“Gracias.” I walk tall down the hallway. I’m a Caudillo. Well, a Caudillo-Watson. We don’t tuck tail and run.
I knock on Mr. Parker’s office door.
“Come in.”
I walk right in. “Excuse me, sir? Could we talk about this weekend?”
He gives me a disgruntled look. He’s puffed up like a rooster at a cockfight. Looks like the man version of Grace when she gets ready for a fight. It’s kind of funny.
He says, “Well, I sure as hell didn’t invite you in here to shoot the breeze.”
Whoa. Starting off easy. “I’m sorry about Grace’s accident,” I say. “Sorry about not walking her inside—she thought it would make things worse. But I shouldn’t have dropped her off on the front porch without taking the heat with her. That’s been bothering me.”
A little air goes out of him. “Well, I’m glad you can own up. Grace—she’s my little girl. If I let someone take her out surfing, I expect that person to take care of her. We made a deal. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, but part of watching out for her includes not taking her to the Point and then letting her fend for herself. She could have been … Well, you and I both know she’s damn lucky.”
I force myself to look him in the eye. “Yes sir.”
“You ever play poker, Ford?”
I resist the urge to loosen my collar. “Yes sir.”
“You know what happens to people who welch on their bets?”
I clear my throat. “No sir.”
He leans forward. “They get kicked out of the game. How do you feel about that?”
“Not too hot, sir.”
“Her mother doesn’t want her to surf again. Ever.” He sits behind his desk, comfortable. Holding all the cards.
That’s bogus. No way would Grace quit surfing. “How do you feel about that, sir, being a former surfer yourself?” I ask.
“That’s a good question, Counsel. I’m not in favor of that.”
This is a game to him. Reaming me out. Making me sweat. It’s bullshit. I pull my shoulders back. “And what would you be in favor of?”
“Grace needs to take a week off. She needs to focus on college applications. She needs some time away from the waves. I don’t want her getting right back out there. She could use a little time to develop some healthy fear. The ocean’s big stuff, son. It demands respect. Something you both seem to be short on.”
I grit my teeth before asking, “Where do we go from here?”
He gets a hard look on his face. “Grace doesn’t surf the Point. And you keep a better watch on her if you want to continue to be surfing buddies. Now, there’s just one other thing I need to talk to you about.” He pauses, staring at me with narrowed eyes. “I may work long hours, but I know there’s somebody taking her out on the days you’re in my office. Who is it?” He leans in, his face worried. “There’s nothing going on there, right?”
I shove my hands in my pockets and ball them into fists. I remind myself he’s helped a lot of people—my people. Then I smile like everything’s golden. He’s not firing me; he’s playing cat and mouse. And yeah, I might deserve to sweat a little. I dropped Grace off injured without even walking her in. That was pretty much asking for it.
“Damien?” I answer. “Not a chance anything’s going on there, not if I have anything to do with it. Is that all, sir?”
He leans back into his chair. “For now.” Then he does that whole two fingers from his eyes to me, the I’m watching you sign, which would be funny if it were a joke.
nineteen
It’s all about where your mind’s at.
—Kelly Slater
“C’mon. Ten more.”
“Are you nuts?” I fall flat on a beach towel, my face to the side. “I’ve already done fifty. I hate push-ups.”
“Your point?”
“They suck. Yours?”
Ford cops a squat closer to me, shuffling sand onto my towel. He leans over my face, which is still scabbed up. “The perfect wave, on a kickass day at the Point. You kicking butt and taking names at the Crazy John’s Surf Comp. You having the stamina and strength to know you can stick it.”
This week, I’ve been relegated to watching from the shore—part of the crummy taking-a-b18”reak-from-surfing deal. It’s only been a few days, but I’m fine now. A little sore. Like there’s any point to this time off besides the fact that it’s torture to watch from the sidelines. I groan and grunt through ten more push-ups.
When I flop back down, I just lie there facing the water lapping the shore. I space out and dream about catching a wave at the Point and not getting raked over Grimace rock. I know I got really lucky. There’s no room for luck, though. It’s all about skill and commitment. The day I got caught under, I didn’t fully commit, and that was a painful mistake. But how does a person figure out when to listen to their gut, when fear is in the way, and when they should go for it?
