Riptide Read online

  She scrunches her brows together. “Haha. Funny. You losing surf time over the summer, on purpose? I haven’t heard Dad say anything about that. Besides, you would’ve asked me to hook you up, right? I mean, I do have the connections.”

  Her response floors me. “Really? You don’t think I could get an internship on my own?”

  “C’mon,” Grace says. “That’s not how I meant it. It’s just that if you really were going for an internship at my dad’s firm, I would think you’d have told me. And I think my dad would’ve said something about giving you a spot on his how-I’m-going-to-make-senior-partner program. That’s all.”

  “Well, one, I did go for it, and two, remember that my first name isn’t technically Ford—it’s Ferdinand. If your dad had interviewed me, he would have found out just who this ‘Ferdinand Watson’ was. It’s not like Watson is a unique last name! C’mon, I wanted to be treated like anybody else. No favors. But apparently he was caught up in some major case, so some junior-partner person met with me. And, by the way, three—your dad is like a freaking hero. His last high-profile pro bono case, where he saved that little old lady from deportation? He kicked some major ass. This internship is huge, and I thought you’d be ecstatic for me. Guess I was confused.”

  Grace lunges toward me and gives me a big hug. “Hey, I’m sorry.”

  I wrap my arms around her, my forearms resting across the top of her hips, fingers curved around her waist. She leans into me and rests against me, like for this minute everything unspoken that weighs down on her is in my hands. I wish I knew what goes on in Grace’s head when she stares off, looking lost.

  She pulls back and her smile is sweet as honey. “Congrats. Really. It’ll be huge for your college apps, and I think you’ll be awesome. They’re lucky to have you. And you’re right, Dad kicks major ass.”

  I pull her back for a quick hug and nuzzle the top of her head with my chin, wishing this hug was something more than it is. “Thanks, Grace.”

  “I really am—happy—for you. Let’s celebrate.”

  I pull back and grin. “With a date?”

  Crap.

  Grace has this panicked look. She grabs her bag and digs around. She plucks her ChapStick, opens it, and smears it nervously across her lips. “ oner lipsUm. Sure, we can totally go on a friend date.”

  Crash and burn. I should have been smoother. Been romantic.

  Retreat, retreat.

  I frown. “Okay. Well, I’m pretty booked this week getting ready for the internship. How about we just do lunch like normal?”

  Grace grins, and the awkwardness of the moment passes. “Let’s grab a bite to eat. I’m starving.”

  “Translation: Why don’t we go to Ford’s house, where he’ll fix me tortillas with chorizo and eggs?”

  “Well?”

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll fix you lunch, but only ’cause my cooking blows yours away.”

  Grace wags her finger at me, all cute. “I know you didn’t go there. I know you didn’t. A few burnt pieces of toast and a gal’s reputation goes down the tubes. Because I’m a nice girl and all, I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”

  Some bunnies are just that—bunnies who like to get all fancy but got nothing to say. They’re blank boards, nothing on them. And, for sure, there are plenty of hotties out there. But Grace? She’s off the charts—every guy with a brain and a pair of nads drools when she walks past in those comfy surf T-shirts that hug her in all the right ways. To me, she’s hot. She’s fun. She surfs, likes to work out. Laughs at my dumb jokes. She’s cool. When I pull up to the beach, Grace sitting next to me in Esmerelda, I know all the guys are wishing she was in their truck instead, letting them help her with her surfboard.

  For the past two years, I haven’t progressed one bit past the best-friend-o-meter. And I’ve been so gone over Grace that I haven’t even considered another girl. Heck, I talk big in the lineup, but what guy doesn’t? The truth is, I’m inexperienced when it comes to girls. Grace is the only one I’ve had eyes for and she hasn’t shown interest, at least not that I can be sure about. This summer it’s time to steer my own ship, and there are two destinations I plan on sailing for: one, dating Grace, and two, impressing colleges with my internship at one of the top law firms in San Diego. So far, number one ain’t looking so hot. ’Cause the whole deer-in-the-headlights sure, we can go on a friend date? Not exactly encouraging.

