Riptide

by Lindsey Scheibe

  “Got it.”

  I say, “Let me walk you through it.”

  Then I stand so close I can smell her perfume. I reach for her right arm and guide her through the motion, my hand on the back of hers. As I swing her arm to the edge, I say, “Release now.” Then I let go of her hand and step away fast, blood whooshing through my body. “You’ll get it this time.”

  She says quietly, “Yep. Definitely. Thanks for the tip.”

  Then she knocks down eight pins. We high-five. “You rock!” I say.

  By the final round, she’s kicking my butt and loving every minute of it. We return our funky shoes to Gladys. She hands me a buy one hour, get the second hour free card. “Come again, honey. And bring your girlfriend.”

  And even though I’m not sure about the label, neither one of us corrects her.

  twenty-one

  Everything has to be rethought.

  —Elias Canetti

  The last prewashed dish clinks as Mom arranges it in the dishwasher. I grin, thinking about Mom’s need to clean dishes by hand first.

  The dishwasher isn’t for scrubbing the dishes; it acts as a sterilizing agent. — Mom

  The dryer buzzes. “Grace, let’s fold clothes and catch up on how things are going,” she says.

  The words by themselves sound inviting, but her tone is all business. Ugh. I head for the laundry room and transfer warm, lavender-scented laundry into a basket. I toss nearby hangers on top and trudge to the living room couch, which is our home base for folding and hanging clothes.

  I grab a shirt and begin to fold it as meticulously as the clerks at Saks do.

  Mom grabs a hanger and slips it underneath a shirt, from the bottom so as not to stretch the neck. “It seems like you’ve found a new surf partner for the days when Ford can’t take you, but you and Ford have still been surfing together quite a bit.”

  I smooth out a wrinkle, ignoring the fact that she’s fishing for information. “Yes ma’am.”

  She crinkles her forehead for a microsecond before smoothing it out with her fingers. “What about your college applications? Those essays won’t write themselves.”

  I reach for a pair of panties and begin tri-folding them. “Umm. I figured I’d wait until school starts to do the final drafts, you know, run them past my English teacher? I’ve been focusing on filling out the basics on several.”

  “So you haven’t finished any essays.”

  I open my mouth and hesitate. The answer: a flat-out lie. “Not final drafts, anyway. I’ve been playing around with the rough drafts and outlines.”

  She nods her approval.

  I grab a shirt and focus on perfect creases. There isn’t a right answer to the inquisition and, at this point, I can only make it worse.

  “Grace?”

  I look up at my mom, mid-crease.

  She raises her eyebrows. “I’m counting on the fact you have enough sense not to get involved with Ford. He seems like a really nice guy, but with these surfer types—you really need to watch it. They tend to be low on ambition. Wait for the Ivy League guys—you know they’re good enough.”

  Wow. And um, hello? Surfers aren’t all low on ambition, especially Ford. They just have different goals. Surf Pipeline. Travel the world. Go pro. Surf for life. Besides, we’re in high school, give it up. Hardly anybody knows for reals what they want to do for the rest of their life.

  “No problem,” I tell her. “We’re just friends. We’re not dating. In fact, he takes other girls surfing.”

  Nothing about those statements feels right to me. I’ve been trying to ignore the incident with that Brittany girl, or whatever he name was, but I can’t. My temples throb whenever I think about the possibility of another girl in Ford’s life.

  “That makes things easier.” Mom pats my arm and gives it a small squeeze. “I hope you realize how much I love you. Don’t lose sight of your priorities, everything you’ve worked for … you don’t want to throw away the past three years of hard work to fail now. And the point of all your hard work is to get into the best college.”

  The best college? For who? Keeping sight of her priorities means losing sight of mine. Dreams keep slipping through my fingers like sand.

  “Can you help me with the furniture?”

  “Ah, man. Are you on a feng shui kick again?”

