Riptide Read online

  “They make it look like your parents can’t afford to buy you anything better.”

  “I didn’t want to risk getting bleach on my nice shorts.”

  She takes off her three-inch business heels and rubs at a frown line on her forehead. “Throw those out and go put on acceptable shorts for the dinner table—something tailored.”

  If I weren’t in front of Miss Highbrow Fashion, aka Mom, I would so fake-barf at the mention of wearing something tailored. Bleh and grr.

  “Jeez, Elaine. Frayed clothes are in right now. Grace always looks pretty.”

  Mom’s lips are pursed in disapproval, but they’re also closed and for that I’m thankful.

  Dad changes the subject. “So, how was shopping? Show me all your goodies.”

  I glance over at Dad. We make eye contact. His face is kinder, almost sorry. The tension begins to fade away like it never happened.

  I escape to my room. I hear Mom rattling on about the different purchases she made.

  I close my eyes, exhausted.

  The alarm on my cell goes off. I slam my book shut, shoot off the couch, and make a running grab for my purse as I blast through the front door, relieved to see that I’ve beat my dad. I sit on the front porch steps and wait. After yesterday’s showdown, a pleasant afternoon is what we need, if for nothing else than to clear the air between us. It makes Dad happy to spoil me. He likes to take me shopping and, before Ford got a truck, he would take me to the beach on Saturday mornings. Dad’s the one who taught me how to surf and helped me learn how to know which wave would be a good ride.

  He’s the one who was with me when I bought my surfboard. Dad was driving me to the beach in his Jeep, his longish blond hair blowing all over the place. When I saw it in the window of Goodwill, I knew it was mine. “Dad, stop. Please! There’s a surfboard for sale!”

  Dad U-turned. It was one of those blue-sky days in our relationship. “Grace, are you sure you want a beat-up old board? I’d be happy to buy you a brand-new one with all the bells and whistles.”

  “No way. Old-school boards are cool. They have history.”

  Dad laughed and shrugged his shoulders. I like it when he laughelihen he s; it’s contagious. Sometimes for a brief moment, I’m able to forget …

  Mom had a conniption; she didn’t like me surfing from day one. She never approved of anything that could be construed as dangerous. Somehow, surfing made it into that category. Maybe it’s the sharks.

  It’s kind of ironic considering the state of our family dynamics.

  I struggle with the mixed backwash of feelings about hanging out with Dad, about shopping with him. It’s stressful at home, but outings with him are fun. It feels good and I know he cares. I mean, really … how many dads spend time with their kids? My grandfather didn’t. He split before Dad ever entered the world, so Dad never met him. My grandfather wasn’t around to protect Dad or teach him how to fight for himself when the neighborhood kids went after him, and believe me, we didn’t live in the kind of place you walk around in at night.

  I know shopping trips are his way of saying sorry, I screwed up, and this is my apology. But sometimes I wish he would just say it. But then I think about how hard his life was as a kid and how he’s always been there for us. For my birthdays and Christmas. To take me surfing and shopping. Those are the times with my dad when I know I’m one hundred percent safe; when I know to savor what we have while we have it. And that’s what I try to do.

  Dad pulls up in his red convertible BMW, top down, a smile on his face. He reaches across and pushes open the door.

  I hop in. “Thanks, Dad. You rock.” Part of me means it; part of me knows I need to say it.

  “Summer’s just getting started and there are bound to be some special summer occasions. I can’t have my daughter feeling anything less than a princess, now can I?” He pats my arm, backs out of our driveway, and speeds down the road.

  As we shoot down the highway, a sense of cautious ease overtakes me. Nothing spoils a shopping day with Dad. These are moments he lives for. Moments he can be the good guy, the guy I know he wants to be all the time. I stay quiet, not wanting to mess things up, not wanting to make him frustrated. I can drive myself crazy with what ifs, or I can accept the reality of the moment. And this one should be good. The salty wind on my face tastes like freedom as we drive down the main drag to my favorite surf shop.

