Hop says, “I think she had to powder her nose or something.”
Teresa nods. We sit. A few minutes later Brianna huffs around the corner and sits next to me. Man, she’s furious and she smells good.
It turns out Teresa wasn’t the one to give us a tour of the copy rooms. They got Jada for that. She’s the head honcho of the mailroom and the copy brigade. Looking at her, she seems like a cool chick—a nose ring, li>Heose rinttle tatt on the back of her neck peeking above her collar, blond hair in a ponytail. Aw, ponytails. But nope. She’s a freakin’ drill sergeant.
Once we’ve finished the driest tour in the history of internships, I’m wondering about how bad I want that letter of recommendation. The surf report today was decent—for summertime. Grace probably caught a ride to the beach with someone else. Five bucks says it was a guy, and I bet Damien was eager to help out.
And the worst part about today? Brianna’s running the copy machine while Hop and I watch.
Hop says, “Man, I never realized how much the art of making copies is like construction.”
Brianna rolls her eyes.
He keeps going. “I guess every good copy project has one guy working and two supervising.”
I laugh. “Good one, dude.” Hop has a future career as a bad comedian.
Brianna focuses on that copier like it’s delivering babies instead of papers.
I say, “Brianna—Let’s pick up the pace. I need to see some more enthusiasm. Hop to it.”
Hop says, “Dude, don’t take my name in vain.”
Brianna whips her head toward us and raises one eyebrow. “One, I don’t need supervision, and two, you two fools couldn’t handle me if you tried.”
I like the way she thinks. In lists. And she’s got fuego.
Hop keeps a straight face and turns to me. “The sign of a good handler is to corral the subject in a way that the subject does not know they’ve been handled.” Then he looks at Brianna and says, “You stayed, didn’t you? Between that and the fact that I’ve yet to lift a finger, I’d say I won this round hands down.”
Burn.
Brianna’s speechless mad.
Hop speaks into an imaginary microphone. “Come on, Brianna. Let’s start over. I’m Hop. Vietnamese joker. I play poker. And I like to pick on hot chicks.”
Girl’s trying to stay mad, but it looks like Hop helped wear her down. He passes the mic to me. I grab it. “My name’s Ford, not Ferdinand. I like water better than land. I like to surf, and … ” Shoot. I’m stuck. “And you smell good?”
Brianna cracks a small smile.
“C’mon,” I say. “Why can’t we all get along? We are the world and all that. Besides, we didn’t want you to leave this morning. You think I want to be stuck with a smelly guy who tells bad jokes all summer?”
Hop says, “Bad jokes maybe. You got the market cornered on smell. Bro, you need to invest in some mega antiperspirant.”
“Brah, I am wearing it. I got stuck in traffic and had to run down fifty flights of stairs in the parking garage. Otherwise, I would have been later.”
Brianna says, “Next time, be later.”
“Ouch. It’s not that bad.”
Hop and Brianna look at each other and then say, “Yeah, it is.”
“Dang. Well, if that’s what it takes to bring people together … ” I shrug. “A guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do. I’m all about saving the world, one stanky situation at a time.”
five
Sometimes in the morning, when
it’s a good surf, I go out there, and
I don’t feel like it’s a bad world.
—Kary Mullis
It’s awesome that I’m actually sitting on Huntington Beach watching a surf comp live. This is it. The place where surf history on the West Coast started. The place where guys like Duke Kahanamoku and Corky Carroll surfed, the beach that the USA surf team calls home. It’s the quintessential spot to visit, a place where surfing isn’t just a person on a board—it’s a spiritual experience.
Sponsors bustle around getting things ready for the Surfer Girl Jr. Pro. They have tents everywhere, advertising everything from energy drinks to surf gear to sunscreen. As far as the actual competitors, they have their own area: a raised platform topped off by a big white canvas tent. Being here to watch a surf comp live is so freaking cool.
The drive here from San Diego only took an hour and a half, but even that short of a distance from my family can make a world of difference in my stress level. It’s so awesome of Ford’s uncle to let us stay at his beach house—Mama Watson said her brother’s decorating taste is impeccable. I can’t wait to see the place, but I’m definitely glad they dropped me and Ford off at the beach first, while they ran errands.
