“Yum! I should have raced for zee table!”
We bow our heads and wait for my dad to say the prayer.
I’m in the middle of filling out the basics for a college application to Princeton, my dad’s alma mater, when my cell buzzes. Technically I shouldn’t be taking calls right now, but I check to see who it is—Ford.
I whisper, “Hey. I can’t talk long. I’m working on college apps.”
“Nice to chat with you too.”
I write in Eco club on my list of extracurriculars. “What’s up?”
“Can we talk Thursday morning?”
I close my eyes. “We’re talking now.”
“Let’s get more specific. This is more of an in-person conversation; I want to see your face. Can I swing by and talk about the other night over breakfast?”
I stop in the middle of writing Spanish Club Vice President. Vice president is always the way to go; you get the title but don’t have to do anything … unless the president no-shows.
“Parker?”
“Yeah.”
“So how about it?”
I swallow. My brain is in a mad scramble to get out of this mess. I’m not sure how to fix things between us, but I never expected Ford to be so up-front.
“Dang,” he says. “I mean, it’s not like we ended Saturday on the best of notes.”
Inhale, exhale. Breakfast at my place won’t work. What’s he thinking? I never have anyone over at my house. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
His voice is quieter than usual. “Yeah, okay.”
fourteen
forbear: to hold oneself back
from especially with an effort
—www.merriam-webster.com
I’m barely out of my neighborhood when Esmerelda’s engine cuts out. Really? This morning? I hit the steeri ~ar”ng wheel. Then quickly say, “Sorry, girl. I know you do your best.”
I pop the hood and stare at the engine.
Forty minutes later I’m back on the road. Sweaty. Greasy. Smelly. Not the way I pictured things today. As I turn the corner to Grace’s street, I notice that Esmerelda’s added a new screech to her rattle. Great. Just what I need. The only good thing is she didn’t break down on a work day.
As I pull into Grace’s, I notice she’s sitting on her porch like always. She looks pissed.
I get out of Esmerelda and Grace pops up to standing. “What gives?”
“Sorry. Esmerelda gave out on the way here. I’ve been tinkering around with her engine for the past forty minutes. The good news is she’s working for the moment. The bad news is I don’t expect it to last. I’ll take her by my dad’s shop tonight.”
“You got a thing against calling me now?”
“I know, sorry.” I throw up hands covered in blackish grease. Really? She’s so wrapped up in herself she doesn’t even notice my pit stains or the grease all over my hands.
Grace takes in a deep breath and blows out her frustration. She’s so anal about being on time, it’s kind of annoying.
We pick up breakfast tacos and coffee at Lola’s, where I use their bathroom to scrub as much grease as possible off my hands and forearms. Grace didn’t offer her bathroom, which would have been a totally obvious gesture. She’s weird about that kind of stuff.
Our ride to the beach is silent. I haven’t figured out what to say, and I guess Grace hasn’t either. For the sake of our friendship, my internship, and Grace’s future, there’s only one thing to do. Patch things up and move forward.
I roll into a parking spot at the empty glider port. This is a day to surf Black’s, AKA Torrey Pines State Park among tourists, AKA the nudie beach among concerned moms. My mom? She laughs and calls it cheap exposure to European-style beaches. One of my favorite things about Black’s? Three-hundred-foot cliffs as a backdrop.
I sit on my tailgate and wait for Grace to quit reorganizing my bag. She’s way intense about making more space. When she glances up, her face shining like she won the lottery, I motion her over. That look. The look of excitement. The cute way she scrunches her nose. The first of a million reasons I keep coming back to Grace. That and what Ma calls my savior complex. Always needing to help people. But I still haven’t figured out what Grace needs saving from … I just have a feeling. I can’t explain it.
“Why don’t you snag our breakfast and join me?” I pat a spot on the tailgate next to me.
Grace gets the food. I sip some coffee. She perches on the rusty edge next to me and swings her legs. Mine dangle, still. I grab the bag from her and dig around until I find my order. I nudge the bag over to Grace, but she doesn’t reach for her ordeh flegr.
Oh well. I’m starving. I take a massive bite and chew enough to tuck it into the side of my mouth. “So, the way you treated me the other night pretty much stunk.”
