Riptide

by Lindsey Scheibe

Thanks to it being a rainy day, my weekly run with Mom is a no goe>

  Mom says, “Bummed about the run?”

  “I was looking forward to getting out.” I was looking forward to time with her, to hanging out without getting into a catfight.

  She pads across the floor and stands by me, watching the rain drill everything in its path. “Well, just because we can’t run doesn’t mean we can’t get out for an hour. We’ve got options.”

  “What?”

  She puts her arm around my waist in a hug. “Did you ever stop to think your dear old mom has a pretty nice vehicle, that works? Let’s go to the Chocolat Café. We can splurge on French pastries.”

  Whoa. Splurge on extra calories? Empty ones? Wow. Mom must have had a super shitty week. Although the Chocolat Café isn’t what I had in mind, it’s a fun back-up plan. Maybe we can talk … about whatever happened a couple of nights ago.

  “Okay then.” Mom pats my knee. “We’ll leave in fifteen minutes. I’ll touch up my makeup and change tops.”

  “All righty.”

  “Grace?”

  “Hmm.”

  “You’re gonna do a few touch-ups too, right? Just a little lip gloss and maybe change into a nicer shirt?”

  Never good enough.

  “Sure, Mom. I’ll change.”

  Mom is totally anti-chain stores. She’s all about helping Mom and Pop shops—until it comes to groceries or gas stations. I guess everyone draws a line somewhere.

  She sips her café au lait, fingers laced around it. Then she takes a dainty bite of a chocolate croissant.

  I slurp some whipped cream melting into my white chocolate mocha and accidentally suck up more mocha than cream. The roof of my mouth is officially burned. A little flap of skin hangs down, a reminder of my stupidity. Yay.

  “So, what’s going on with you and Ford lately?”

  I wipe at the cream on my upper lip, a tactical maneuver to hide my surprise.

  Mom adds, “Didn’t you go over to his house for dinner the other night?” We haven’t really spoken since the night she was a wreck.

  “Nothing’s going on,” I say. “And the girl he’s dating isn’t named Brittany. It’s Brianna.” Saying her name is like biting into a lemon. “I don’t have time to mess with a relationship. Besides, Ford’s been a real tool lately.”

  She nods her head, with a kind of knowing look like she knew he would disappoint me all along, which totally burns me. He’s not that kind of guy. Usually. “You’re absolutely right, sweetheart. Ford seemed like a nice guy. They all do at first, though…” Her voice trails off and she stares at a 1950s beach advertisement. There’s a young couple in swimsuits looking like they’ve found nirvana. She looks wistful; I feel sad for her. “Your father was quite the surfer when we first met.”

  “Mom … if you want to talk about things … ” My voice trails off and I realize how lame I must sound.

  She snaps to and paints a smile on her face. Her bright chipper reaction amazes me. It’s like she doesn’t recognize the fact we live in the same house. “Things? There’s nothing to discuss.”

  She stands up, café au lait in hand, and motions me to follow her to the car. Great. After a nice afternoon, I screw things up.

  Once inside the car, Mom doesn’t start the engine. She sighs and tears well up at the corner of her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Mom pauses.

  “Is it Dad?”

  Mom says, “You know I love your father. I really do, but sometimes it’s … well, it’s just hard.”

  My mouth opens a little bit. I burst out, “What happened the other night? Why were you so upset?”

  Her fingers grip the steering wheel. “Nothing happened. Your father and I got into an argument.”

  “About what?” I kick off my flip-flops, pull my knees to my chest, and turn toward her. This is not an everyday conversation.

  “About money, about relationships, about his temper.”

  “Way to go, Mom!”

  Apparently my encouragement isn’t welcome. She takes the one wild, lone strand of hair and tucks it carefully back into place. “Do you think I haven’t had these conversations before? Do you think we haven’t argued about these topics? We do all the time, and it always ends the same—with me hurt and nothing gained.”

  Everything has been piling up like dirty laundry I can’t ignore. It’s driving me crazy. If she doesn’t leave, then I’m stuck here too. I push. “Then why stay?”