“Grace.”
I roll onto my back and squint up at Ford. “Yeah?”
“Are you ready to run?” He dangles worn blue running shoes over my stomach before dropping them at my side. “For the record, you’ve got game. I’m just helping you figure it out.”
Instead of saying anything, I toss the shoes to the side. I readjust my ponytail and hop up before Ford can get his shoes on. I start off with a full-out sprint and eventually slow down to a steady jog. The thunk thunk rhythm relaxes me. The burn in my calves feels good. For whatever reason, there’s something comforting about the ache that comes with pushing my limits. Maybe because it dulls the pain I can’t fix. Kind of like stomping on someone’s foot to help a headache. The headache doesn’t go away, but they darn sure become more concerned with their toes.
Ford lopes along behind me, keeping his distance, understanding my need for space. He’s my personal godsend. I focus on the feel of the sand giving way beneath my feet. Seagulls scatter in front of me as I cut through them. They dot the air with color and sound before fluttering back to the ground in search of some kid’s crumbs left behind. A light offshore wind carries the smells of salt and sea creatures. Everything about the beach is predictable, and not. It’s a thousand variations of an ocean concerto. It’s music that can’t be captured by notes on stanzas. It’s perfect.
At the end of our run, I fall back on the sand. Out of breath. Blood whooshing through my ears. That’s my kind of run. Stop when you drop.
Ford plops down beside me. He’s sitting up. I shade my eyes with my hand and squint up at him. My breathing is calming down but my pulse isn’t. Ever since I heard him say she’s my girl at the Point, my insides go into overdrive when we’re near each other.
Every month our church pulls together for a community service day. Instead of going to church, people sign up for a volunteer activity. This go-round, Mom signed our family up to serve food at a homeless shelter. So I show up at breakfast in a long-sleeved T-shirt and my favorite pair of worn Roxy jeans. They’re so comfy, and I like the way they fray at the ends.
Mom’s right eyebrow rises. “Tell me you’re changing before church?”
e=““Adobe Garamond Regular”>Dad glances up from his bowl of oatmeal and looks me over. I take a deep breath and focus on keeping my mouth closed.
“Grace?”
Ack. She wants an answer.
“Well, I was planning on wearing this to the Give Fest today.”
She taps manicured nails on the table. “What does that say about you?”
Tap, tap, tap. Dad looks back and forth between us.
“Um, it says I like comfortable clothes. And besides, if I were to get all dressed up, it might make the folks we’re serving feel uncomfortable.” My T-shirt is a classic plain shirt and besides, it’s even got a boat-neck cut—which is sort of dressy.
Tap, tap, tap. Huff.
I’m silent during our little fashion standoff.
Dad looks at both of us again. “Oh come on, Elaine. She’s got a point about not overdressing. Besides, she’s a teenager—aren
’t they supposed to wear worn jeans? If she shows up in a dress or pantsuit, she’d be ostracized. And she’ll be serving food, anyway—wearing an apron. People won’t notice anything but her smile and whether or not she gives ’em a good serving of mashed potatoes.” He grins. “So represent the Parker family well. No skimping on the taters.”
Tap, tap, tap. Mom throws her hands up in the air. “Fine. I give up. You win.” She makes her exit from the kitchen muttering, “Worn jeans to church.”
I shift back and forth.
Dad grins at me and whispers, “She’ll get over it.”
I grin back and mouth, “Thanks.”
At the shelter, everyone bustles about adding last-minute decorations, repositioning welcome banners, and gabbing. My mom laughs while balancing on a chair and hanging corny summer decorations. Dad’s chatting it up with other men while they finish lining up chairs around the tables. I enjoy the warmth of the kitchen as I help organize the serving dishes and plastic silverware. We look like the perfect family.
Mrs. Franks, a sweet old lady in her eighties, is in charge of the food. Or at least she’s one of the helpers. She’s a doll and naturally takes over. I guess after eighty years of living and raising her own family, she knows how to get food on a table.
