Riptide

by Lindsey Scheibe

  Mama Watson turns into their neighborhood. I realize I haven’t even said thank you. But no words come to the surface. My throat’s as dry as a bag of cotton balls. She stops at a stop sign. I wonder how I’m going to explain things and think how much I owe them, how the warmth of Ford’s hand holding mine means the world. She parks in front of their garage. The familiar grate of their gravel drive calms me.

  We get out of the truck. Ford grabs my suitcase, and I carry my backpack and teddy bear. Mrs. Watson unlocks the front door and as I shove my hand in my pocket, I remember it’s now void of a house key. Realization hits me: I have nowhere to call home. Loneliness sweeps through me, adding to the ache in my chest and throat. And shame. I’m so ashamed. My everything is good facade has been blown to a million little pieces. Now I don’t even have pretend dignity.

  Mr. Watson stands guard in the living room. He surveys us. “Did things go okay?”

  Mrs. Watson gives him a hug. “We’ll talk more about this later.”

  He nods. Then he hesitates and walks over. “Grace, I want you to know that you’re welcome in our home.” He tries to ignore the handprint on my cheek, but his eyes keep focusing on that side of my face. He wipes at the corner of his eye and escapes down the hall.

  Mrs. Watson leads us into the guest bedroom and flips on a lamp. “Grace, why don’t you sit in this chair? It’s cushy and comfy. Ford and I will sit on the bed for a quick minute. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

  I sit and note the worn look in her eyes and the lack of life in Ford’s.

  “For tonight, we’ll put you up here, in the guest room. Usually we attend mass on Sunday mornings, but we’ll go tomorrow evening instead; I think we could all benefit from sleeping in as late as possible. Tomorrow afternoon, we’ll regroup and sort things out—figure out how to make you feel more at home. Don’t feel bad, mija. This isn’t your fault. We’ll stick by you.”

  Unsure of how to respond to everything thrown at me, I nod and hold back tears.

  Mrs. Watson stands up. “I’m sure the best thing right now for you is sleep. And a hug. Everyone needs hugs.”

  She leans down and gives me a big hug that’s warm and enveloping. Even when I let go, Mama Watson holds it for a second longer. Something in me melts a little. She turns to Ford. “I know you need to talk. You two have ten minutes, and then, Ford, you skedaddle to your own room. Okay?”

  Ford says, “Okay.”

  She leaves us to bumble through our confusion. I stay seated, unable to sort out my feelings.

  Ford sits facing me, his knees touching mine. He takes my hands in his.

  “I’m really sorry I dily sorrydn’t figure things out and help you sooner. I look back at little clues I never caught, and I feel stupid. I know you think you’re tough and you can take it, but I’m not that tough. Your bruises—little or big—they exist. That kills me.”

  His voice breaks, and so does another little piece of my heart. I bite my upper lip.

  “You deserve so much more. Hell, everyone deserves better than this.” Ford tucks my hair behind my ear and whispers, “You’re safe here.”

  Safe.

  I break down sobbing. Everything I’ve held in gushes out uncontrollably, and with it the noises I always suppress. And even though I’m bawling—shoulders shaking, snot flowing, full-fledged bawling—I’m crying out so many unspoken hurts. It’s cleansing.

  He pulls me to him and I hang on to him like he’s a life preserver. Our faces touch and I realize Ford’s crying too. I wonder why I didn’t tell him sooner, why it took me so long to stand up for myself. And if things will ever be okay, really okay? When Ford stood up to my dad, I was in shock, but it’s like he turned on a pilot light inside me, one that says I’m worth it—that I have value—that we all have value. And that is what I’m going to cling to.

  Emily Dickinson once compared hope to a “thing with feathers,” but I disagree. Hope is a wide-open ocean full of endless possibilities.

  epilogue

  The Master is his own path.

  —Tuan-mu Tz’u

  While waiting for my cue to walk up to the podium and speak at our graduation ceremony, I turn and scan the audience that fills the stands behind me. There’s Mama Watson and Eli, huge grins on their faces, on the left side of the stadium. Mama Watson is leaning forward slightly, like a school girl eagerly anticipating her own name being called. Eli’s holding his fancy Nikon camera. Turns out he’s an incredible photographer.

  It’s funny remembering my adjustment to living with the Watsons. It was a bit clumsy, and I floundered trying to understand the dynamics of the household. It took several months for Eli to totally win my trust and for Ford and me to build a healthy relationship—one that doesn’t consist of me depending on him to always come to my rescue or be there for me. The ability to stand up for one’s self is just as important as the ability to stand up for others.

  I turn back around and pretend like I’m listening to the five zillionth speaker, resting my hands carefully on the diploma in my lap. It’s hard to believe how many things brought me to this moment in time. I know that moving out of my parents’ house was the right decision, and I don’t regret it. I do wish things were different with my parents, especially my mom. Her embarrassment over the situation causes her anxiety and hurt, but she has choices too.

  Ford’s parents both agreed I needed to talk to someone—a professional. It frustrated me incredibly at first, but having someone who’s used to sorting things out has been instrumental in helping me muddle through my baggage.

  The thing I find most ironic at the moment is my class rank. For the past four years, as I studied and fought to be first in my class, I considered it my ticket out of here, but my ticket out was simply my ability to walk through the front door. I’ll be staying at the Watsons next year, too, and attending the University of California at San Diego.

