Riptide (22 page)

thirty-four

situational irony:
an occasion in which the outcome is significantly different from what
was expected or considered appropriate
—www.grammar.about.com

Grace hurt. By Mr. Parker. That’s what runs through my head as I knock on my parents’ door at three in the morning.

My folks sleep heavy. I could throw a party and they wouldn’t wake up. I pound on their door again.

Grace on the phone, crying. She’s tried to tell me. She’s hinted.

The lock on their door unclicks and Ma opens it, her hair in all directions. She groans, “
Mijo
, it’s three in the morning. This better be good.”

“Grace can’t live there, Ma. Her dad hit her.”

Ma snaps her eyes wide open and lets out a stream of curse words in Spanish. She’s awake now. “Slow down,
mijo
. Where is Grace?”

I bounce on my toes. “She’s at her place. Packing. I told her we’d pick her up. That she can move in with us.” Then I wait for the bomb.

Ma nods. “Of course. Let me get dressed. I’m going with you. Put on some jeans and a T-shirt. Grab my keys.”

I nod, upset and scared. For Grace. Feeling impotent. Wishing I were there already.

Ma looks at me like she gets it. She pats my cheek. “
Mijo
, she’ll be fine. You’re a good son. Let’s get moving.”

Five minutes later, Ma and I are out the door. The ride to the Parkers’ is quiet. A thousand little things start flashing through my head. Clues I missed. Grace never having me over. Her parents being so uptight. Controlling. The day Grace got sliced by that kook. The lifeguard’s dirty look. The bruise on Grace’s hip. Things I didn’t connect. Or maybe, didn’t want to see. I was so focused on my freaking internship. On that letter of recommendation. On helping more Jorges. On Little Hien. I didn’t see the person standing in my own backyard. A little white girl on a surfboard. My best friend.

My stomach retches. I roll down the window and stick my face out, letting salty wind blow in my face. Taking deep breaths. Trying not to throw up. Trying to reconcile how a dad can love his daughter but can’t control himself. I’ve seen the look of pride on his face when Grace catches a good ride. I’ve had burgers with them at In and Out after a surf session and laughed at the same stupid jokes. It blows my mind. Mr. Parker is known for keeping his cool in litigation—it’s like an incompatible computer system. My head spins with pictures of books flying at Grace. With Mr. Parker’s face laughing at something funny. Grace always sitting on her front porch ’cause she couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.

Guilt. I’m knee-deep in the shit. Trying to keep Grace from dating people to stay on her dad’s good side. Not wanting to date her ’cause her old man would ruin my future. That should have set off warning sirens. Instead, I was trying to figure out how to save my sorry ass. But Grace? She’s the one who needs saving.

Thinking of the stupid things that have always bothered me about my own parents makes me feel small. Like wishing Ma was more of a neat freak. Or that Dad didn’t have grease worn into the skin around his nails all the time. Appearances. Who the hell cares? Reality is what counts.

Ma pulls up to Grace’s house. Grace is sitting on a suitcase in the middle of the driveway, hunched over, hands tucked inside her hoodie. Ma parks, and I rush out of the car. But somehow Ma beats me to Grace. She swishes over there and sweeps Grace up in a big hug. I feel stiff and stupid. Not sure of what to do.

Grace slumps into Ma’s arms. Ma strokes her hair and murmurs comforting phrases in Spanish. Then a long, dry, shuddering sob comes out of Grace. I run over and put my arms around them from the other side. It’s a Watson sandwich, with Grace in the middle.

She draws strength from it and straightens up. We both pull away from her, giving her some space. I give her hand a little squeeze but don’t let go. Then I bend over and get her suitcase. Ma grabs her backpack and hands Grace an old teddy bear.

The front door flings open and Mr. Parker storms out in a T-shirt and pajama pants. Shit. I wish my dad were here.

He barrels over to us. I fling my arms out in front of Grace and Ma, nudging them back. Then I step forward, between them and Mr. Parker.

He narrows his eyes. “This isn’t your business.” Then he glares at Grace. “You’re going to leave? Think you can do better?” He spreads his arms out wide and laughs a mocking laugh. “Shoot for the moon with your dreams. Go to the local college and become a surf bum. Wow. What’s the point in being valedictorian?”

I turn back to see tears running down Grace’s face. Ma is too busy hugging Grace and alternating between praying and cursing in Spanish. I stare down Mr. Parker. “That’s enough, Jack.”

He moves forward. “Yeah, and what are you going to do about it? Really? Is she worth your future?”

I step up. “Yeah, she is. And you know what, Jack? I quit. And my future? You don’t own a minute of it.”

“You punkass kid.” He lunges at me with a right hook.

I step left, circle my arm around his incoming fist, deflect it, grab his wrist, and twist it behind his back, yanking it upward hard enough to make him calm down. Adrenaline pumps through my body, surging to the point I’m almost shaky.