“Grace, could you help me out with the drink table?” Mrs. Frank’s voice warbles toward me.
“Sure thing, Mrs. Franks.” I speed over to help the doddering woman before she disappears behind the five-gallon tea dispenser. I think she’ll tip over sideways.
After securing the tea dispenser, I ask, “Where would you like it?.
She points her faded papery hand to the far right end of the table.
I set it down. “Does that look okay to you?”
“A little bit closer to the center, dear. We don’t want it falling off the edge, and you can call me Sister Franks like everyone else.” She pats my back after I’ve adjusted the beast.
“Okay, Sister Franks.” I force the words from my mouth. It feels a bit odd, but she’s from a different time period so I roll with it.
Under her supervision, I set up the drink table to perfection, placing the last cup on the plastic red-checked tablecloth. Some kid runs through the room announcing our guests’ arrival.
Somehow Sister Franks and I have decided to be buddies for the day. So we stand next to each other serving mashed potatoes and green bean casserole. It’s fun scooping the mashed potatoes on plates for the sea of faces passing by me. And Sister Franks is off the charts. She has something to say to everyone.
“My, my, young man. I think a growing boy like you might need an extra scoop.” She winks at him.
“Oh, what a pretty dress you’re wearing.” The little girl’s face lights up and the tired mom smiles for a brief second.
Watching Sister Franks love on folks renews my faith in people. After an hour of this, I realize she means every word she’s saying. What a sweet old lady.
Every now and then I search the crowded room for Mom and Dad. Every time I spot them, they’re helping someone, cleaning up, or listening to one of our guests. Every time I inspect their faces, they look happy. My parents get so excited about helping people; I know this is one of the reasons they decided to attend this church.
A guy from the youth group stops by to say, “Jeesh, Grace. Your dad is hilarious. You’re so lucky.”
I nod and give a tight smile. “Yep, that’s me. Lucky Grace.”
A lump builds in my throat. I wish this feeling could extend to our family year-round. This happiness. This love. It’s confusing, mixed up, and it hurts.
“Grace. This good-looking young man needs a big scoop of mashed potatoes.” Sister Franks’ voice pulls me out of lala land.
I grin at a scruffy guy in his twenties. “Sorry about that.”
He smiles. “No problem. I know that look. Cheer up. Things can’t be that bad.” He moves on with his tray.
I look after him, startled. Am I that transparent? Surely not. If I was, people would have figured out my charade by now. No, this guy knows what it means to want something you can’t have. And here he is, encouraging me. I feel like the crumb that I am. So I paint a smile on my face, determined to love on folks like Sister Franks does.
twenty
Daaaamn: like a really emphasized wow;
can be use to express almost any
emotion including admiration
Transcribing affidavits is like working on those little puzzles in the kids magazines I got growing up. There were all these little blanks with symbols underneath, and you’d look up the symbol to figure out which letter went in the blank. Only affidavits are way crazy, and there aren’t any blanks. It’s frying my brain. All of these have to be translated from shorthand into English. Whoever created shorthand was nuts. I think it’d be way easier to just write things out.
I take a break to wipe my hands across my face and blink my eyes a few times. I run my hands through my hair and stare off at the ceiling.
“That bad, huh?” Brianna’s soft voice pulls me back to reality.
I grin, sheepishly. “On a scale of one to ten with ten being equal to being scraped over Grimace Rock? I’d give it a nine.” Then I bat my eyelashes at her. “I need a few minutes to space out. Don’t turn me in. Pretty pleeeeease?”
She throws her head back and laughs. Full-on belly laugh. Then she pushes at my shoulder. “That’s what works for little girls.”
“Sexist.”
“Never. In fact, would you like to go on a date tonight?” Brianna’s face remains calm, as if girls ask guys out all the time.
Daaaamn. That’s hot. I’m in. “Why yes I would, fair queen. Where?”
She pouts her lips. “A queen should not do all the work.”
I smile and bow.
As Brianna and I walk underneath the neon-lit awning and open the doors, a blast of stale popcorn and pizza hits us. The sounds of bowling balls thudding against wood lanes ricochet off the concrete walls.