  She throws back her head and laughs a dry, eerie laugh. “Get real. Like I’ve told you before, at my age I’m not looking for change or planning on announcing my failures to the world. I said my vows and I meant them—for better or worse.” She white-knuckles the steering wheel, puts on her fake happy, and pulls out of the parking space with perfect control.

  Are you kidding me? “What about his vows? ‘To love and to cherish?’”

  “Don’larAt start.”

  “Don’t start? What? Were his vows different than yours?”

  “Grace—”

  “Or maybe his didn’t count?”

  She slams on the brake. The seat belt locks me in and jolts me back.

  “Don’t talk to me like that, young lady. You have no idea what I put up with so you can have a father.”

  I adjust the seat belt. “Hello? I live with him too.”

  “Do you know how many girls I’ve seen in court that were selling themselves on the street or doing drugs? Do you know what their defense was? No father figure. The way I see it, you’re pretty damn lucky. And you’re sure as hell doing well in school and life … someday you’ll thank me. Someday, you’ll see.”

  twenty-six

  console: to alleviate the grief,

  sense of loss, or trouble of

  —www.merriam-webster.com

  It’s been five days since Grace and I had our spat. Her not explaining whatever is making her so upset, and me throwing Brianna in her face. I shouldn’t have done that. It’s irritating—I can’t fix a problem if I don’t know what it is. Dodging Mr. Parker at the office recently has taken a Herculean effort. It’s not all about me anymore; Hien could get screwed if I mess up. And I’m bummed and stressed about everything. I pick up my cell and text Brianna.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard before writing,

  Wanna go out tonight?

  Ping. Crap. Fast response. I click on View.

  Like on a second date? :)

  I hesitate, then write,

  You know it.

  What time? Seven?

  See you then.

  I shove my phone in my pocket, annoyed that Grace has taken up such permanent residence in my mind. I deserve somebody like Brianna. Somebody who wants me. Period. Why the heck has it taken me so long to get that? Just realizing it makes me feel stronger, ready to conquer the world. Okay fine, truth is, I’m ecstatic to have an awesome date.

  I knock on the door of Brianna’s condo, wondering if her folks are there and what kind of people they are …

  A lady answers the door. She’s pretty. A slightly larger, older version of Brianna. She smiles at me. “You must be Ford. I’m Nadine. It’s nice to meet you.”

  We shake. I say, “It’s nice to meet you too.”

  Brianna zips in next to her mom. “Oh no you don’t.” She grins. “If I don’t get you out of here now, Mom will have you on the couch flipping through baby pictures of me in the buff.”

  I glance at her mom and kind of smile-shrug, to make sure she’s cool with us heading out.

  She nods her approval. “You two have fun. Be back by midnight!”

  I say, “Yes ma’am.”

  Once we’re in the truck, I check Brianna out as she sits next to me, looking gorgeous. She’s wearing a dark brown top that hugs her chest and then hangs loose. Her jeans hug her thighs. Her long silver earrings dance with her braids as she tilts her head, smiling. She’s really beautiful, but even better than that? She’s smart and she shoots straight. She kno
ws what she wants and I know where I stand with her.

  I start Esmerelda and check Brianna out one more time. “All right, ma’am. Let’s roll.”

  After we have dinner at a casual sushi bar, I decide to go the romantic route. Once we’re back in the truck, I ask, “You want to hang out at Black’s?”

  “Is that a club?”

  I laugh. “No, it’s a beach.”

  She says, “I guess.”

  I crank up the engine. “You ever hung out at the beach at night?”

  “No.”

  I grin, excited to share it with her. “It’s magic.”

  She scoots over to the middle of the bench seat and buckles up, resting her leg against mine. I turn on some Ben Harper and off we go.

  When I pull into the parking lot at the glider port, it’s virtually empty. Except for a few lone vehicles.

  The sunset is almost complete. “Crap. We better hurry.”

  I rush out of the truck while Brianna puts on lip gloss. Then she exits with finesse, no struggle. “Wow,” I say. “I think Esmerelda likes you.”

  She pats the truck’s side. “Of course she does.”

