“Mom?”
The rustling sound moves closer to the door. I hear sniffling?
“Yes, Grace?”
Her voice sounds wobbly.
“Um, are you okay?” I tuck and untuck my hands in and out of my hoodie.
“I’m fine. What do you want?”
“Can I see you?” Tuck. Untuck. Tuck. Untuck.
“I’m bus”>peace=“Ay right now. Do you need something?” Sniffle.
“Can I eat dinner at Ford’s tonight?” I pull at the zipper.
“Yes, that’s fine. Be home by eleven at the latest. Leave your father a note telling him where you are and that I said it was okay.”
Deep breath. I shift back and forth like a waddling penguin. Tuck. Untuck. “Okay thanks. Are you sure you don’t need anything?”
“No. I’m fine. Go to Ford’s.”
Holy shit. Something big must be going down. I sure as hell don’t want to be here for the fireworks. “You sure you’re okay?”
More sniffling. “Yes, honey. See you later.”
I put my hand on the door and lean in. “Love you.”
“Love you too, sweetie.”
I speed down the hall, grab my backpack, and hurriedly scribble the note for my dad. I tape it to the refrigerator and rush toward my bike. This is one time when it’s probably good I don’t have a car—I’d be tempted to get on the freeway and keep driving. I grip the handlebars so tight my hands ache, but I can’t loosen my grip. The muscles in my neck tense as I stress through the different scenarios of what could have upset my mom. I know the who—just not the how. Or the what. Or the why.
“Hey you,” Ford calls out as he swings back and forth on his front porch. “I almost forgot to tell you—everybody at the office was talking about some major ass your dad kicked on one of his cases. He hasn’t won it yet. But the key word is yet.”
Distracted, I glance up at him as I pedal across the gravel drive. He’s waiting for me, grinning. I wonder if he does that for Brittany. My smile falters as I greet him with a lame, “Hey.”
I’m losing it. My ability to pretend everything is fine—when it’s not. To pretend my dad is as cool as I wish he was …
Ford hops off the swing and bounds down the steps, meeting me halfway across the drive. He swoops in and takes my bike for me, leaning it against his house. He walks me inside.“Mammi, Dad—Grace is here.” His voice resonates throughout the house.
Noise comes from the kitchen. The sound of a metal bowl hitting the floor clangs. It’s followed by a string of un—
happy Spanish and the sound of Mr. Watson’s laughter.
By the time we rush into the kitchen, Mama Watson is laughing too. I gape in horror at their saltillo-tiled floor. The reddish-brown tiles are currently glazed in a light green tomatillo sauce.
Mr. Watson comes over andcomurrently gives me a hug. “You came right in time for the show. Patricia is breaking into the art world with a bang. Some people paint on canvas; she paints on tile.”
“Wow.” The mess is mesmerizing.
“Well, Grace, I’d give you a hug too, but at the moment we’re divided by the Green Sea.” She winks at me before holding a rag under running water. After giving it a squeeze she tosses it to Ford, who squats down to clean up the mess.
“Man, she makes a mess and I clean it. How’s that for fair?” He pretends to grumble, but the dimple showing on his cheek gives him away.
“Eli, can you get out some more tomatillo sauce, sour cream, lime, and cilantro for me? Grace—would you mind setting the plates on the table?”
“Not at all.” Glad as always to be included in the family, I grab red and yellow plates from the counter and begin setting them on the table, making sure each plate is centered in the front of the chair. Ford sweeps in behind me and places the silverware. I notice he actually knows which side the knife and fork go on and that he even sets the knife down so the blade faces inward. It’s a little thing, but my heart flutters. I resist the urge to straighten the silverware. It’s placed properly, if slightly askew. I smile. Kinda like Ford. Proper but not.
Mama Watson and Mr. Watson are in sync. He goes back and forth between her and the table, setting down serving dishes on hot pads and always returning for more. Meanwhile, Ford opens one of the glass cabinets. He pulls out four glasses, lines them up on the counter, then fills them up with water. I watch this seamless process in awe. Not one unkind word. No stress. Just quiet teamwork. It sounds silly, but it fascinates me.