“Real men don’t punch kids. Period.” I twist his arm up a little tighter, so angry; it’s taking all my control not to hit him. I’ve got to show Grace I’m different. I lower my voice and say, “Screw you and your connections.”

Then I shove him to the ground, away from me. My guess is he’ll be nursing his arm instead of picking a fight.

He half sobs, half yells, “I’m finished with all of you. You hear that, Grace?”

This is not the time to linger. I rush toward Ma and Grace and corral them to the car. We hurry into the SUV like that, holding hands. With broken hearts.

thirty-five

If it were not for hope
the heart would break.
—John Ray

Mama Watson turns the key in the ignition and speeds away. Then she says, “Buckle up,
mijos
.”

We do, and Ford sticks to me like glue. He rests his hand on my leg, just above my knee, giving gentles squeezes every now and then.

We ride in awkward silence, absorbing the gravity of the situation. Ford told off my dad. Blocked his punch. Kept his cool. For me. There’s no going back after that exit. I pick at the hem of my shorts with my free hand and when Ford notices this, I switch to tucking and untucking my hand in my sleeve. The familiar rhythm comforts me and absorbs some stress. He doesn’t look down again. I stare at the floorboard, afraid to break down. Afraid I’ll never be able to be put back together again.

Mama Watson turns into their neighborhood. I realize I haven’t even said thank you. But no words come to the surface. My throat’s as dry as a bag of cotton balls. She stops at a stop sign. I wonder how I’m going to explain things and think how much I owe them, how the warmth of Ford’s hand holding mine means the world. She parks in front of their garage. The familiar grate of their gravel drive calms me.

We get out of the truck. Ford grabs my suitcase, and I carry my backpack and teddy bear. Mrs. Watson unlocks the front door and as I shove my hand in my pocket, I remember it’s now void of a house key. Realization hits me: I have nowhere to call home. Loneliness sweeps through me, adding to the ache in my chest and throat. And shame. I’m so ashamed. My
everything is good
facade has been blown to a million little pieces. Now I don’t even have pretend dignity.

Mr. Watson stands guard in the living room. He surveys us. “Did things go okay?”

Mrs. Watson gives him a hug. “We’ll talk more about this later.”

He nods. Then he hesitates and walks over. “Grace, I want you to know that you’re welcome in our home.” He tries to ignore the handprint on my cheek, but his eyes keep focusing on that side of my face. He wipes at the corner of his eye and escapes down the hall.

Mrs. Watson leads us into the guest bedroom and flips on a lamp. “Grace, why don’t you sit in this chair? It’s cushy and comfy. Ford and I will sit on the bed for a quick minute. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

I sit and note the worn look in her eyes and the lack of life in Ford’s.

“For tonight, we’ll put you up here, in the guest room. Usually we attend mass on Sunday mornings, but we’ll go tomorrow evening instead; I think we could all benefit from sleeping in as late as possible. Tomorrow afternoon, we’ll regroup and sort things out—figure out how to make you feel more at home. Don’t feel bad,
mija
. This isn’t your fault. We’ll stick by you.”

Unsure of how to respond to everything thrown at me, I nod and hold back tears.

Mrs. Watson stands up. “I’m sure the best thing right now for you is sleep. And a hug. Everyone needs hugs.”

She leans down and gives me a big hug that’s warm and enveloping. Even when I let go, Mama Watson holds it for a second longer. Something in me melts a little. She turns to Ford. “I know you need to talk. You two have ten minutes, and then, Ford, you skedaddle to your own room. Okay?”

Ford says, “Okay.”

She leaves us to bumble through our confusion. I stay seated, unable to sort out my feelings.

Ford sits facing me, his knees touching mine. He takes my hands in his.

“I’m really sorry I didn’t figure things out and help you sooner. I look back at little clues I never caught, and I feel stupid. I know you think you’re tough and you can take it, but
I’m
not that tough. Your bruises—little or big—they exist. That kills me.”

His voice breaks, and so does another little piece of my heart. I bite my upper lip.

“You deserve so much more. Hell, everyone deserves better than this.” Ford tucks my hair behind my ear and whispers, “You’re safe here.”

Safe.

I break down sobbing. Everything I’ve held in gushes out uncontrollably, and with it the noises I always suppress. And even though I’m bawling—shoulders shaking, snot flowing, full-fledged bawling—I’m crying out so many unspoken hurts. It’s cleansing.

He pulls me to him and I hang on to him like he’s a life preserver. Our faces touch and I realize Ford’s crying too. I wonder why I didn’t tell him sooner, why it took me so long to stand up for myself. And if things will ever be okay, really okay? When Ford stood up to my dad, I was in shock, but it’s like he turned on a pilot light inside me, one that says I’m worth it—that I have value—that we all have value. And that is what I’m going to cling to.