  I shut the door behind her. “The view from the cliffs is sweet.”

  “It’s really pretty out here,” she says.

  We head to my favorite patch of grass and sit. Brianna shifts uncomfortably.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  She makes a face. “This isn’t exactly the right kind of outfit for sitting in dirt.”

  I pat my lap. “I’ll protect you.”

  She grins. “Well, okay.” She settles into my lap.

  I shift, trying to make sure she’s comfortable. I peek around her, trying to focus on the sunset. It’s a red sliver on the ocean.

  “You’re a really cool guy … you know, what you and Hop are doing for his friend. It’s huge.”

  Embarrassed to take credit for something I wish I could do more about, I say, “It’s Hollingsworth who’s going to kick ass. We just got them connected. But someday…”

  “Someday you’re going to be the one kicking courtroom ass.” Then Brianna turns and whispers in my ear, “It’s a great view.”

  I happily agree, looking at the red streak glowing across the sky. “Yeah, it is.”

  She nuzzles me. “No. You.”

  My face feels hot.

  She places her hands on my cheeks. “You’re so cute. Acting all embarrassed.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  She leans forward, her minty breath warm on my face. I close my eyes and give in. Heaven. I glance at her, heart pounding. I lean in to kiss her, and she meets me halfway. My pulse pumps like a jackhammer. I kiss her soft and slow, crumbling. Her earrings jingle. I’m trying to rein things in. Use self control. She’s a sweet girl. I haven’t really even made out with anyone before. I’ve been holding out for Grace.

  And Grace. Crap. She doesn’t belong here.

  I focus on Brianna and lean in for another kiss.

  twenty-seven

  It is an equal failing to trust

  everybody and to trust nobody.

  —Thomas Fuller

  This past week has been tense. Mom’s been working late hours. My normally clean room looks like someone else lives in it; it’s as disheveled as I feel. Ford and I haven’t made up yet, and I know our argument wasn’t big enough for this. It seems like every time I call or text, he’s busy with work stuff or hanging out with his new friends. I don’t understand why he’s acting like this. Hello, the surf comp is in four days and I still haven’t nailed the 360.

  Damien should be here any mie=“18in nute. He’s been a lifesaver. If it weren’t for him, I don’t know how I would have made it to the beach so much this week. I snag my cell, throw my duffel over my shoulder, and run for the garage. I can’t stand being late. The screwier things get, the earlier I like to be. Early is on time. On time is barely making it. And being late equals major stress.

  Bam. I crash into Dad in the hallway. What the crap?

  “Sorry, Dad. I didn’t realize anyone was home. I thought you were at the office this morning.”

  He raises the back of his hand and then stops. I flinch. He grits his teeth. “That doesn’t mean you run around wild, crashing into things. You’re going to scrape the paint on our walls. Show some respect.”

  The last thing I need is Damien knocking on our front door and hearing Dad yell at me or worse. “Sorry, Dad. I won’t run in the hall anymore. Damien should be here any minute and I didn’t want to make him wait.”

  “Get the hell out on the porch and wait for him, then. I’ve got a case to work on. Are your chores finished?”

  Is he nuts? It’s seven in the morning. In the summer. Who has their chores finished?

  I do the only thing I can do—lie. “I started earlier this morning. I’m almost finished. I’ll have them done by the time you get home this evening.”

  I bank on the fact that he needs to get to work and I’m about to leave. Good God, I’m tired of lying. It feels like my entire life is one big lie. Lie to everyone about what a wonderful family I have. Lie to dad about chores. Lie to mom about surfing and college and how I feel about Ford. Lie to Ford about not wanting to date him. That’s the one that makes me feel the worst.

  He snarls, “Make sure you do.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Our zen-sounding door bell chimes. How ironic. I feel anything but calm.

  “That’s probably Damien. I should answer the door.” I wait for Dad’s approval, dying that I’m now late.

  “Get moving, then. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Okay, thanks. Bye Daddy.” I speed-walk to the front door and try to shake off the adrenaline rushing through me. It’s all good. I’m going surfing. All I need to do is work on surf skills and keep up with my chores. Then everything will fall into place.