  Dad pulls into the almost-empty parking lot. I exit his convertible and follow him toward Surf Stuff. A bell jingles when he opens a door that’s covered in surf stickers. Loud music greets us, and a sick video of big wave surfing plays on a large flat-screen hanging on the back wall.

  There’s a sale rack I head straight for, eager to scope out the goods. Almost all the spring stuff is on sale. I grab three dresses that look pretty cute.

  “Pick whatever you want.” Dad reassures me with a smile.

  “Thanks.” I smile back and duck into a changing room.

  I hang them up where I can compare them. An oe le them.range retro shift, a yellow empire-waist tank dress, and a classic white A-frame. According to Dad, all dresses should be mid-thigh to knee length. Not too short, not too long.

  The shift is way too baggy and unflattering. My chest becomes nonexistent. The A-frame is cute, but I have no bra that would be inconspicuous underneath. By the time I try on the empire waist, I’m feeling low on luck. I pull it over my head, adjust the straps, and voila. I feel confident and pretty.

  I step outside to welcome Dad’s opinion. He nods his approval.

  “That looks good, honey. Do you have a lightweight sweater to wear with it?”

  “Yep. Do you remember the short-sleeved white one from last summer?”

  He smiles wide—it was a sweater he bought for me on a shopping trip. “Sure do. We bought it at Nordstrom’s.”

  I grin and try not to remember the reason we bought it. “It’s a perfect match.”

  “Good choice. Did you like the other dresses?” He glances at his watch.

  I shrug. “They were cuter on the hangers.”

  I twirl around in front of the mirror. Dresses with the perfect twirl make me smile. This one swirls just right.

  Dad tilts his head and smiles at me. “I can’t believe my little girl’s going off to college soon.”

  “Me neither.” In this kind of situation, I play along, knowing he means every word, and I hang on them wishing this was our norm. It’s hard not knowing what sets him off, living life trying to guess what color he wants me to fill in on his paint-by-numbers-with-no-color-key kit.

  “And I think you’ve got a real shot at the Ivy Leagues if you don’t mess up.” Dad leans against the wall. “Was there anything else you want to browse?”

  “Nope. This is perfect.” I shift back and forth on my feet, feeling awkward but better. I know there’s something really screwed up about this, and I feel like it’s my fault somehow.

  The only other dark cloud hanging over me is the fact that I’m not sure how to tell my parents I don’t even want to leave San Diego for college—I want to attend UCSD.

  four

  internship: fancy euphemism

  for copy grommet

  It’s the first day of my internship with Bristol and Wentworth, LLP, and I’m stuck in the world’s worst traffic on Highway 1, sweating the fact that if things don’t clear up, I’m going to be late. Not a stellar way to impress the boss who can make or break my college apps with his letter of recommendation.

  Maybe it’s lame to be excited about an internship—especially one that will cut out three mornings of surfing every week for the next eight weeks—but this is for all the Jorges out there. Last summer, one of my surfer buds, Jorge, disappeared. I didn’t run into him for a few weeks at the beach and couldn’t reach him on his cell. He never showed up at the skate park. This feeling in my gut that something was horribly wrong got confirmed when I ran into his neighbor, who told me Jorge and his mom had been deported. And then, a couple months later, things
turned worse. Someday, I’m going to kick some INS courtroom ass.

  I’ve never talked to Grace about how much this devastated me. It’s too raw. Makes me feel exposed.

  Ai. I see the exit, but traffic’s moving at the pace of a snail taking a dump. It seems like forever before I pull into the parking garage for the Wentworth building.

  By the time I open the fancy door to the office, not only am I late but I also have nasty sweat stains on the nerdy button-down Ma bought for my internship.

  The admin reels back with an unapologetic look of disgust. Then she looks down at a piece of paper and says in a snooty tone, “Ferdinand. You’re eleven minutes late, and you might want to reconsider your antiperspirant. I’m Teresa. Mr. Parker can’t stand tardiness.” Then she makes air quotes. “To be early is to be on time. To be on time is to be late. And to be late is unforgivable. Now head down the hall and hope he’s not there waiting. Conference room G.”

  I hate it when people talk at me like that.

  I stand there, thinking that I pictured this way different. Where’s my funny comeback?