  Mom power-walks to the other side of the couch, a woman on a mission. Her butt sticks out as she shoves the couch in a new direction, except the couch doesn’t budge. She looks pretty funny; I can’t help but laugh before lining up next to her and giving a strong push. The behemoth inches forward.

  “Thanks, honey.” Mom turns and gives me a quick smile.

  “No prob.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and push again. “What’s with rearranging the furniture?”

  “Nothing much. Your dad felt things were a bit staid, so I’m trying to up the energy in here.” We have a good rhythm going on the couch and we’re making progress.

  “Are you serious?” I stop and twist around, popping my back.

  Mom cringes at the snapping and crackling. “Grace, that gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  I laugh. “Why don’t you get Dad to move all this crap?”

  “Right now isn’t good timing. He’s stuck on a pretty big case.” She sighs. “It looks like this will be a tough win.”

  Translation: Stay out of his way.

  I roll my eyes. Like that’s anything new. Whatev. “Let’s give this a final go.”

  Mom counts: “One, two, three, push.”

  The couch jolts forward and so do we. Mom ends up splayed across the end of it, rear end sticking up. All I hear is muffled laughter, since her face is buried in accent pillows. This is the mom I grew up with, the one who used to laugh more often. It seems like she laughs less every year. I miss that. I miss her. I miss the relationship we used to have—when I looked up to her as my hero. It seems like the older I get, the more my parents argue, and the more they argue, the harder she worksrder. I m and the less she smiles.

  She comes up for air. “That should do it for now. We can move the recliner later. Think he’ll like it?”

  “What’s with you and trying to make everything so nice for him? He treats us like crap one minute and queens the next.” I’m sick of pretending. What’s up with that?

  Her happy face leaves the building. “Well, Grace,” she snaps, “what do you want me to do? Huh? Leave him?”

  “I don’t know. Why not? You don’t seem happy.” I know I’m not.

  “Then what? Marry someone else who treats me like crap? Learn how to put up with their crap? I think not.”

  Adrenaline pumps through me. The gloves are off. “How about marry someone who doesn’t treat you like crap? Good guys do exist.” I falter on the last line, wondering how many Fords are out there.

  Mom’s lips curl into a scowl. “Yeah, right. What do you know about life? Nothing.”

  “I know it sucks to be treated like I’m nothing.” I want to explode, but my words come out in a carefully controlled tone. The edginess lies below the surface.

  “Well, if I leave your father … what then? And what are you going to do? Be there for me? Oh wait, you’re going off to college next year. I’ll be all alone.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. The shit of it is—she’s right.

  Not long after my argument with Mom, my cell rings. It’s Damien.

  He says, “Hey, baby. Wanna ride?”

  I laugh. “Really? Is that the best you can do?”

  “Made you laugh. Wanna catch a late-afternoon surf session? Turmo?”

  I glance at the clock. “You know it.”

  “I’ll swing by to pick you up in fifteen.”

  I start running around the room, yanking my shorts off while looking for my swimsuit. “I’ll be ready in ten.”

  I barely make it to my front porch before Damien rolls up in my driveway, music blasting from his Jeep. I carry my Roxy duffel and board over to his vehicle. He sli
des my board on top of his and adjusts the strap so they don’t rub against each other. I sit on the passenger side, enjoying how different his Jeep is from Esmerelda. It’s immaculate. No stray pieces of trash in the floorboard. No marks on the dashboard. No rust on the paint job. It even has the new-car smell. I don’t understand why Ford has such a problem with Damien. He has him all wrong.

  Dami Reew-en gets in and starts the car. No funny noises.

  I say, “Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have pictured you to be so orderly.”

  He turns down the radio. “That’s when you didn’t know me. I’m a man of surprise and mystery.”

  I lay on a sultry voice. “Ooh. Sexy.”

  He laughs. “You’re a trip. Want to go out sometime?”

  Whoa. He’s straight to the point. “Um, you know I’m training for the comp. Trying to stay focused right now.”

  He says, “Oh, cool. I didn’t realize you were so serious about this stuff. You need any help?”