I head straight to the counter where a Blue Hair waits to ring us up. She’s gotta be in her seventies. According to her nametag, she’s Gladys.
I say, “Hi ma’am. We’d like to rent a lane for the next couple of hours. We’ll need the works—shoes, balls, gutter blockers.” I shift my eyes back and forth before giving a loud stage-whisper. “She’s a total newb.”
“Well, I’ll be darned.” She winks at Brianna and doesn’t even acknowledge me. “You let old Gladys fix you up. The first experience is always important.”
Brianna laughs and thp. umps my elbow. “We don’t need gutter blockers.”
I give her a wide-eyed innocent look. “Are you sure?”
She puts her hands on those killer hips.
“She doesn’t need the blockers,” I say. “I guess we’ll only need the shoes and balls.”
Gladys laughs a raspy smoker’s laugh and rings me up. “Okay, sugar. You’re lane thirty. You let old Gladys know if you need anything else. You can pick out your shoes over there, and the balls are across from the lanes.”
We grab retro shoes that reek of disinfectant. Then we head to our lane. We’ve got the last one, by the wall. It’s been painted graffiti style with a mural of old famous
people like Marilyn Monroe, Elvis, and Buddy Holly.
I turn around and fling my arm toward a rack of balls a few feet away. “Why don’t you step into my office?”
“I’d love to,” Brianna says.
Feeling like a king, I walk over and check out the goods. I grab a lime-green fifteen-pounder. Brianna hovers over a couple of balls before choosing an orange eight-pounder. I wiggle my eyebrows up and down. “You ready to get schooled?”
She swishes her hips as we walk back to our lane. “Don’t get too cocky, Mr. Watson. I might surprise you.”
“Let me have it. No holding back.”
She laughs. “Oh, don’t you worry about that.”
I set up the computer system, keying in the monikers Linda and El To
ro, which mean “pretty” and “the bull.”
Brianna says, “What’s that?”
I grin, forgetting she’s doesn’t speak Spanish. “What? I’m half Mexican. This is my cultural twist on Beauty and the Beast. Linda means pretty.”
She smiles. “All right, Toro. Show me what you got.”
I say, “Who says I’m Toro? Kidding.”
I snag my ball and swagger toward the lane. Thunk. It hits the wood with a loud thud and rolls straight down the middle. Two thirds of the way down, it starts curving toward the gutter.
“It’s all part of the plan,” I say. “Watch and learn.”
Then the ball curves back at the last second and knocks two pins down.
“All part of the plan, eh?” Brianna bumps me with her hips.
I’m having trouble focusing.
I wait at the ball return, finally able to come up with something witty. “Humble beginnings make victorgs 18” aligy taste that much sweeter.” I grab the ball as it pops out of the chute and approach the lane holding the ball in both hands. I stand at the edge, widen my stance, and bend down, swinging the ball back between my legs and tossing it gently down the center. It wobbles down the middle and ends up knocking down all but one remaining pin. I turn to Brianna, waiting for a response. She winks and gives a small nod of appreciation. I pull my arms back, fist tightened, in a yeah baby motion and take a seat. “You’re up, Buttercup.”
Brianna grabs her ball like she knows exactly what she’s doing. She walks like a queen toward the lane, stops at the edge, flings her arm back and releases the ball too early. It makes a loud thud and rolls toward me. I stop it with my feet. Then I howl with laughter.
Brianna shrugs her shoulders. “Humble beginnings, right?”
“I’m thinking that’s along the lines of inglorious or meager or infamous.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
She gets the ball and heads back toward the lane. I walk up beside her and say, “Okay, it’s time for a mini-lesson.”
She puts a hand on her hip and waits.
I say, “Watch me act it out in slow motion.” She watches my exaggerated walk and fake release, looking antsy to do it herself. “Notice, I didn’t stop and then toss. It’s all one fluid movement. You want to keep your thumb pointing straight. If your thumb points to the right, then the ball is likely to roll in that direction. Keep your elbow straight and slightly bend your left knee, which should be in front by the time you glide to the edge.”
Riptide Page 12