  The ride to my house is filled with music, no convo, and mental replays of this morning. I wish Grace had been more excited about my internship. Sometimes I feel like she’s hot and cold about things. About me. Sometimes chasing her gets me all bent, like a crap end to a decent ride.

  I pull up the gravel drive to mi casa, listening to the usual crunch of pebbles under my wheels. Esmerelda’s engine cuts with a sigh and I hop out. As I walk around the front of the car, Grace bursts out of the truck, legs flailing cartoon-style as she lands on the grass.

  She mutters, “Stupid door sticks.”

  I crack up.

  She whacks me on the arm. “You know—it’s easier to open the door from the outside.”

  “If someone would wait, instead of getting her panties in a wad, I might be able to get to the door in time to help out.”

  “If someone didn’t feel the need to drive around in an old truck with rusted hinges … ” Her voice fades off in a singsong trail.

  “Sacrilege! Wash that mouth out with soap.”

  She smiles and shakes her head.

  “Careful now, Esmerelda’s sensitive.”

  Grace follows me up the gravel path and then separates when I start crossing the grass. She keeps to the sidewalk like always. For a while, I told her it’s okay to walk on our grass. Grass is grass. You know? But Grace can’t help herself. It’s like she’s destined to color inside the lines. Me? I figure lines are more of a suggestion—like speed limits.

  All the windows are open and the screen door is letting the breeze into the house, which means one thing. Ma, God help us all, is on a cleaning spree. Unfortunately, she’s not really good at it. So, there will be piles of laundry left on the couch or a cleaning rag abandoned on the countertop, mid-swipe. Anytime I’ve seen the inside of Grace’s house, it’s spotless. It’s dumb, but sometimes I’m kind of embarrassed about the little messes here and there.

  We walk through the entry and I hurry past what Grace calls The Great Wall of Watsons. Basically, it’s the worst wall in America. It’s chock-full of crap like little league plaques, karate trophies, and Ma’s four diplomas. Yep, that’s four. Most people are content to get a bachelor’s. Some spring for a master’s and a few driven souls get their doctorates. But Ma? She had to get two master’s degrees. It drives me nuts how Grace lingers when we pass the way-to-go show. She knows it too.

  “Mammi. Grace and I are home for lunch.”

  Ma enters from the hallway.

  Grace says, “Great skirt, Mrs. Watson.”

  Ma pads across, gives me a big hug, and plants a loud kiss on my cheek. Then she wipes at my hair like I’m in kindergarten. “Mammi ! Come on.” I bob away from her like a boxer, footwork included. This is the routine. Never fails. I look over at Grace, slightly embarrassed again.

  Her response? A tiny amused smirk.

  I look back at Ma and roll my eyes, which is quickly returned with a swat to the top of my head, “Ah Mammi … ”

  “Well, don’t roll your eyes at me.”

  “I wasn’t—” Crap. The Look. That one. I back off fast. “Okay okallw “Okay, I was just kidding. Sorry.”

  Grace laughs hysterically.

  “Ah, mijo.” Ma waves at me as if I have no right to embarrassment. She greets Grace. “Mija.” Ma chuckles and gives her a big hug and smooch on the cheek. She pulls back and looks her up and down, wagging her long red nail, which I assume means she thinks Grace needs to fatten up. She usually makes some sort of reference to anyone’s need to eat more.

  “Grace, it’s good to see you. You’re so tan—I might b
e able to get away with claiming you as my own. Mijo, fix this girl some lunch.”

  Which, of course, is the whole reason we’re here.

  Ma asks, “Weren’t you two out surfing?”

  “Yes, and we’re starving,” Grace quickly responds.

  Ma quips, “Which is the precise reason you need to get some real food in this girl. Now that the house is clean, I have research projects to grade.” She wanders off down the hall humming, clueless about the mop still leaning against the kitchen counter. She’s the stereotypical genius who can never find her laptop. And Dad? He almost always has grease stains rubbed into creases on his hands.

  Ma is a marine biology professor at the University of San Diego, a guru in the field. Guru meaning badass, in all respects. She knows her stuff.

