Riptide

by Lindsey Scheibe

He runs his right hand back over his dreads and then places it back on the wheel. He sucks in a big breath of air, starts to say something, and then stops.

  I’m dying. This is why I never say anything. It’s not like anyone can do anything.

  He blows air out his mouth and exits the freeway, where he flies across the frontage and whips into the first parking lot he can turn into. He parks and turns to me, intense. I’m wishing I could disappear.

  He says, “You know you don’t have to put up with that. Right? It’s total crap. You know that. C’mon, you’re so freaking smart. Why the hell are you still there?”

  And while I agree it’s crap, I’m angry. At my parents, my situation, at not knowing who to trust, at humiliating myself, at Damien’s judgment of me.

  Bitter, I vomit words and random thoughts. “Oh, like it’s all that easy. Sure, I’ll just move out of my house. To where? With who? And are they going to love me? Like really love me? And why would they? And what about college? Are they going to pay for my education?”

  Damien’s eyes grow big and he places his hand on the console between us. “I’m sorry. I know it’s complicated.”

  I turn my head. “It’s more than that, and it’s not out of control. I mean … I can han >

  Damien’s hands shake a little and his voice comes out real quiet. “But at what price?”

  “Can we just go? More than anything, I need to surf today. Please? And don’t say anything. Nobody knows.”

  “Not even Ford?”

  I half whisper, “Not even Ford.”

  I. Did. It. I surfed the freaking Point and lived to tell. No scratches.

  After that conversation with Damien, I needed to blow off steam. I surfed my ass off today. I avoided the rocks and I surfed the Point. All day. Now I’m laid out on the sand like a wet noodle. Ecstatic. Exhausted. I can’t wait to tell Ford. But I don’t want to go home for anything. Who knows when Mom will be home? And I don’t want another run-in with Dad.

  Damien sits beside me looking like a Billabong surfer ad.

  I stretch out. “Ugh. I don’t want this day to end.”

  “Then don’t let it. Let’s live on the edge.”

  “How?” I sit up and grin mischievously at Damien, grateful he let things drop. Glad we had a good day. As far as I’m concerned, I’m going to act like I never said anything and it looks like Damien will do the same.

  He pulls back a little, tries to hide his surprise. He taps his chin with his pointer finger like he’s thinking hard. Then he smirks. He snaps his fingers and shrugs. “Guess we’ll have to go shopping … on my old man’s card.”

  I laugh, half shocked and completely amused. “No way.”

  He stands up and puts my bag over his shoulder like a girl wears a purse. “Yes way. Girl, I can be cray-cray. C’mon,” he wheedles.

  He’s so hot, standing there acting stupid. Wearing my bag. So tempting. For a split second I close my eyes. Then I give in. “I’m in. What’s that saying?” I twist around to pop my back. Got it. “Sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

  He holds an arm out. We link elbows. Damien cracks me up. He’s a blast.

  We get out of the Jeep in front of Goodwill and I walk on the lawn instead of the sidewalk. Such a stupid little thing, but I feel like such a rebel. Ford would be so proud. Crap. I’ve got to get him out of my head. Today I’m having fun—with Damien. Be gone, Ford Watson.

  twenty-eight

  Rubbernecker:< > 1” fi> a person who

  slows their vehicle down to look

  at a wreck they’re driving past

  Hanging out on my front porch after a great day at the office. Flip-flopping it. Playing guitar. My kind of late afternoon.

  My cell dings. I check the message. It’s Grace. I feel kind of bad. We haven’t really hung out since we argued about Brianna. And I haven’t been blowing her off on purpose. Just kind of got caught up hanging out with Brianna. And then the guys had an epic poker tournament. After that much time with Little Hien, I feel like I could host MTV Cribs or something.

  Can we talk?

  Wow. I wonder what made her make the first move.

  Yeah. Where?

  Your place?

  C’mon over.

  See you soon.

  It’s so funny, Grace’s text. Even her text speak is proper. Brianna would have written CU soon. And added a smiley face. Because she’s cute like that.

  Grace can be all business. She can be a lot of fun, too. Not surfing with Grace the past week was weird. Things haven’t felt right. Like the world isn’t spinning on the right axis. I heard she surfed all week with Damien. He’s such a butt-munch.