  “Yeah, totally. You’ve already been great helping me with my airs.” But I feel guilty not mentioning Ford. So I add, “Ford’s been helping me out too. Kind of my coach. But he’s at his internship more often than not.” Frustrated, I lean against the seat, feeling like more of an afterthought than a focus.

  Damien says, “Dang. Ford gets around. He must be starting a surf school.”

  I stare out the window. What the heck was Ford doing with that … Brittany? My heart beats erratically and I feel sick. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  Damien says, “You’re quiet all of a sudden. What’s up?”

  “Nothing. I’m tired.”

  We get on the interstate. Damien turns the music louder. The windows are rolled down and between the wind and the music, there’s no room for conversation. We’re quiet the rest of the way to Turmo.

  twenty-two

  fold: to stop playing

  your hand, give up

  Warren Hollingsworth III matches his name in every way. He looks like he belongs on Cape Cod rather than sitting across from me and Hop at Lola’s Coffee Shop. I wonder what dirt Jada has on him to get him to meet up with me.

  He takes a sip of his green smoothie. “So, you and Jada must be pretty tight.”

  I shrug. Hop begins folding his napkin into a million little creases.

  Hollingsworth leans forward. “She called in a favor. She doesn’t do that.”

  I make a mental note to bust my ass extra for her the rest of the summer. I say, “Jada’s a cool gal.”

  “Let’s get to it.” He leans in, resting his arms on his legs. “What’s the situation with your friend?”< Reew8” /span>

  I say, “Hien came over from Vietnam when he was ten, and he’s been living in San Diego ever since.”

  Warren says, “Why did his parents come here illegally? Why didn’t they go through the proper channels?” He looks at Hop for an answer. So do I … that hasn’t been a burning question for me.

  Hop stares at his sliver of napkin. “Religious persecution.”

  I blink, unsure of how to process that information. “What?”

  Warren and I sit there waiting. Hop unfolds and refolds the napkin until he finally wads it into a ball and throws it on the table. He looks back and forth between me and Warren, a hard glint in his eyes. “They beat Hien and his parents. They said they had to renounce all religious activities, and they were not allowed to attend any sort of religious gathering.”

  My stomach twists into a sickened knot.

  Warren drums his finger on the table. “We can work with that. People who come over illegally without persecution from their government are usually up a creek without a paddle in regards to obtaining legal status. They have to move back to wherever they came from and live there for who knows how long until they get approval, if they get approval. But most people don’t leave their country on a whim. They usually are trying to find somewhere safer for their family or an economy that will provide them with better economic or educational opportunities. That’s why some people just stay in the country illegally—it’s in what they consider to be their best interests.”

  I’m sitting in my seat, frozen. Jorge didn’t have a chance.

  Warren asks Hop, “Do they have proof?”

  Hop shrugs. “Other than a wicked scar by Hien’s eye? I don’t know.”

  Is that why Hien wears sunglasses all the time or why he dresses the way he does? Survival mode …

  Warren says, “Well, that’s the next step. Ask Hien if his parents have any hard proof. What is he—Unified Buddhist?”

  “Yes,” Hop says.

  Feeling like an idiot, I ask, “How did you know that?”

  “That’s one of the main religions persecuted in Vietnam,” Warren explains. “Check out the HRW report for 2005, which I’m guessing is the year Hien and his family arrived in San Diego.”

  “HRW?”

  Hop fills in the blank. “Human Rights Watch.”

  I sink back in my chair, thinking I have way more to learn about immigration issues and laws than I could ever have imagined.

  Hien’s situation freaks me out. I don’t know what to do, and I’m really glad Warren knows what’s up. I exit the highway and take the familiar turns that bring me to the glider port by Black’s. I park in the empty lot, grab a beach towel, and hop out. Throwing the towel into the bed of the truck, I hop in after it and lean back against the cab.

  It’s not a clear night. There are a few thin clouds in the sky. It was so good to speak with Jorge a couple weeks ago. It felt right. Like things were cleared up a bit between us.