Grace fiddles with the bottom of her T-shirt, which means she knows I’m right. But I don’t see her running to apologize. Typical. And if I don’t fix things, then not only will our friendship be screwed up but it’ll practically guarantee I can’t keep guys away from her, hence breaking the Deal-with-the-Dad. Good-bye girl and good-bye future? No thanks.
“I thought we were friends hanging out at a bonfire,” I begin. “I get that you don’t want to date me. It’s cool. For reals. I’m way past it. But you don’t have to rub my nose in it. ’Kay? And Damien? Grace, I’m no expert, but you could do way better. Besides, you’re training. You don’t have time to get involved with someone. It’ll just distract you from the comp.”
She stops swinging her legs. “Sorry for the stuff I said about Anna. If you want to date her, that’s your business.”
Really? That’s how she’s going to play this? Talk about Anna and not even mention Brianna? The other day, Grace’s eyes were about to bore a hole in me. She was totally jealous.
I say, “Are you even listening? I don’t want to date her, or anyone for that matter. I don’t even want to call her. She sounds like she’s got her hands full, right?”
Grace laughs. “She’s such a ho-bag, and you could do way better.”
I take a long look at her, then take another bite of my taco and think about Brianna. Things with her are less complicated. Maybe more fun.
I stare at the bag with the unopened tacos, then switch my gaze to Grace before checking out the waves. “I know.”
fifteen
Failure seldom stops you. What
stops you is the fear of failure.
—Jack Lemmon
It’s been over a week since our heart-to-heart. It’s crazy, but ever since Ford basically said he didn’t want me anymore, I can’t stop thinking about him.
I watch the ocean roar, curling in perfect corduroy lines toward the coast. Waves are hella good today. Perfect sets. And Ford is standing next to me as we watch the ocean crash toward us.
It’s not a beginner day. The wind whips my hair around. Today, Turmo feels like a wild place, and I’m a wild thing coming home. Ford zips my wetsuit, which sends a million little tingles down my spine. I whirl around, forgetting everything but the way I feel right now. The way I’ve felt the past few days. Yeah, we talked and made our peace. We said all the right words, but all the right words in the world couldn’t erase the unspoken tension we constantly juggle or ignore. It’s like h fleacethe only way to get past this wasteland of words-not-said is to pull him to me and kiss him. Just do it already and release the tension. I want to pull his face down to mine, and lean in until his lips are so close we’re millimeters apart.
Something snaps and I realize what I’m doing. I step back and clear my throat and futilely try to throw some distance between us. I say, “Better get the boards waxed. Don’t want to miss out on the surf.”
Ford pulls at the collar of his wetsuit. “Um, yeah.”
Confused, I bend down to work on my board. I say, “Are you ready for the Pumphouse?”
“I was planning on surfing the Point today.”
I pop up to standing in a flash. “I’m not ready to surf the Point.”
I take a deep breath and look at fierce waves blasting the Point; the sets are never-ending. Thanks to some crazy weather, the waves are freakin’ epic and everyone’s out today. “I don’t know.”
Ford checks out the surf and grins. He reaches over and gives my shoulder a quick rub. That’s it; all he has to do is touch me. That spot his hand touched feels hot, like every inch of my skin is dry tinder, ready to catch fire.
He says, “I do know, and you’re ready. Don’t you need to practice the big waves for the comp? What is it, like four weeks away?”
I duck my head and wax my board. It’s like his touch scrambled my brain, my heart, my existence.
“Look, Grace. It’s not like you have to surf the Point. It’s just I know you can totally kick butt out there.”
“I wish I knew. I’m gonna sit on the shoreline and watch for a while. If I’m feeling brave, maybe I’ll paddle out. I need a moment to psych myself up.” I hug myself, unsure if I’ve got what it takes.
Ford’s eyes linger on me for a moment before he attaches his leash.
“Remember it’s a northwest swell today,” I tell him. “Watch out for rip currents. It’s high tide, so you’ve got a limited window before the rocks become a problem.”