  Grace speeds into the driveway, parks her bike, and bounds up the steps with the biggest smile I’ve seen on her face in weeks.

  I strum a chord. “Hey, Mamacita.” I set the guitar down and give her a big hug. Strangely self-conscious, I say, “Um, I need to snag a shirt.” I head into the house with Grace trailing behind, grab a shirt off the top of the laundry basket, and yank it on, enjoying this Grace. “You’re in a hella good mood. What’s up?”

  She squeals, “I surfed the Point!”

  I frown. “What?”

  She squeals again. “Yeah. I surfed the Point!” Then she twirls around. “And I lived to tell.”

  That’s crazy. “What the hell? You went without me?”

  She jerks to a stop. “What do you mean?”

  “Excuse me, but last time we surfed there, you almost died.”

  She glares daggers. “Wow. I thought you’d be happy for me.”

  I throw my hands in the air. “I thought we had a thing. I’m supposed to be your coach. Who watched out for you?”

  She cocks her head, places her hand on her hips. “Newsflash—last time I checked, a coach goes with you to the beach. Some coach you’ve been. Since you’ve been MIA, Damien’s surfed with me. The comp is this week. What did you expect? Besides, I needed to go back there. Face my fears and all.”

  She’s right. Sort of. But Damien? He’s a dillweed. Stab me in the heart. “Oh, so Damien took care of you like I would have, huh? Besides, the only reason I haven’t taken you there is because your dad specifically told me not to—”

  “Well, Damien took care of me. It’s fine.”

  Something about the way she said that really sets me off. “Oh, yeah, I bet he did. Did he watch out for you? Make sure you were safe?”

  Grace narrows her eyes. “Oh. Like you, that day at the Point?”

  Wow. Going in for the kill. “What are you talking about?”

  She says, “Oh, wait, maybe I’m confused. I thought Kahuna Pete pulled me out. Where were you? Oh, wait, that’s right, you showed up right afterward to ‘claim’ me as your girl.”

  Air quotes are the last straw. I say, “I can’t believe you went there. Is that what you think of me?” Palm to the face. “I’ve been reduced to a cheap cliché. You say we’re friends, but you sure as hell don’t act like it. See ya. Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.” I look up to watch her go. Like a rubbernecker on the highway. We’re a freaking train wreck.

  She scowls, her eyes narrowed and forehead scrunched up.

  I scowl back, but then I waver. I shove my hands in my pockets.

  She says, “Fine. I’m outtie,” and heads toward the door.

  I run after her, like the idiot I can’t help being. “Grace, wait.”

  She throws a hand up in the air and doesn’t even look at me. She huffs out of the houses and marches toward her bike. This is crazy. “Please,” I say.

  And she keeps walking. Away. From me.

  And me? I trail after like a stray dog wanting a home. “C’mon, Grace. At least let me give you a ride.”

  Nothing. A shove of her flip-flop on a pedal and she’s off. Gone.

  I’m not letting her do this to me. Treat me like a cheap throw-away. I yell after her, “Oh yeah? If you’re gonna act like a cold-hearted B, then good luck at the comp.
You’re on your own.”

  twenty-nine

  Courage, sacrifice, determination,

  commitment, toughness, heart, talent,

  guts. T

  of; the heck with sugar and spice.

  —Bethany Hamilton

  Today is a welcome diversion even if it means surfing by myself. The comp’s tomorrow and I feel so screwed up, but Ford or no Ford, I’ve gotta surf. Mom even let me borrow the Jeep, which is a total first … she didn’t even grill me about why I needed transportation. Whatever is going on with her, she’s too stressed to care about what I’m doing. Of course, she’d have a conniption if she knew I was surfing by myself. I didn’t want a ride from Damien, even though he would have been cool with it. Part of me is nervous about surfing with him after our day at the Point. I’m worried about what he’ll say and if he’ll bring up my dad.

  Anyway, all my energy needs to be focused on the comp. On controlling myself and my moves. On figuring out the 360. On my own. On wowing the UCSD surf coach. On not losing the only thing I have in life, surfing my favorite beaches.