  The funniest thing that’s happened has been getting accustomed to going to mass with the Watsons. For the first month, I constantly sat down, stood up, or knelt after everyone else did, and I mean everyone. But now I’ve come to enjoy the traditions and the meanings attached. I’m not sure how I feel about religion, but I do feel like I understand faith on a more personal level. It’s kind of like the 360—in that crucial moment, it’s all about letting go instead of holding on.

  Faith seems like it’s about relationship. The closer I get to Ford and Mama Watson—see how Mama stirs the sugar into her coffee and then licks her spoon before putting it in the sink, or how Ford reads his dad’s mind and passes him the wrench before he asks for it—the more I understand them, and love them. So I think God may be the same way. When I sit on the Watson’s back porch and eat my migas with my legs tucked up under me, I watch the clouds move and wonder who made them. Who made the ocean, and those waves I love? And sometimes God and I talk. It’s mostly one-sided—I talk and he listens. But sometimes, I think I might hear him back. It isn’t a roar, like my dad. It’s a whisper. I believe with all my heart that if I seek truth, I will find it, and that’s what I plan on doing. It’s what I did when I gave my mother my key. I had to know the truth about what life is supposed to be. I’m finding it with the Watsons.

  I snap to when I hear Principal Ledbetter’s voice reverberate through the stadium. “Let’s all give a warm welcome to this year’s valedictorian—Grace Parker.”

  I rise and make my way to the podium. Before speaking, I take a deep breath and scan the audience. I see the Watson family cheering. I scan the center of the crowd and stop at the far right corner; my heart aches. My parents are there, clapping for me. I tear up, swallow hard, and take a deep breath.

  Ford pops up in his row and hollers. A teacher promptly heads over there and yanks him back down to his seat, which is of course the comic relief I need.

  “Good afternoon,” I say. I pull back a little, listening to my voice reverberating across the football field. Just breathe. I scoot in toward the microphone and look at my fellow classmates. �
�Valedictorians are supposed to give memorable speeches about going out into the world and becoming something. Today my speech is not about what you become, but who you are along the way.”

  I pause and breathe in deeply. “This past year, I’ve been riding waves in an ocean riddled with riptides, undertows, and awesome rides. I’ve learned that I’m stronger than I thought, that sometimes power comes in the ability to say no, and that life is as full as we make it.” I throw my hands open wide toward the audience. “We’ve got our whve got oole lives in front of us; let’s remember it’s as much about the journey as it is the destination.

  “Confucius said, ‘Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.’ We all have choices …

  sometimes we have to make hard ones; sometimes we’re forced to make split-second decisions and then paddle for dear life. When I’m on my board and feel the swell and look over my shoulder at an epic wave, I hope I choose to ride it.” I lean toward the podium and make eye contact with several students as I grip the sides of the podium. “That’s what I hope for you—epic rides.

  “I’d like to leave you with the words of a man whose actions revolutionized a country through a spirit of peace. Mahatma Gandhi said, ‘My life is my message.’ What’s your message, and are you living it?”

  Applause splatters across the auditorium and hats fly in the air. I hurry from the podium, anxious to join the celebration.

  Besides, Ford and I have waves to catch.

  Acknowledgments

  So many people have read different versions of this manuscript that there is not enough space to include everyone. First, let me say thank you to Austin SCBWI for all you have done to build me up as a writer, for your encouragement, and for the wonderful fellowship you provide writers.

  My sincerest thank you goes to all writer-folks who read the early versions. A special thank you to Sam Bond and Raynbow Gignilliat, who should receive medals for all the drafts of this book they read. You two are special to me in magical ways.

  Thank you to Lyn Seippel, Alison Rice, Eileen Clark, Holly Green, Shelli Cornelison, Amy Rose Capetta, and Sara Kocek for critiques and encouragement.

  Thank you to Nikki Loftin for all of the above, and for walking this publishing road with me. Your friendship and generosity bless me.

  Thank you to April Lurie and Jennifer Ziegler for your invaluable insights in helping me push this book to the next level.

  Thank you to Cynthia Leitich Smith for wisdom and encouragement. You have been a blessing.

  Thank you to Meredith Davis, a kindred spirit, for your fabulous encouragement and critiques. You are a woman of graciousness.

  Thank you to my first teen readers, Erin Hostetler and Brittany David, for believing in this story.

  A big thanks to my extremely talented teen photographer, Merissa De Falcis of De Falcis Photography, for taking my headshots.

  Thank you to my fabulous agent, Mandy Hubbard, who believed in this book and in my writing. You are a lovely, funny, and tenacious person. I appreciate your guidance.

  Thank you to Brian Farrey-Latz, my quick-witted and thoughtful editor, who believed in this book and helped me make it stronger. Thank you to the entire Flux team and to Lisa Novak for a gorgeous cover; to Mallory Hayes, publicist extraordinaire; and to Sandy Sullivan, my wonderfully detail-oriented production editor.

  Thank you to my parents for instilling in me a love of literature, for encouraging my endeavors, and for buying me an incomprehensible number of books.

  Thank you to my amazing husband, who has loved me well, supported my writing journey since its inception, and always cheers me on. I’m so appreciative of all you do for our family.

  Merissa De Falcis Photography

  About the Author

  Lindsey Scheibe loves writing, surfing, rock climbing, traveling, and outdoor adventures. She’s been surfing since eighth grade, from Texas to Maui to Mexico, and has won competitions in rock climbing. She met her husband in a climbing gym, and now lives in Texas with her family. Riptide is her debut novel. Visit her online at LindseyScheibe.com.