A weekend with the Watson family is my get out of jail free card. If it weren’t for a breakthrough in one of Dad’s cases (translation: I caught him in a good mood), I’d be at home dusting. If I believed in fate, maybe I’d look for some deep meaning, but I don’t. I’ll take what I can get. I relax and enjoy the comp set-up while Ford, practically salivating, runs around from tent to tent, checking out all the sponsors and perhaps a few girls.
After some time scoping things out, Ford jogs toward me looking like he belongs on some sort of commercial rather than just running toward a wanna-be surfer girl. He plops down on the sand next to me and waves a blue flyer in front of my face.
“Check it, mamacita.” He places it between two of my toes like they’re placeholders.
I grab the blue paper. “There’s a new surf shop opening on the strip.”
“Keep reading.”
I scan down the page. “Holy crap. Holy crap. Holy—”
“Crap.” Ford laughs. “That’s right. In August, you’re entering Crazy John’s Surf Comp. His first annual. This is it—the break you’ve been looking for. Kickin’ butt and taking names.”
Speechless. Overload.
Ford says, “That’s not all. I met the owner of the shop. Guess who one of the judges is?”
I squeak out, “Who?”
“The UC San Diego surf coach himself.”
My chance. To go for it. To catch the coach’s eye. To focus on all the moves I need to perfect.
Ford pats my leg. “Earth to Grace.”
“I’m freaking out.”
Ford laugh-cackles. “Heck yeah.”
I shake my head side to side. “Not cool. I need some sort of way to get that guy’s attention. Like pulling better moves. Not to mention my main ride to the beach is now interning at a law firm for the next seven weeks. I don’t even know if I’ll have the beach time to train and prove I can kick ass.”
“Grace, you will. And you already kick butt. You just don’t know it yet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ford says, “It means you hold back. You don’t fully give yourself to the move.”
I toss the flyer between us. “Are you charging for this psycho-babble?”
“Nah. Call it a freebie, ’cause that’s how I roll.” He waggles his brows up and down. “Now for a little CYA. If you tell your folks about this comp thing … let’s keep me out of the equation. Personally, I think it will be a great way to keep you focused on some fun this summer when you aren’t doing all the college app stuff. Then, when school starts, you’ll have kicked major butt at the surf comp and you’ll be two hundred percent ready to kick butt all the way to your valedictorian speech next May.”
Grinning at his need to cover his ass now that he works for my dad, I shrug and say, “When do I sign up?”
“Today. This is your chance. C’mon. Where’s the thanks? The you’re my hero ?”
I lighten my voice and wrap my fingers around the sides of my feet. “Thanks, Ford. Really. You rock. So we’re really going to sign up today?”
He eyes me and grins. “That’s a start. We’re not signing up, just you. You’re the one that wants to make the UCSD surf team. Me? I’ve got an internship con su padre. Hardcore
competing isn’t my thing. It’s yours. When it comes to surfing, obeto surfI want it to be all about me and the ride. Nobody else.”
I bite my lip. It must be nice for him, not feeling the need to compete. Just to be. Something deep down inside me says I have to fight harder than everyone else, because … well, because my world is so screwed up. And while part of me thinks their world is screwed up, too, another part of me says, not as much as mine.
My attention shifts. A flurry of activity in the competitors’ tent gives me the impression the first heat will start soon. The first four competitors in the Surfer Girl Jr. Pro, wearing jerseys with their numbers on them, are checking into the ready area, where some super-tan guy with a visor gives them instructions. My stomach’s doing sympathetic flip-flops. That’s going to be me in two and half months? Gulp.
They’re fidgeting back and forth, and the shortest girl keeps glancing at the ocean. Visor Guy’s mouth moves a few more times and then he nods for them to paddle out. They catch a current and by the time they’re at the designated area, the horn blares, signaling the start of their twenty-minute heat.