Emily Dickinson once compared hope to a “thing with feathers,” but I disagree. Hope is a wide-open ocean full of endless possibilities.

epilogue

The Master is his own path.
—Tuan-mu Tz’u

While waiting for my cue to walk up to the podium and speak at our graduation ceremony, I turn and scan the audience that fills the stands behind me. There’s Mama Watson and Eli, huge grins on their faces, on the left side of the stadium. Mama Watson is leaning forward slightly, like a school girl eagerly anticipating her own name being called. Eli’s holding his fancy Nikon camera. Turns out he’s an incredible photographer.

It’s funny remembering my adjustment to living with the Watsons. It was a bit clumsy, and I floundered trying to understand the dynamics of the household. It took several months for Eli to totally win my trust and for Ford and me to build a healthy relationship—one that doesn’t consist of me depending on him to always come to my rescue or be there for me. The ability to stand up for one’s self is just as important as the ability to stand up for others.

I turn back around and pretend like I’m listening to the five zillionth speaker, resting my hands carefully on the diploma in my lap. It’s hard to believe how many things brought me to this moment in time. I know that moving out of my parents’ house was the right decision, and I don’t regret it. I do wish things were different with my parents, especially my mom. Her embarrassment over the situation causes her anxiety and hurt, but she has choices too.

Ford’s parents both agreed I needed to talk to someone—a professional. It frustrated me incredibly at first, but having someone who’s used to sorting things out has been instrumental in helping me muddle through my baggage.

The thing I find most ironic at the moment is my class rank. For the past four years, as I studied and fought to be first in my class, I considered it my ticket out of here, but my ticket out was simply my ability to walk through the front door. I’ll be staying at the Watsons next year, too,
and attending the University of California at San Diego.

The funniest thing that’s happened has been getting accustomed to going to mass with the Watsons. For the first month, I constantly sat down, stood up, or knelt after everyone else did, and I mean
everyone
. But now I’ve come to enjoy the traditions and the meanings attached. I’m not sure how I feel about religion, but I do feel like I understand faith on a more personal level. It’s kind of like the 360—in that crucial moment, it’s all about letting go instead of holding on.

Faith seems like it’s about relationship. The closer I get to Ford and Mama Watson—see how Mama stirs the sugar into her coffee and then licks her spoon before putting it in the sink, or how Ford reads his dad’s mind and passes him the wrench before he asks for it—the more I understand them, and love them. So I think God may be the same way. When I sit on the Watson’s back porch and eat my
migas
with my legs tucked up under me, I watch the clouds move and wonder who made them. Who made the ocean, and those waves I love? And sometimes God and I talk. It’s mostly one-sided—I talk and he listens. But sometimes, I think I might hear him back. It isn’t a roar, like my dad. It’s a whisper. I believe with all my heart that if I seek truth, I will find it, and that’s what I plan on doing. It’s what I did when I gave my mother my key. I had to know the truth about what life is supposed to be. I’m finding it with the Watsons.

I snap to when I hear Principal Ledbetter’s voice reverberate through the stadium. “Let’s all give a warm welcome to this year’s valedictorian—Grace Parker.”

I rise and make my way to the podium. Before speaking, I take a deep breath and scan the audience. I see the Watson family cheering. I scan the center of the crowd and stop at the far right corner; my heart aches. My parents are there, clapping for me. I tear up, swallow hard, and take a deep breath.

Ford pops up in his row and hollers. A teacher promptly heads over there and yanks him back down to his seat, which is of course the comic relief I need.

“Good afternoon,” I say. I pull back a little, listening to my voice reverberating across the football field.
Just breathe.
I scoot in toward the microphone and look at my fellow classmates. “Valedictorians are supposed to give memorable speeches about going out into the world and becoming something. Today my speech is not about what you become, but who you are along the way.”

I pause and breathe in deeply. “This past year, I’ve been riding waves in an ocean riddled with riptides, undertows, and awesome rides. I’ve learned that I’m stronger than I thought, that sometimes power comes in the ability to say no, and that life is as full as we make it.” I throw my hands open wide toward the audience. “We’ve got our whole lives in front of us; let’s remember it’s as much about the journey as it is the destination.

“Confucius said, ‘Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.’ We all have choices …
sometimes we have to make hard ones; sometimes we’re forced to make split-second decisions and then paddle for
dear life. When I’m on my board and feel the swell and look over my shoulder at an epic wave, I hope I choose to ride it.” I lean toward the podium and make eye contact with several students as I grip the sides of the podium. “That’s what I hope for you—epic rides.

“I’d like to leave you with the words of a man whose actions revolutionized a country through a spirit of peace. Mahatma Gandhi said, ‘My life is my message.’ What’s your message, and are you living it?”

Applause splatters across the auditorium and hats fly in the air. I hurry from the podium, anxious to join the celebration.

Besides, Ford and I have waves to catch.