I wonder if my mom is still crying. Whether or not she is okay. Who started the fight? Was it in person or over the phone? My stomach flops and I push all thoughts of home away.
After dinner, we head back to Ford’s room. I feel Ford’s eyes boring a hole in me as I say, “Your mom’s enchiladas are amazing. You’ve been holding out on me.”
Ford remains silent.
I stare at him. “Are you okay?”
He cocks his head to the side. “That’s what I was wondering about you.”
I curl my toes and press them into his rug as I lean back against a TV pillow. A heavy feeling sinks in my stomach. “What do you mean?”
He scoots closer to me. “You know what I mean. What’s with you being upset so much and never giving an explanation? You’re not as good at acting as you think you are. I could tell you were upset the second you walked up. It’s driving me crazy. What’s the deal?”
I stare at the floor. Tears trickle out. I hope my hair is hiding them. Ford tucks my hair behind my ears. Damn.
His arms envelope me and he presses his cheek against my wet one. It’s a sacred momena sidtt, and neither one of us speaks.
Ford pulls back enough to look at me. “Why don’t you trust me with whatever is upsetting you? At least give me a chance.”
“I don’t know. Things are too complicated—too messy.” A little sigh shudders through me.
“What you mean is, what if I make things worse?” He massages my hands, relaxing them from the tight fists they were balled into.
I shrug my shoulders. “Sounds pretty crappy, huh?”
“No, just real. What if I promise on my honor not to make whatever it is worse?”
Considering my options, it seems like talking to Ford might be the best one. “Which includes not telling anyone else?”
Ford repeats, “Which includes not telling anyone else. Which I might add, is the business of trust. You confide in me and I don’t share your secrets. And vice versa. Pretty nice concept—huh?”
“In theory, yes.” My tears have dried up. “You swear?”
“A man’s word is his bond.” Ford grins.
I feel like I’m about to jump off the edge of a cliff. My pulse speeds up and my hands start sweating. “I’m serious. Swear?” I give him a pleading look. I have to know he’s not just screwing around being silly.
“On a stack of Bibles. Pinky promise.” His fingers interlock with mine. So yeah, he’s keeping it light, trying to make me smile. But his eyes are serious and concerned, which is enough for me to feel safe.
“Okay, I’m gonna hold you to it.” I scrutinize his face.
He gently takes my hands in his. “Jeez, Grace. Tell me already.”
“Well, I don’t even know where to start.” I shift back and forth.
He scrunches in next to me against the TV pillow. “How about the weird vibes I get from your family?” he asks. “What’s with that?”
My mouth dries up. I swallow as I absorb the question.
“Well … um, things aren’t as happy as they seem. My folks don’t exactly get along. And sometimes my dad can get carried away.”
My cheeks burn. I squirm. What if Ford thinks I’m stupid? Or what if everybody’s family is like mine? It’s like part of me is freaking out about telling even this much, and another part of me is relieved.
“Like, overprotective? Carried away how?” Ford asks. His voice has a hard edge to it. He scoots closer to me.
“I don’t know … he just does
.” I fidget with the frayed ends of my jeans and keep my eyes focused on the rug. I’m afraid to see the expression on Ford’s face.
“Like he’s a prosecutor in a courtroom?”
“No. Never mind. Life isn’t all courtroom drama. Forget I said anything.”
Ford bristles. “I’m trying to figure out what you mean. Carried away … ”
I’m exhausted. “Why do we have to talk about this right now? About my crap? What about yours? Like, tell me more about Brittany?” The momentary escape is slipping through my fingers with every word I speak.
Ford gives me a puzzled look before scooting away from me. A long silence stretches on into eternity, like he can’t decide whether to push or be okay with what I’ve said. I hold my breath.
He says, “I don’t know who Brittany is … why don’t you tell me what you’re talking about?”