I curl my toes and tighten my fists as I consider the realities of competing. Judges score each contestant’s top two waves based on the number of maneuvers and their respective difficulty, the surfer’s control, and how the surfer maximizes the critical part of the wave. Only one contestant from each heat advances to the next round. No pressure, right?
The tallest girl catches the first wave and pulls a few
cutbacks. No biggie, but then, holy crap! Un-freaking-believable—she executes a perfect 360. The crowd’s going nuts. Um, hello. She just let everyone know she’s not here to play. I’ve never seen a regular girl pull that move. That was epic. And I know, in every particle of my being, that it’s the move I need to pull off.
After a glorious parent-free day, we walk a few blocks to the beach house. It’s almost more like we’re floating. Real life is a vague memory.
“Do you really think I can get there by August? Or am I going to look like a kook?”
Ford takes his empty Shaved Ice cup and hook-shots it into a trash can we pass. “Are you serious? You can do almost every move we saw today. You just need to tweak them so they’re bigger and sharper. You gotta showboat it, you know?”
“Maybe. But what about the 360? I’ve never even tried that move. And airs? I’m lucky to catch a little air action when I exit a ride.”
“No sweat. We’ll work on it. I’ll be your personal coach—on the days I’m not working.”
I think about that and crunch on another bite of coconut ice.
“If you’re hesitating over fees, don’t worry. I’m free.” He reaches over and guides my hand so that I feed him my next bite.
“Hey! You should’ve gotten a larger size.”
“Well, now I owe you. That seals the deal. You’re going to kick ass, thanks to good old Coach Ford. Then you’ll owe me for life.”
“Bahaha. Yeah, right. Thanks for offering to help me train.”
He takes my cup and says, “Consider this a down payment.” Then he bolts around the corner.
I chase after him, half-panting, half-screeching, “Hey! You better not finish that … I backwashed.”
He laughs and sprints toward a large stucco beach house. He waits on the front porch, holding the cup as high in the air as he can. I jump and swipe at his arm. He laughs and hands it over.
Truth is, I like chasing after Ford and roughhousing. Not that I’d say it out loud. I tilt back my head and tap the last of the coconut-flavored ice into my mouth.
Ford opens the door with a sweeping gesture and waits for me to go in first. I walk in and immediately check out the beach house. It has some of my favorite beach colors—teal and espresso. This place freaking rocks.
His mom stands up from a white leather couch and walks toward us. His dad sits there quietly, waves at us, and goes back to perusing a car magazine.
“I’ll give you the nickel tour.” Ford nudges me. “We’ll be sharing a room.”
Mama Watson steps in between us and places her arm around Ford. “Mijo, you failed to mention that you’ll be in separate beds on opposite sides of the room. And besides, the two of you are like cousins.”
He ducks his head. “C’mon. It’s me and Grace. Enough said.” She gives him a playful whack and heads off down the hall.
He flexes his arm muscle, sporting a cheesy grin, and then runs up carpeted stairs, skipping every other one.
I roll my eyes. “I’m embarrassed for you. Really, I am.” Then I follow, wondering what this weekend holds in store for me.
Ford leads me into the kids’ room on the second floor. It has six built-in bunk beds lining the walls, three on each side. Every bed has its own privacy curtain and a lighted wall sconce for late-night reading, I guess. Umm—I think I’ll manage to survive. Happy candy-pink and bamboo-green stripes accent the right side of the room, and bright blue and bamboo-green stripes accent the left side. The two sides are mirror images, furniture and all. I place my backpack against the wall by the last bed on the girls’ side, which is next to a window.
Ford drops his bag in front of the bed directly across from mine. Only fifteen feet of floor space will separate us. We’ll be in the same room with basically no adult supervision? Scratch that thought. Not going there. It’s cool that his parents trust us, and it’s not like we’d do anything, but it’s weird. Here’s the cookie jar; don’t eat the cookies.
Ford clears his throat. “There’s not really a view of the beach from this level. You have to be on the third story to get the v.to get iews, which is where the adults stay. There’s two master suites up there with their own private balconies, so my uncle and whatever friends he brings can all have their privacy.”
“Wow.”