  We vámonos to the kitchen. An article boasting the latest buzz on her most recent academic feat hangs on the refrigerator. It’s titled Patricia Watson—Local Genius. I slide the article down and say, “There goes Mom, kicking butt and taking names.”

  “Must run in the family.”

  “Me? Ha.” I open the fridge and hum while sorting through the ridiculously crowded shelves. Fixing vehicles and excelling in academics runs in our family; cleaning out the refrigerator does not. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s a dirty phrase in our house.

  I grab a carton of eggs, queso fresco, chorizo, and then the key to it all, a container full of Ma’s homemade tortillas.

  Grace says, “Maybe this will fatten me up.”

  “Ai.” I focus my energy on chopping the chorizo before I say, “You don’t need to be fattened up, and you don’t need to lose weight.”

  “Says you. My curves barely exist.” Grace sidles over and bumps her hip against me as if to prove her point. The girl has some curves. Enough curves to make my heart beat faster.

  “Don’t underestimate yourself.” She lets loose a small smile. Score.

  I love cooking, and if it weren’t for the fact that I want to actually do something with my life like help people, especially my peeps, I >

  I focus on flipping the tortillas on the second skillet and try to come up with something to say. “So today was a great day, huh?”

  “Yeah. It was.”

  Grace puts the magazine down and pours a cup of coffee, watching me flip the tortillas using my fingertips. Little bubbles of brown pop up on one. I add it to my abuelita’s hand-stitched tortilla warmer, which she gave Ma when my folks married.

  Even though we still aren’t a couple, lunch this afternoon is different—and in a weird way. I think it might be

  different-good, but if that’s true, then why’d she pull the friend card earlier?

  I always have fun with Grace, but there’s something about her lately; I can’t quite put my finger on it. I’ve been making little comments here and there, like a litmus test for our relationship moving to the next level. Problem is, it feels like the results keep changing.

  three

  Fairy tales do not tell children that

  dragons exist. Children already know

  that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell the

  children that dragons can be killed.

  —G. K. Chesterton

  During the ride back to my house, I try to hang on to the fun from surfing this morning. But it’s like it’s not in my DNA. That whole out-of-sight-out-of-mind thing only works when I’m on my surfboard. When the ocean isn’t there to command my attention or Ford isn’t around making me laugh, I get sucked back toward my family like it’s a black hole. I’ve spent my whole life keeping my worlds separate—school, beach friends, home. And now, what with Ford interning for my dad, two of them are colliding like particles in an atom smasher. It’s all I can do not to come unhinged.

  I shake the thoughts out of my head and refocus on the scenery as Ford slows Esmerelda to a stop. Dad’s car is parked in the drive. A sudden tightness in my stomach makes me clutch the edge of the seat.

  Great, just great.

  Ford says, “Smell ya later.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Ford uses his underarm to make a fart noise, indicating my lack of comeback, before Esmerelda burps a loud good-bye.

  I carry my board over to the garage and lay it against the inside wall by the door. Then I plaster a smile on my face, steel my nerves, and walk inside the house via our immaculate laundry room.

  It’s best to get it over with and say hi to Dad. That’s the only way to gauge his ing mood. I head over to the kitchen and then go into the living room.

  He’s combing through the mail, a mug of beer on the coffee table.

  “Hey, Daddy. How’s your morning been?”

  “Could have been better. I came home to take a quick break and regroup. This Thompson case is getting out of control.” He looks up and frowns. “Where have you been all day?”

  “I went surfing with Ford, remember?” I shift my weight from side to side.

  Dad flings an envelope on the coffee table, creating a trash pile that will be cleaned immediately after the mail has been sorted. “Are you sunburned? You know how your mother feels about too much sun. Let me see your arms.” He grabs my arm to inspect it.

  My eyes widen as I check out my skin with him. “No, I’m not sunburned, Daddy. I slathered sunscreen on this morning. The strongest stuff we have.”

  He drops my arm. He seems disappointed. “Have you done your chores?”

  His hands are now full of mail; I relax a little. “No, I’ll finish those this evening. I haven’t had a chance to do them yet.”

  He tosses the papers down. His voice turns ugly. “You had time to surf.”