The fact that he’s playing stupid irritates me. Like I want to put up with that kind of crap. What kind of friend is he anyway? I stand up and put my hands on my hips. “The girl. The hot one that you’re coaching.”
He forces a smile. “Brianna? She’s not training. I just gave her a beginner’s lesson that one day. She’s a girl from work. What’s up?”
Even though we’re not together, it feels like he’s cheating on me. I swallow. It’s like I’m playing chicken with heartache. “Nothing. It’s just … she seemed like a nice girl. Pretty. You should … you know. Go for her.”
Ford crosses his arms. “You know, Grace, I don’t need your approval or permission to date anyone. And Brianna and I have gone on a date—bowling. But … thanks for the advice.” He stares me down, a puzzled look on his face.
I steel my insides, wondering what in the world is wrong with me. Why do I keep pushing him away?
twenty-four
advice: recommendation regarding
a decision or course of conduct
—www.merriam-webster.com
You should … you know. Go for her.
Those seven words, combined with the completely un—
readable look on Grace’s face as she said them, was on repeat all night long. And every time I process that stupid conversation, I get more irritated. What makes her think I need her permission? And what is she doing? Rubbing things in my face? It almost feels like she’s just throwing shit at the fan to watch it fly because she doesn’t want to deal with her own crap.
I blink open my eyes wider, trying to wake up as I gulp coffee on my way to work. I’m not used to losing sleep, period. And having my eyes feel like they’re recovering from an acid wash doesn’t endear Grace to me further.
I rush up the stairs and enter the office at the same time as Mr. Parker.
His voice booms, “Morning, Ford. Walk with me.”
“Yes sir.” My left eye twitches as I follow him like a prisoner to the guillotine, my mind racing. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, we walk down the hall silently, which is more ominous to me than the eerie calm before a storm.
He opens his office door, makes two giant strides toward his desk, plops down, and motions for me to take a seat.
I pull back the leather chair and sit on the edge, ready to bolt.
He leans back in his chair like he has all the time in the world, which can’t be true. He’s still up to his eyeballs in that Thompson case. “How do you think the summer is going?”
“Pretty good, sir.”
“You keeping the guys away from my little girl?”
“Doing my best, sir.” Forget the fact that I’m burning up mad and not planning on talking to Grace for a few days at least.
He sits up straight. “Is that good enough?”
“I think so. She’s not dating anyone.”
He puts a fist down gently on the desk. “That works.” Then he looks me straight in the eyes. “You’re a pretty smooth guy. I hear you have a side project going.”
What is he talking about? Nothing’s happened with Grace. Brianna? I’m kerflummoxed, so I play it safe and wait for him to keep talking.
“Hollingsworth?”
Worried about Hien’s help blowing up, I scoot to the very edge of the seat. “Is that a problem, sir?”
He laughs. “What Hollingsworth does on his time is his business. He’s got a long way to make senior partner, and one pro bono isn’t going to change that. Just make sure when you’re here that you’re working on the things you’ve been asked to do. Anything that belongs after hours belongs after hours. Are we square on that, son?”
Doing my best to keep a poker face, I say, “Yes sir. Is that all?”
He stands up, smoothly guiding me to the door with his body cues. “That’s all.”
I exit his office fuming, but remind myself he’s helped a lot of people. A lot of my people.
Engine parts are scattered in neat piles across our garage floor. Everything has an order to it. There’s a reason for the way it’s laid out—it makes it easier when Dad needs that part later. His methodical approach to rebuilding engines extends into everyndsit. Theday life. He doesn’t say a lot, but when he does, I listen. The kickass thing about my dad is that his words match his actions.
He’s rehabbing an old Jag. V12 engine, 575 horsepower. A type-E Roadster convertible. Sleek lines. The kind of car that gives every red-blooded teenage guy a hard-on. The car is sick. In the best way.
Dad holds out his hand; I pass him a socket wrench. He leans back over the engine, finagling his hands in tight spaces because he’s a pro. Someday, I want to know engines as well as my dad. There’s something about being able to fix something with your own hands, a feeling of complete satisfaction.