He nods and grabs his board, leaving me behind with a slight nod of the head. He marches out to the five-foot swells like they’re nothing. I swallow and watch, wishing I had the guts to follow him. Sometimes I feel like I’m living life on the sidelines, and sometimes I get this totally ballsy mentality and go for it. I wish this was one of those times. What will happen if there are epic waves on comp day? I’ll turn paddlepuss and back out?
It’s times like this I’m not so sure I’m a winner. Not so sure I deserve anything. Lately, I’m feeling even more like I’m walking through a minefield—at home, everywhere—waiting for the eventual step when everything blows up in my face.
Ford’s confidence makes me nervous, but I guess when you’re surfing a more advanced spot, you have to own it. When he hits the shoreline, he turns around and gives me a surfs-up hand gesture, his middle fingers curled in with his thumb and pinky pointing out. I sign it back with a half smile.
He paddles out on a current, duck dives some big curls, and joins the crowd. The wind blows my hair around. I take a rubber band off my wrist and capture wild strands flying about getting knotted, and turn it into a high ponytail. Then I rest my chin on my knees and watch everyone else. Normally being at the beach is what makes me feel like I’m floating untethered by anything. Right now, I feel weighted down like rocks are tied to my ankles, like I’m at home. I’d been psyched to surf the Pumphouse, but the Point? You mess up, you get messed up—most likely by Grimace rock.
Today is turning out to be an ugly reality check. I’m not so sure I’m ready for the competition. Not so sure I will be ready. How am I ever going to pull this off if I’m too chicken to surf the Point?
A huge wave swells and three guys are lined up to fight it out. I’m sure they all think it’s their time, their turn. Things will get territorial fast. Some guys will duke it out. Most don’t. But even pacifists are likely to call the bro who bunked their wave an assmunch, or give him a dirty look.
The three dudes paddle hard to catch the wave at the sweet spot. It’s all about timing. One of them gets sucked up to the top, which means he’s going to get dropped hard and caught inside the wash. The other two bros catch it. They could stay out of each other’s way, but then they wouldn’t be able to pull the moves they want. Their boards come dangerously near each other, and after a brief shove they carve in different directions. Of course, one of them has the better side and totally dominates before he cuts out. The second guy flips the bird as his ride fizzles.
Other surfers show up, drifting on the beach, wandering toward the water, looking like they’re still recovering from Friday-night parties. A blond guy blows chunks about fifteen feet behind me, near a trash can. Nasty. The retching sound is followed by, “Dude, can a bro get some water?”
I turn around, watching in grotesque fascination. His friend keeps waxing the board. “Chuuuuf. Sorry, dude. You backwash.”
Hangover Guy asks, “Got any gum?”
“What do I look like, a freakin’ gas station?”
I chuckle silently to myself and dig into my bag to find some gum. I turn back around and lob a few pieces of Bubble Yum in their direction. “Hey, catch.”
Hangover Guy misses by a few feet and trudges over to sweep the gum out of the sand. “Thanks.”
I laugh. “Wouldn’t want your breath to attract sharks.”
Gas Station Guy cackles. “Dude, the femme totally saved your butt and ripped you a new one.”
the”Adobe Garamond Regular”>I grin. This kind of back-and-forth is part of what makes the surfer crowd fun. This is the world where I belong. Not with my mom and her stupid tailored shorts. Not with my dad and his need for a spotless house and total control. These people get me.
Hangover Guy pops the gum into his mouth. “Yeah, but can the femme jazz the glass or does she only play in the foamies?”
Now he’s ticking me off, pushing my buttons in a way only Ford can get away with. But I’m stuck like gum on the sidewalk. Because it’s true. Today, I’m shunning beautiful glass swells to watch from the shoreline. And if I were planning on surfing any part of the Point, I’d probably surf the foamies. Leftovers on the edge of the break are a bit calmer.
His buddy tucks a small bit of wax into the calf of his wetsuit. “Dude. Femmes always surf foamies. Real bros surf the big dogs.”
Then he heads out to the ocean without a backward glance, leaving me steaming on the beach.
Mr. Hangover cackles and says, “Ouch. Later, diva. Spanks for the gum.”