  So I drive into Black’s with music blaring, feeling the need to surf until I burn off some stress. I wriggle into my wetsuit, unload my board, sling a backpack over my shoulder, and head for the beach.

  Waves are breaking right and a handful of surfers are out. I didn’t see Esmerelda in the parking lot, not that I expected Ford to be here. My eyes are raw from crying for the past few days. They feel like someone took Coke bottles, smashed them up to tiny pieces, and taped them to my eyelids. Salt water is going to suck today. The thing that I never wanted to happen—losing my best friend—happened. I lost him to the girl I told him to date. ’Cause I’m an idiot.

  I wax and comb my board, watching guys rip moves I need to perfect. The last thing I need is to be a joke at the comp. This is my chance. All I need is to maintain better control of my life. I slipped up. Let emotions get in the way. Well, no stupid boy is going to get in the way of my dreams. Neither are my parents. I will do it. I will kick ass. I have to win. That’s all I have.

  After a quick glance around, I shove my backpack in an inconspicuous spot half-covered by a rock and schlep toward the ocean. A gust of cold wind reminds me that I haven’t zipped up my wetsuit, and why would I? Ford does that for me. But I don’t need him. I can zip my own freaking wetsuit. It’s not like it’s that big of a deal. Wetsuits have long tags attached to the end of the zipper so the user doesn’t need anyone else. Damn it, why did Ford and I have to fight the week before the comp?

  As I finish fixing my wetsuit and lean over to snag my board, a little strand of hair at the nape of my neck rips out. Grr. Stupid Ford. Stupid zipper. Stupid me.

  I huff out to thigh-deep water before jumping on my board and paddling out. I don’t even wince at cold water attacking me in all the wrong places.

  I make it out to the breakers, winded. I hope I didn’t use all my pissed-off energy up getting here and then not be able to catch anything. There are five other surfers out here, but they’re all guys. Surfing without Ford or Damien makes me a smidge nervous. Nobody has my back, but maybe that’s been true all along. The one person I thought I could count on … well, forget it.

  Some college-age jerkwad with his roots showing says, “You paddled out to play with the big dogs, so don’t expect any free rides. Unless you want one in the backseat of my Hummer.”

  I flip him off. “Trying to impress me with your gas guzzler? No thanks, Assclown. The only thing I plan on riding? Waves that you want.”

  Another dude in a deep blue wetsuit says, “Nice one. Don’t pay attention to Assclown. He’s all bark and no action …

  anywhere. And since he gave you such a warm welcome, take your pick off the next set.”

  “Thanks.” If Ford were here, Assclown wouldn’t have given me more than a second glance.

  Assclown doesn’t argue about me picking out my wave. He grumbles, “This ain’t no tea party.”

  I ignore him. When the next set comes in, I paddle hard for the first wave, almost too hard. I ease up and catch the sweet spot. My mind goes blank to anything but this. I love it—the sheer joy that wells up inside me as I carve switchbacks up and down the wave. As the time to exit or ride it in approaches, I’m pumped and decide to end with a 360. But I hesitate near the end of the spin, and down I go. Water collides with my face and I reach for my nose to keep water from rushing up it. Ugh—that split second where I don’t have control? I can’t stand it, and it bites me in the ass every time. I have three days and I still haven’t perfected a move that says I’m here to win.

  Of course, oh yay. Here comes Ford, paddling right toward me. Am I supposed to pretend we didn’t have an argument? There’s no way I’m apologizing. The words “cold-hearted B” are freshly etched in my mind. Those three little words pretty much add all the fuel I need to continue my fire. The only other person who’s ever called me a bitch was my dad. Using the first letter doesn’t soften the blow. It gives me something to use when I need ammo to win my next argument with Ford.

  I pooch my lips, give a quick raise of the eyebrows, and pull my mouth up to one side. Whatev. I’m here to surf, not play footsies. Everything I’ve worked for is going down tomorrow and the last thing I need is more crap from Ford or my parents. I still haven’t completed more than one page of one Ivy League essay app yet. Not gonna happen. I categorically refuse to go to college out of state. I just have to figure out the right timing to break it to them, when they’re ready to be rational and listen.

  Ford parks a shiny new longboard a couple of feet from me and doesn’t even say hey.