  “Hey man. You got a few?”

  A slight breeze stirs up and I take that as a yes. Then I lean my head back against Esmerelda, the only reliable girl in my life besides Ma.

  “There’s this dude, Hien. I’m trying to help him. You know? And this guy Hop and I met up with a lawyer today. And he knows all about immigration stuff and asked questions I hadn’t considered before. Like why did the guy leave his country? I know you and your Ma came here looking for work. I hadn’t thought about people coming here to escape persecution from the government. I’m trying to imagine someone coming into St. Francis during mass and telling everyone to go home. That they couldn’t worship anymore … I can’t, and I’m all spazzed out worrying about Hien. So those are like real problems, right? Not like my petty, small-ass problems. But dude, those are bugging me too.”

  I sigh. “I got troubles. The femme kind. Yeah, I know. It’s shit of me to complain, but you always knew what to do when it came to relationships. Remember Grace? The way-out-of-my-league crush? I thought my chances were pretty much zip, but sometimes she seemed into me. Still does. But I made a deal with her old man, and that makes her off-limits.”

  I fidget with the towel a few minutes, collecting my thoughts. “Her old man—he doesn’t want anybody dating his little girl. Period. If I keep them away from her? He’ll hook me up with the right law firm to push me on an early fast-track to law school. To meeting all the right people. Shit. Last week, he cc’d me on an email to Miguel Gutierrez. Said we should meet for coffee. Hooked me up, even though he was pissed about Grace’s accident. I don’t like the way he makes me feel about things. Like he can ruin my career before it ever starts. Like he has the power to take my dreams from me before I even really get a chance to pursue them. That’s messed up. But then he turns around and does me a favor. Says he knows I’ll take better care of Grace.”

  I ball my hand into a fist and pound the bed of my truck a few times, until the side of my hands hurts. “It all sounds stupid when I tell you. Okay, I’ll say out loud. I’m a tool, man. Why’d it take me so long to see it? Sometimes, doors slam shut. For a good reason. It’s so obvious now. Her old man doesn’t want anybody dating her, period. And if I ever date her, he’ll have me blacklisted with every firm in town.”

  I pound my truck one more time. “That’s it, dude. And you know what’s crazy? There’s a smart, beautiful girl at the offi
ce who actually seems into me. She asked me out. And there’s no off-limits signs messing with my dreams if I date her. Sometimes when one door gets slammed shut, another one opens. Brianna’s my open door.fy”>pen’

  twenty-three

  Anxiety is the reaction to danger.

  —Sigmund Freud

  Ford squeezes my shoulder as he drops me off. “Come over to my place tonight and have dinner with my folks. Mom is making her famous chicken enchiladas. Deal?”

  “Yum!” Ack—I frown. “I’ll have to ask permission.” Things at home are unpredictable again. I don’t know if it’s the cases my dad is working on, but blow-ups have been way more frequent in general and over the past week for sure. It makes me feel like I’m being sucked out in a riptide and I’ve forgotten how to paddle.

  “Don’t you ever think your folks are kind of uptight? You’re always asking for permission. It’s summertime. It seems like their panties must be in a perpetual wad.”

  I shrug. His hand hovers over the back of my jean shorts, ready to put my panties in a wad.

  I shoot him a wicked grin. “Don’t even think about it. I’m going commando.”

  His hand hovers there as his cheeks turn red. “Really?”

  From the look on his face, I think he might have trouble concentrating on the way home. I give a little wave good-bye as he drives off.

  Mom’s car is parked under the laurel. I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. My odds of getting permission are decent as long as I make sure she realizes it’s a friends-only dinner.

  I search the front of the house—no mom. I call her name throughout the hallway—no mom. I peek in the office—no mom. My heart beats a little faster. Beads of sweat trickle at my hairline. Last resort, I knock on my parents’ bedroom door—rap, rap, rap.

  “Mom?”

  Silence.

  “Mom?”

  I hear a rustling sound on the other side of the door. Jeez, could my heart pound any faster?