  She waves me off quickly. “What are you doing? Run!”

  I nod. “Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

  Then I walk-run down the hall, dodging suits, and say a quick prayer as I burst into the conference room. There’s a lanky Asian-looking dude and a strikingly beautiful African-American girl sitting at a long table.

  Of course, there’s the backside of Mr. Parker’s head too. “You’re late,” he says as he swivels his chair around. When he sees me, he freezes for an instant.

  “What’s going on, Ford?”

  Maybe not letting him know it was me applying was a bad idea. “Um … I’m Ferdinand?”

  An odd grin overcomes his previous expression of surprise. “Hmmm. Ford is short for Ferdinand? Well, I guess I would have already known how fortunate we are if I’d been at the interviews. I had more pressing things going on this year, like winning the Ricardo case. You’re going to miss all those awesome summer waves?”

  “Well. You know how it is.” I balance my hands up and down in the air. “Catch waves. Plan for my future. Catch waves. Plan for my future.”

  Mr. Parker nods. “I didn’t know you had drive, other than surfing. Maybe you can rub off on Grace. She’s flakingp> ’s fl out on picking a college.” He extends his hand. We shake. “Good to have you on the team. I was impressed by your resumé. You have a lot to offer, son.”

  Wow. My eyes widen. “Thanks, sir.”

  “Meet your fellow partners in Copy Machine—Brianna and Hop.”

  Embarrassed, I wave at them both. Brianna gives me a look that says she’s not impressed and eyes my pit stains. Hop smiles and nods once.

  Mr. Parker says, “Take a seat. And today is the first and last day you’ll be late. I don’t do late. Neither do my interns. There are no free rides here—for anyone.”

  Bossman letting me know what’s up. I can respect that. I don’t ask for free rides or favors. I say, “Yes sir.”

  I slide into the seat between Hop and the beautiful Brianna. She scoots her chair away a couple of inches. Little Miss Subtle.

  He flicks out his wrist and checks his watch. “I’ve got a meeting with a new client soon. Teresa will set you up with a tour of the place.” He gives everyone a huge grin. “There were lots of applicants. The partners and I sifted through several strong resumés to come up with the best interns—the three of you. Don’t disappoint me now.” Then he walks to the door and turns around. “Ford, walk down the hall with me. You can join your cohorts for the tour in a couple of minutes.”

  I speed over to the doorway and catch up with him. “Sir, I’m really sorry about being late. It won’t happen again.”

  He says, “No worries. I’m sure it won’t.”

  We speed-walk past a few more conference rooms and then he enters his office. I follow him, feeling queasy.

  He sits down behind his glass desk but doesn’t motion for me to sit. “Well, I’m sure you’re wondering what this is all about.”

  I nod. “Yes sir.”

  “Well, son, it’s like this. The way I see it, your internship here turned out to be serendipity for both of us. You see, I know how you kids get all excited about senior year and call it senioritis, when it’s really a bunch of kids sticking their middle fingers up at the world. Hell, I did it. But Grace needs to keep her focus. She’s got a great shot at nailing valedictorian this year and she doesn’t need any distractions. Her mother and I want what’s best for her. The Ivy Leagues.” He pauses and stares me down. I gulp. He continues. “I don’t have to tell you how important things—like the right internship, the right connections, or the right school—can change someone’s life.”

  I nod. He’s right. It’s the reason I’m standing in his office wondering what he’s getting at. “Yes sir.”

  He smiles and bangs his fist on the desk. “I knew you’d get it. This is perfect. You’re her best friend and surfing buddy. I need you to run recon for me. Keep those guys away from her. The last thing Grace nicehing Greeds is some sappy summer romance messing with her head. She needs to go into the school year ready to focus on academics.”

  Whoa. Are you kidding me? Dating Grace was my number-one goal for the summer … and it’s now in direct conflict with my number-two goal. It took me two years to work up the nerve to go after Grace, and now, in the span of a week, she’s shot me down with the friend card and her dad, my new boss, is asking me to keep guys away from her. Rip my heart out already.