  Two can play that game. I ignore his new toy, give him the slightest nod, and then turn away to focus on the next set coming in. He follows suit. Thank God there’s actually one rushing at us. It’s a competition now. I pop back around and lie down on my board, ready to paddle with everything I’ve got. When it’s a couple of feet behind me, I dig deep into the water with forward strokes, feeding off my anger, and propel myself forward as hard as possible. It’s a paddle battle, but I’m in a better position to catch the sweet spot. I grin as my board gets pulled up into the top of the wave and watch Ford float over the top.

  I laugh, enjoying the blast of ocean on my heels, as I make my bottom turn and pull a couple of cutbacks. I zip across the face, gain momentum, and then catch a little air off the backside before making my exit. A little spray, a little show to let Ford know I can do fine on my own.

  I paddle past him as he carves on his own ride. He pulls a floater and then does some fancy cross-stepping before managing to hang five like it’s a breeze. Showoff. I pull my board up on the outside of Assclown’s group. Not close enough to have to fight them for waves, but just on the outskirts where I can kind of pretend I’m with them … if I want.

  Ford paddles over and settles in a few feet away from me. He says, “Nice ride.”

  I give him a curt “Thanks.”

  Silence. Tension.

  I decide to make the next move. “So, new board?”

  Ford nods. “I’ve been eyeing this for a while. Jake at the surf shop let me borrow it for the day. I’ll probably buy it. It has a good feel.” He hesitates. “Wanna try it?”

  That’s the ultimate peace offering, but I won’t let myself forget our argument. He didn’t even call to apologize. Besides, I have the comp to train for, which means I should stick to my board. I say, “Nah. Thanks anyway.”

  His face falls. So I add, “I’ll take a rain check for after you buy it. Gotta stick with mine until the comp tomorrow.”

  His forearms flex as he grips the board, and my eyes travel up his torso. My cheeks burn, embarrassed to be wishing I could see his washboard abs.

  He says, “Yeah, right. How’s your afternoon been?”

  My eyes take in his dimple and lock with his eyes; I realize he totally knows I just checked him out. I blush and look away, wondering if Brianna checks him out like that and if she realizes all the other things
to love about him—like how smart or funny he is and how thoughtful he can be.

  He kicks his board over to mine, the distance between us fluctuating with the gentle slopes of the ocean. I breathe in and remind myself that I should be mad, that I am mad. It’s the principle of the matter.

  He touches my thigh. “Grace?”

  I sigh and look at him. “Yeah?”

  “I really wanted to come out and pretend like everything’s okay. It took me two beaches to find you. But I can’t pretend we haven’t fought anymore than I can ignore the fact that you hurt me. What you said about me not watching out for you enough at the Point … like that was all my fault. As if you had no role in that.”

  I grip the sides of my board. “It’s a good thing you’ve got Brianna to console you.” The words spew out of my mouth like a plume of smoke from a volcano about to blow. It’s like I can’t help myself.

  He pulls away from me. “Dang straight. Heck, you even gave her the thumbs-up. So is that why you’re acting like this? Somebody is interested in me and I take her out on a date. And you’re jealous. All your drama. It’s ridiculous. I deserve someone who appreciates me. Someone who wants me. Drama? This isn’t me. I can’t stand it.”

  I narrow my eyes. I’ll give him drama. Like he hasn’t been jealous of Damien all summer? I steel myself not to look into his eyes, knowing they’ll melt my resolve. I’ve got to do what’s best for me right now, and that includes protecting myself from all guys, Ford included.

  “I’ve got news for you, Ford Watson,” I say. “It’s fine with me if you want to take Brittany out. In fact, Damien and I went on our own little date after the Point that day.”

  “Are you kidding me? Damien?” He shakes his head side to side, slowly. He seems to be realizing something I’ve been worried about all this time—that I’m not worth it. Then he says, “I don’t know you anymore. I’m out for reals this time.”

  I think it’s the word anymore that hurts the most. It feels like salt water in my eyes … and up the nose. But I take it. I deserve it. Because in the end, I know it doesn’t matter.

  He paddles away from me until he catches a ride in.

  I sit on my board, watching him from behind. My world just went from color to black-and-white, and I’m too worn to do anything about it.