Mr. Parker was a total douche this morning. The conversation with Grace last night, the way she was so upset. And the words “carried away” are etched in my brain as sure as the memory of Kahuna Pete carrying her limp body onto the beach. It’s hard to know what she meant by all that. How much she’s not saying. Yeah, her old man can certainly let people have it in court. Every word is calculated to his advantage, building his case. And then there was that morning in his office after Grace’s accident, when he had fun playing cat and mouse. Testing me. Is that what’s she’s talking about? Does he push her into verbal corners? Or is it more? He can be a hardass, but he’s also done a lot of good for a lot of people.
Sometimes I don’t understand what Grace does or says. She doesn’t want to date, but we have all these little moments where I think she wants more or she seems jealous. Then there’s the whole Brittany/Brianna thing. She was all worked up, like she was itching for a fight. Then she told me to date Brianna? I don’t get it.
“Dad?” I ask. “How’d you know Ma was the one?”
Dad pops up from the car, knocking his head on the hood. He flinches and grabs the back of his head, grinning sheepishly. “What’s that?”
I shake hair out of my eyes. “You know. How do you know when to make the move to date someone?”
He steps back and sits on a stool, grinning. “Is it Grace?”
Frustrated, I shake my head no.
He gets this concerned look. “What happened, son?”
His “son” reminds me of Mr. Parker’s “son,” and that how someone says a word can make all the difference. I walk over to his toolbox and start messing with a socket wrench, winding it around.
He says, “Did you two fight last night?”
I say, “Kind of. But that’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
I hesitate before I say it out loud. To Dad. Admit rejection. End it fast. “She doesn’t want me. She’s into surfing. That’s it.”
Dad says, “Well, maybe she needs time.”
Nope. He doesn’t get it. Shit. I hate saying it. “Dad, I prettӀDds y much asked her out at the beginning of the summer and she shot me down. Grace and I are nothing more than good friends. Really.” Flashes of the moments when Grace and I were doing something together and I felt sparks drive me crazy. Like the time at the Point when I swear she was g
oing to kiss me. But that’s crazy wishful thinking. With Grace, I feel like I doubt everything. I don’t have any gut instincts anymore and I’m sick to my stomach. Angry. I need to burn off some energy.
He grabs a rag and scrubs at grease on his arms. “Then who’s the girl?”
“Brianna from work.”
“The one you took surfing?”
I grin. She was so clueless and fun. It’s one of the first times in a while where I hung out at the beach without worrying about saying the wrong thing to Grace or worrying about some tool hitting on her. The beach just isn’t as stellar this summer. It’s like Grace and her dad have sucked a lot of the fun out of it. “Yeah.”
He smiles. “She likes you, huh?”
I start feeling a little better. “She asked me out too.”
“You like her?”
After a split second, I say, “Yeah. I think so.”
Dad throws the towel at me. I dodge, blocking it with my arm. He grins and says, “Then go for it.”
I nod. “Yeah. I think I will.”
But I can’t get Grace out of my head. Our conversation last night. Her vague explanations. It nags at me, like my little cousin Carlos who won’t quit pulling on your pants until he gets what he wants.
I ask Dad, “What do you do when somebody seems like they’re in trouble? Kind of serious … but you don’t know what it is.”
Dad angles his body under the hood and grunts. Then
he says, “Well, I don’t see there’s much you can do to help someone if you don’t know what kind of help they need.” Then he pops out from under the hood, sets down the wrench, and wipes his hands on his jeans. “Son, you’ll run across situations in life where you don’t know all the angles. That’s when you need to trust your gut and read between the lines.”
Then he gives me the Dad-pat-on-the-shoulder move. One of those I imparted wisdom son looks with a whack on the shoulder to show he cares. Which is great … ’cause he does. But what do you do when you don’t know what lines to read between?
twenty-five
In the end, who among us does
not choose to be a little less
right to be a little less lonely.
—Robert Brault
Riptide Page 14