  He waves his hand at me like no biggie. “Don’t worry, Ford. You can do this, and I never ask for favors if I don’t plan on returning them. You come through for me, I’m sure I can secure you an internship at Gutierrez, Haverty, and Mierl. That would be a great experience to have next summer, right before college. You’ve heard of them, right?”

  Holy crap. Who hasn’t? I suck in my breath. My head’s reeling as I mentally run through the repercussions of saying no to my boss on the first day of work, saying no to the father of the girl I want to date, and possibly betraying my best friend who I want to date more than anything.

  “Yes sir,” I say. “They won a breakthrough case on immigration reform in California.”

  Mr. Parker nods. “Well, Miguel happens to be a good friend of mine. You watch out for my baby girl, and I’ll take care of you. Deal?”

  It’s mainly for the summer, right? I think I could win over her dad by the school year, convince him I wouldn’t be a distraction to Grace. As for the summer, Grace already shot me down anyway. And she’s not into dating anyone right now, so it’s not even like I’d be working against her—it’s more like I’d be helping her maintain her goals, and those just happen to coincide with her dad’s concerns. So, really, I’m not betraying anyone. I can do this, right? I tap my fingers on my leg. I can try again with Grace in the fall. What’s a few extra weeks?

  Besides, it’s not like I have any great backup options. I say, “Deal.”

  “I knew I could count on you,” Mr. Parker says. “Head on out to the copy machine tour.”

  I run down the hall and catch up with Brianna and Hop. They’re still in Conference Room G, waiting for the tour.

  Brianna looks at me, one eyebrow almost arched to her hairline. “What was that about? Found the strongest applicants to make copies?” She waves her arms around wildly, pointing toward me and Hop. “Are you kidding me? We’ve got a rainbow in here. Where’s the token white kid?” She pops up out of her chair and her hands move automatically to her curvy hips. “And I’m not sticking around to make copies for the next eight weeks.”

  Wow, the girl’s got fire. Wondering which question to answer, I shrug. “I’m half-white. Does that work for you?”

  Hop laughs nervously. “Listen, you can take the all-righteous, too-good-for-everybody route or you can dig up the courage to stick it out. There’s no way all we’re going to learn is how to make copies. I don’t know about you, but I sure could use a great letter of r
ec.”

  Brianna’s going to murder Hop and I’m the key witness. He keeps his cool, waiting out her stare of death.

  She says, “I’ve got game.”

  He shrugs. “I guess we’ll see. Are you here to play the game? Or are you just here to be loud and make a big splash and a big exit?”

  Daaaaamn! I laugh out loud. Couldn’t help it. She directs her fierce gaze at me. I laugh again. “Nice try. I got a mama straight from Mexico. You haven’t had the years of practice or the fire to come close to the looks my Ma shoots me.”

  She bristles like a cat rubbed the wrong way.

  I shrug. “Just stating the facts. You got game or what? I’m going to get a tour of the copy machines from Teresa.” I say “Teresa” with the Spanish accent.

  Hop stands up and sticks out his fist. We bump fists over, under, and straight on. Then we walk out the door.

  A few feet down the hall, I turn around. No Brianna. “Dude, you think she’s gonna quit?”

  Hop says, “No way. She’s smarter than that. I called her bluff. She needs a few minutes. Then she’ll be here all summer to terrorize us with her awesome hot self.”

  We keep on walking.

  Hop says, “You play poker?”

  “Not really. I’ve been trying to spend time volunteering with organizations that help immigrants get legal status. I’m interested in immigration law.” Not wanting to sound too serious or uptight, I shrug and add, “Well, that and surfing.”

  He claps his hands together and rubs them maniacally. “Awesome. I have a project of sorts that I need a little help with. You need to meet my crew—some of them could use your help. As for poker, we play for quarters.”

  We reach Teresa’s desk without Brianna. Teresa’s an uptight woman; I can tell that by looking at her. She dresses about ten years older than she is, and not in a good way. That dark black hair of hers is captured in a tight bun and she wears granny glasses. What’s up with women who do that?

  Teresa glances at us and points to nearby seats. No words. Then she looks back. “Where’s Brianna?”