I sit on the beach fuming. There are so many surfer girls that shred as hard or harder than most guys. Those chumps are 1950s in the worst way. Sexist. Some spark of anger inside me fans my competitive side. I’m going to show those tools what’s up. They think I don’t have what it takes? I can hang with them. I’ll prove it.
I wax my board with a vengeance, focusing on building up a thick coat. Then I comb it, attach my leash, and march out to the ocean, my bare feet stomping across the hot sand. It feels like my heart is pumping blood ninety miles an hour. I zone in on the current I’ve seen everyone paddle out on. The lineup is full of surfers dotting the horizon. I guess I’ll find Ford after I paddle out.
I take a deep breath and speed into the water, enjoying the sound of the slap-down when my board hits a wave rolling under it.
Huge waves crash over me and I gasp for breath every chance I get. Maybe this is suicide. I paddle harder than I ever have to stay on the board and keep moving forward.
The next set gains momentum and I paddle as fast as I can until I reach calmer water. My arms may be noodled, but I’m stoked that I made it. I sit tall on my board and flash the Chumps a what the heck do you know look.
It’s a sausage fest. A bunch of guys make catcalls and whistle. Ford swims over. The pride on his face melts me. It makes the accomplishment of getting out to the lineup that much sweeter.
“I knew you’d make it. You just needed a little time to get your edge on.”
“Yeah, something like that.” I bristle when I think of the idiots who implied girls pretty much suck. I’ll show them girls can rip as hardcore as guys.
We straddle our boards and wait. After an eon of watching other surfers rip hard, it’s our turn. My heart cli. M8” alimbs into my throat. I hadn’t really thought this far.
Ford yells, “Go for it! Paddle, paddle, paddle.”
And I do. But not hard enough. Realizing I’m too late, I lean back, grab the board nose up, and cut out so the wave doesn’t take me. I spin around to look at Ford. What am I doing out here? Besides royally screwing up?
Some guy with a buzz cut says, “Hey femme, no time for foreplay. Go
to the back of the line.”
If I get called femme one more time today …
Ford gives him the stink-eye. “Ignore the douche. You can have my go. See the second bump of the next set. Your name’s written all over it.”
That gets me—right in the gut. Ford’s giving up his wave for me.
The chach behind Ford says, “Nice for you your boyfriend is giving you his spot. If you chuf this one, you won’t be that lucky with me.”
“Shove it, bro.” Ford flips him the bird. Then he turns and looks me dead in the eye, full of intensity. “It’s all you, Grace.”
I nod and shake out my arms. I can do this. Once I catch the sweet spot, I’ll be golden. My moment comes, Ford gives my board a push, and I go for it. Thanks to pure luck, I catch the wave and feel my board propel forward on a rush of water.
As the wave crests, the momentum freaks me out. I prepare to drop in, and pop up too soon. The powerful suction pulls my board down the face, straight to the bottom. I’m standing, but I gotta ease back fast. The nose of my board points downward. I drop low and grab the edge to force a maneuver hard left. I add weight to my back left foot, crouching low. The board nosedives forward and I fly off the side.
Falling. Quick breath. Water crashes on top of me with the force of a cabin cruiser. I plunge downward. Shit, the rocks. I tumble in so many directions, I have no clue which way is up. The snap of my surfboard being pulled in the opposite direction yanks my ankle, hard, searing into my skin. I try to grab my leg, but I can’t get my hands down there. After a few more seconds of pain, the leash breaks free. My board. Shit. I’m screwed. Lights flash through my head. I need air. I fight my way, trying to find the top. Can’t hold breath much longer. I burst through the waterline. Deep breath. Another wave crashes hard. Down, down I swirl. This time I’m pushed forward and down.
Bam. I slam into something hard—rocks. Sharp pain grates my skin. I cover my face and head with my arms. The current lets up; I kick hard to swim to the top.
If I don’t make it to the surface, if someone isn’t there …
lungs burn. My body hurts, but a surge of adrenaline helps me swim to the top. I think it’s the top. Can’t tell anymore. As I break the surface, I hear people yelling. I’m exhausted and trying to figure out where to swim, but the saltwater burns my eyes. A surfboard makes a beeline toward me, but I can’t focus so great and I’m doggie paddling just to keep my head above water.
Riptide Page 10