.”

“Can you speak more than one word at a time?”

My tiny smile breaks wide open. “Nope.”

He hands me my comp shirt. It has the number 15 on it. “Well … ” He looks back at my paperwork. “Well, Grace Of One Word, I’ve got two for you: good luck.”

I take the shirt, feeling sheepish. It kind of seemed like he was flirting with me. But my heart’s taken—and broken. So much for playing it safe. There is no safe.

The girl behind me huffs, and I realize I’ve been standing here like an idiot holding up the line. Mr. Flirty of Two Words winks at me; I move on.

I try to ignore all the other competitors milling around, but I can’t help it. Some of the girls seem nervous; others look pretty sure of themselves. Those girls are grouped together talking smack, swapping stories, and laughing. There are a few girls in the zone … they’re stretching, doing yoga, and chilling out with their board watching the waves. This last group, they’re my kind. I find an open spot, lay down my board, and stretch as I watch the ocean roll in—thick strands of loosely woven linen rumbling toward the shore.

Every few minutes, I stare at the number 15 printed on the bright blue T-shirt. That could be my lucky number, or a number to forget.

It doesn’t matter how many times I survey the crowd, Ford hasn’t shown up. I keep thinking he will, because Ford’s that kind of guy. But the countdown is ticking and he’s not here.

Another half hour goes by as the beach fills with spectators. All these people to watch me crash and burn, or to score the ride of my life. I’m really here. I’m really doing this. It feels surreal.

All the contestants are called into the official tent, where a hot guy with bleached-out hair, a killer tan, and dreads rehashes all the rules for us—as if we haven’t lost sleep memorizing them. Because there’d be nothing worse than getting disqualified. After he wishes us luck and gives us our heat numbers, we spill out of there like a bunch of kids on a playground.

I wax my board and focus on different moves I want to try. I need to think about all the moves I can make, ones that will impress the judges. Maybe I should play it safe, pull the moves I could do in my sleep.

After all the training Ford and I did this summer, I really want him here. He’s my glue; he keeps me together, and today I really need that—him. Just thinking about doing this on my own freaks me out.

I can’t think about that, though. Or him. Or how much I want him or need him. It’s pointless. He wanted depth. I wanted to stay in the shallow end because I was too scared to jump off the high dive without floaties.

An air-horn blares and the first heat begins. They paddle out to the breakers. I comb the wax and notice the moves girls are pulling. Some are pretty sweet. Moves I haven’t tried, but they don’t necessarily earn more points than the moves I’ve worked on—floaters, backside snaps, closeout snaps, and airs. And as Ford said during one of our workouts, “A badass move that’s poorly executed doesn’t impress the judges, but it does affect your score. So learn ’em and own ’em.”

A few heats later, I’m up. My stomach lurches. Stepping into the water to paddle out, next to a competitor who looks like she does 360s for her warm-up, intimidates me. I hope no one can tell I’m trembly. We paddle to the waiting area, which is cordoned off by floating buoys and sponsors’ signs. She’s a couple of inches taller than me, and ripped. I noticed she wasn’t mouthing off beforehand and she didn’t act nervous. She seems calm and intense, if those traits can possibly coexist.

We sit on our boards like they’re race horses, waiting for the gun. Our cue sounds and we paddle hard to be the first to catch the incoming waves. The first one rolling toward us is perfect; I stare at it, mesmerized, and wonder what Ford would say about this wave. Crap. I should be catching it, not thinking about it. The other girl gets it and I back off, waiting for the next ride. We didn’t even paddle-battle.

Shit. Pull it together, Grace.

Here comes one, rolling at me full throttle. I paddle with everything I have and drop in and cut back and forth across the wave. I zip across to hit the lip, where I boost some kickass air before landing. I pull a couple of floaters and exit high on adrenaline.

My first real ride in a comp and I kicked ass! I’m higher than high right now, but I have to focus on the next wave.

We both get in a couple more rides before the air-horn blows. We immediately quit what we’re doing and paddle in. Even catching a fun wave on the way in and front-porching it would earn a DQ. Nobody who’s serious about competing would catch a ride in. It’d be nuts.

The morning rounds are intense, and I keep reapplying sunscreen, looking around, trying not to freak out when I see someone who has my dad’s haircut. It’s like being a prisoner on death row. You know there’s only so much time before they’re coming to get you.

I make it through quarterfinals, and then wait to find out who makes it past the semifinals. I think I caught some sweet rides my last round, but I was so focused on my waves that I have no clue how the other girl did. I’m sitting here by myself, of course. No friends here to support me. But hey, I’ve got free water and granola bars.

I consider checking my voicemail, but I don’t even want to know how many messages are waiting for me. If I saw my parents’ number on the screen right now, even once, it might be enough to send me running back, tail between my legs, and I can’t do that.

The blue-haired guy walks out of the judge’s tent with the sheet. The one that could mean this was all for nothing, or prove I was right to skip out on brunch with a bunch of old geezers. Four of us bombard the guy as he pins up the paper we’re all dying to see.

I hang back a little waiting, to see how the other girls respond, gauging their reactions and hoping I advanced. One girl pulls her hoodie up over her head like she’s trying to hide and walks away. I hear a couple of sniffles and wonder if I’ll be joining her. The girl from my last heat shrugs. And a girl who I saw making sick moves look like a cakewalk, the one I decided to call Super Girl—well, she walks away smiling.

I’m not sure what the shrug meant. It could go either way. Was the shrug an
I knew I’d make it
shrug? Or was it a
that’s the way the cookie crumbles
shrug? Maybe she can shrug it off, but her shrug could mean everything to me.

I close my eyes, and then open them and shuffle over to the paper—to see my name listed as one of two girls advancing to the finals. It’s all I can do not to whoop and holler and dance around and celebrate and be silly, but that’s not something you do alone.

A girl with pink highlights says, “You caught some bitching rides earlier. Better watch out. Ann’s not going to give you shit in finals. She’s the fave.”

The gravity of this moment hits me, and all happy feelings get sucked out of me. So, yeah, I made it to the finals, but what if I drop in late or wipe out? I’ve seen the other girls—who should have advanced but didn’t. They’re full-on hardcore. It’s not like they gave any freebies. Whichever surfer girl walks away with the trophy and the prizes will have had a platinum heat. And I’m not sure how I’ll stack up against Ann. She pulled sick moves in earlier heats and made them look like a cakewalk.

I lug my board over to the roped-off area for contestants. We have about ten minutes to get ready. I bend down and pull a bit of wax out from the ankle of my wetsuit. My board probably doesn’t need any more wax, but it couldn’t hurt. It gives me something to do—an outlet for my nerves. I rub the wax over it in a hard circular motion until it’s nothing but a nub.

I glance over at Ann, Super Girl. She’s standing quietly, waiting for the horn to let us know we can paddle out. Nerves of steel. She glances over at me; I’m still staring at her. She flashes a smile and says, “Good luck.”