  “I’ll start my chores now.” I bite my lip.

  He zeroes in on my fear like a shark sensing blood in the water. “What about your college applications?”

  “Well, I’ll do those after my chores.”

  “Well, which is it?” he growls. “Are you going to do your applications or your chores?”

  “Both. Which would you like me to do first? Obviously, I’m not getting what you want me to do.”

  As soon as this flies out of my mouth, I know I’ve given him the opening he wants. Every muscle in my body tenses expectantly. I’m caught inside a twenty-foot swell and don’t know a maneuver worth a damn.

  His face turns red and it twists into something frightening and malicious. “Why, you little—” He raises his hand to hit me and pulls back just before making contact.

  I flinch and cringe. God, I hate showing fear.

  Instead of following through with it, he closes in on me and crushes my upper arm. “I don’t care how you do it. You better get your damn work done by tonight. And I mean all of it.”

  I run down the hall before he decides to follow after me. Once I’m safe in my room, I slide down against the doorframe and cry without sound. As I hug my knees, I notice the red fingerprints on my arm. I touch them lightly, close my eyes, and lower my head between my knees. My existence diminishes like a boat on the horizon. I become nothing.

  When it feels like everything is slipping out of my reach, I do what I always do. While hugging my favorite stuffed animal—a pajama-clad bear from when I was little—I open my journal of quotes and flip to a good one:

  A woman is like a tea bag; you never know how strong she is until she gets into hot water.—Eleanor Roosevelt

  Quotes are buoys in the ocean. I hang on to them for sanity, for life, for hope. Quotes keep me going. Sometimes having someone else’s words encourages me. They give shape to my feelings.

  I should have lied. Told him I’d finished a stupid college app. Next time, I will. You’d think I’d have learned better by now, about lying to make things right. Whatever … what difference does it make?

  I snap to it. There are applications to work on and chores to finish. I take a quick shower—the shower is one of the only places in my house where I feel safe—and let the hot water beat against my skin. Little drops constantly raining down, washing the finger marks o
ff my arm. Washing the humiliation down the drain. Me wishing I could slip down those pipes and come out somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  I wish I could stay in the shower forever, but I can’t, so I shut it off. I’m determined to beat him at his own game. I’ll accomplish everything with time to spare. So I throw some clothes on and get started. I vacuum the house and then sweep and mop the kitchen and bathrooms. I chip away at the tasks before me, taking mini-breaks to fill in tedious, never-ending blanks on college apps to places I don’t want to attend.

  By the time my mom arrives home from shopping, dusting the living room is the one thing unfinished. My dad hasn’t spoken to me since earlier. He’s engrossed in whatever case information he’s reviewing. Whenever he has a particularly tough case, sometimes he works from home so no one from the office interrupts him. It’s good for him but not for me.

  Mom breezes in, shopping bags in hand. “Hey, kiddos. How was your afternoon?”

  Dad answers, “Everything’s great. I’m working on the Thompson case and Grace has been cleaning.”

  I quietly dust a lamp. He’s so full of BS. It’s an unwritten rule that we keep our mouth shut about Dad’s “outbursts,” and if it ever does come up, I get the whole it’s better to have a father than not speech. Or sure, you can call CPS and go live with someone else. Good luck on your foster family. Have you heard the horror stories from those kids? And I know she’s right. I’ve heard enough to know the grass isn’t always greener.

  “What’s going on?” Mom asks, brows furrowed.

  I shrug and say nothing. Maybe I’ll say something next time we jog together. Then again, maybe not. She never cares enough to leave him. She never sees the shit go down either, which is real convenient. And it’s not like the marks stay—or if they do, they aren’t in the shape of hand. It could have been from falling on my surfboard. Right?

  Mom surveys me. Her eyes move straight to the cutoff jean shorts I changed into. “I hope you’re not planning on wearing those things out in public.”

  “No ma’am. I don’t have any plans to go anywhere.” Someday, I’m going to walk out of this house in whatever I want. Until then, frayed or unacceptable clothes get hidden in whatever bag I’m carrying when I walk out the door.