Ford swipes at his hair. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. My uncle’s an architect, so he’s definitely into details. If you want, we could hit the roof and check out the sunset. Maybe I’ll even share a deep dark secret.”
Like Ford has any deep dark secrets. Ha, he doesn’t know dark.
“You’re so funny.” I plop down on a beige beanbag and kick off my flip-flops.
It’s amazing to spend a weekend away from home. But I hope Ford won’t try to make a move, as much as it makes me tingle all the way down to my toes. This summer is dedicated to surfing and figuring out how to make it into UCSD through a surf scholarship. I can’t handle any more messy relationships. My family’s stocked up on that score. Besides, I’ve never even dated anybody. Too busy making the grades and not really interested in something that will only end up in a break-up. Because I swear, the first time a boyfriend hits me? I’m out of there.
At bedtime, we take turns getting ready in the bathroom. Ford lets me go first and hangs out in our room while he waits. Awkward … I hesitate before coming out in a blue tank top and blue-and-green-plaid PJ shorts. Ford smiles suggestively at me; I feel like he’s scoping out every detail.
I thump him on the head and mimic his earlier statement, “C’mon. It’s me, Grace.”
He drops to his knees and says, “A thousand pardons, my lady. If I’d known how hot you looked in your nighttime attire, I wouldn’t have made such rash promises to my dear mother.”
I reach out to thump him again and he catches my arm and pulls me toward him. Harder than he meant to, I guess, because I fly at him and we topple on the floor, a tangle of arms and legs. I roll off of his chest and we lie next to each other, laughing.
After a few minutes, I say, “You’re nuts.”
“That’s why we hang out.”
“Because you’re certifiably insane?”
He gets up and turns back to face me before shutting the bathroom door. “Because I, dear Grace, am your comic relief.”
I walk over to the bed replaying flashes of what happened over in my head. Ford is more than comic relief. He’s everything—escape, fun, comfort, encouragement, and a million other things. He’s my security b
lanket. It makes me feel like a two-year-old, but that’s the truth. When I’m around him, I feel like I’m who I could be all the time.
I flounce onto the bed and space out until the click of the bathroom door opening announces his presence. He comes out wearing a towel wrapped around his waist. My hiss waistjaw drops. He howls with laughter and whips it off, revealing knee-length basketball shorts. I toss a pillow at him, which he catches.
“Parker, don’t get in over your head. Besides, you owe me an apology for ogling.”
“Was not.”
“Were too.”
“Whatev.”
He tosses the pillow back. “Sweet dreams.”
I place it on my bed and slide under the covers. “Yeah, you too.”
He turns on a nightlight and flips out the main light, then he runs full speed at his bed, bouncing onto it at the last possible second.
I nibble at my lip and wonder how in the world I’ll fall asleep. “G’night.”
“G’night.”
I adjust the covers, making sure my arms are out. This entire day passed without any major stress—I didn’t feel like I was floating in a barrel headed toward Niagara Falls. Riding to the beach with his parents was actually fun. Even though Mr. Watson’s speed-racing stressed out Mama Watson, who would screech “Eli” in a high-pitched voice whenever she wasn’t muttering Hail Mary’s, there was never tension or doubt that they loved each other—which totally makes me think how my parents are the complete opposite. At least, it seems that way.
This is the last thing I want to think about, here in this stress-free zone, but I can’t help it. My stomach starts hurting a little and I can feel the acid churning in there. What is wrong with me? I need to calm down, relax. Breathe deep and all that crap. But no amount of breathing can stop the wheels from turning inside my mind.
Fragmented images fly through my head—some fun, some scary. Surfing at the beach, Dad’s face when he’s angry, shopping, jogging in the park with Mom, Mom lecturing me on making a good impression, wearing clothes I don’t like, working out with Ford. Then come the big fears. The possibility of having surfing taken away if I screw up in school and lose my class rank. Not knowing when Dad’s going to explode. Whether or not I will be able to bring it to the Crazy John’s Surf Comp. It’s like being on an out-of-control tilt-a-whirl at a carnival. Even on a dream weekend, I can’t escape the stress of home.
Riptide Page 4