  I open the door with my best fake smile. “Hey. Sorry to make you wait.”

  Damien takes my duffel bag. “No worries.”

  “Thanks.” I punch in the code for the garage and duck underneath the door while it’s still rising. I snag my board and hurry out. Escape. That’s what I want. That’s where I’m headed. I close the door. Damien takes the board.

  And then I deflate. “Crap.”

  “What?”

  “I forgot to fill the jugs with hot water,” I say, tucking my hands in and out of my sleeves. Damien and I have been rinsing off with fresh warm water after our surf sessions. It’s a little thing, but it feels so good.

  “Chillax, girl. I’ll get your board strapped in, no rush.”

  This is so not the day to go back inside and risk another run-in. But what am I supposed to say to Damien? We don’t have hot water? I’m extra-scared of Dad this morning? Yeah, right. I bite my lip and trudge back to the house. As I step through the front door, I hear cursing come from my bedroom. Shit.

  Forget it. Just go, go, go. I rush to the pantry to grab some empty water jugs and fill them up as quickly as possible. Thank God we have an instant hot water tap. I’m working on jug number two when I hear heavy footsteps closing in on me. I’ll play dumb.

  “Oh hey, Daddy. I forgot the hot water jugs. I’ll be out of your way in just a minute.” I glance backward to see dirty laundry in his hands.

  “‘Almost finished,’ huh? I’d sure as hell hate to see what ‘haven’t even started’ looks like.”

  “It’s really not that much. It looks worse than it is.” My pulse quickens and I consider bailing—leaving the jugs on the counter, running and never coming back. Instead I pop the lid onto the jug. Damien will think I’m crazy if I walk out without these things full, and I don’t want to explain any more than I want to face Dad right now.

  He slams the laundry on the table. “Then you’ll have no problem showing me what spotless looks like tomorrow morning.”

  I cringe. “Yes sir.”

  He flings his arm in the air and shoos me toward the door. “Well, what’s wrong with you? You’re
making him wait.”

  “Yes sir.” I grab the jugs and scramble for the door, but not before getting a hard backhand on my rear on the way out. I guess that’s the only place he can be sure Damien won’t see, if it leaves a mark.

  Tears smart my eyes. I won’t cry; he won’t win.

  I jerk the Jeep door open and shove the water jugs onto the floorboard, then slam the door, blinking back tears and hoping Damien isn’t looking at me.

  “Easy there. I waxed her yesterday. Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.” My voice comes out raspy, but if

  I try to clear my throat it will just make it more obvious. “I guess I’m in a rush.”

  Silence lingers for a minute. “The waves’ll be there. What’s with the hurry?”

  I swallow hard, trying to clear my throat. “Too much.”

  Damien turns to me. “Want to talk about it?”

  Please God, start the engine already. We need to go. I need to get out of here.

  “Not really,” I say, kicking off my turquoise flip-flops and drawing my knees to my chest.

  He eyes Dad’s car in the driveway and nods like he understands. “It’s cool. If you change your mind … I’m here.”

  If only he knew. I don’t answer. I stare out the window. I screwed things up with Ford. Our relationship is ruined. He’s got new peeps. I don’t want to do the same with Damien. I mumble, “It’s just the fact that my parents kind of have unrealistic expectations. You know? And sometimes my dad gets fired up when he’s pissed.”

  He drives down the street away from our house, and with every foot between me and my dad, I feel a nervous energy pulsing through me. I’m unsure as to whether I’m going to laugh or cry or scream.

  Damien stays quiet as we exit the neighborhood and I feel dumb for saying anything. I know better than that. Nobody ever wants the truth, not even close to it. It was a moment of weakness. I lost control of my emotions.

  Once Damien gets on the highway he says, “Does that mean what I think it means? Like, he’s physical toward you?”

  I squirm like an ant under a magnifying glass in the hot sun, my pulse quickening as a lump the size of a brick fills up my throat. I’m miserable; scraping Grimace Rock was a picnic compared to the humiliation weighing on me like a two-ton elephant.