Riptide (7 page)

And so we’re off. About halfway into the game, with most of my money gone, Hien looks up at me and asks, “So how do you and Hop know each other?”

I toss out a quarter. “From our internship at Bristol and Wentworth.”

“Internship?” Hien tugs his sunglasses down a bit and looks at Hop with one eyebrow raised.

Hop cracks his knuckles. Then he chimes back, “Hey, there are hot, styling babes where I work. Better than the catch at the lame-o movie theater.”

Sunglasses shoot back up and Hien slouches into his chair. “Hey. I get you into free movies, so show some respect.” He leans back into the table. “What kind of hot babes? You gonna hook a bro up?”

“You don’t need a girl,” Hop says. “You need status. The legal kind. I was thinking Ford and I might figure out a way to help.”

He looks across the table at me. Jorge flashes through my mind again. I glance at Hien, who’s sitting there tense behind his glasses, constantly rearranging his cards. My summer just took on a whole lot more meaning.

I swallow hard and say, “Sure, man. We got you covered.”

seven

Out of the water, I am nothing.
—Duke Kahanamoku

Beads of water roll off Damien’s dreads. A big set comes at us and he says, “All right, girl. Let’s catch this one together. Just for fun.”

I paddle hard. “I’m breaking left.”

He’s a few feet over and a bit behind me. “You got it, babe.”

After this past weekend at Huntington, I knew I needed to get up the nerve to ask other guys for a ride to the beach. Damien was the one I felt the most comfortable asking. Since he gave me a lift, I guess we’re kind of surf buddies for the day.

I watch as the wave crests and Damien gets sucked up in the sweet spot. I paddle hard and kick to catch it. Oh yeah. I drop in next to him and we surf next to each other for a few seconds before breaking different directions to carve down the line. I don’t pull any fancy moves. Hanging out with Damien is chill, and it’s fun front-porching it, but I know I need to get serious and work on my 360 even on the days I’m not surfing with Ford.

The wave fizzles out and I exit the ride.

Damien and I paddle back over to each other. Sure, he may rub Ford the wrong way, but I think that’s a total guy thing.

I reach Damien and say, “So when are you going to teach me how to pull an air?”

He straddles his board, hands resting on the rails. “Me teach you moves? I thought you were teaching me.”

I splash at him. “Oh come on. You know you pull sick airs.”

He grins. “I might be persuaded to give you a few pointers.”

This feels so flirty and fun. “And how does that work?”

“I pick you up tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is Ford’s day off. I say, “I already made plans.”

“A girl in demand. I can respect that. What’s the rest of your week looking like?”

I ponder, mull it over dramatically. “Friday?”

He flashes pearly whites. “Done, boss.”

Damien drops me off after a sweet surf session. When I walk through the front door, Dad’s sitting in the recliner with his lips curled in a scowl. Crap. I hate it when a case drives him so nuts that he seeks the refuge of our house. His safe zone equals me walking on eggshells. He looks ready for a fight. Fear flashes through me like lightning.

“Hey, Daddy.” I try to sound upbeat. “Everything okay?”

He pops up out of his chair. “Where have you been all day? I’ve been worried sick.” He greets me with a slap across the face.

I reel backward, shocked at the sting warming my cheek. I blink a couple of times, angry at the unexpectedness. His outbursts are always random, never logical. Even on the days when nothing happens, he still has the advantage because I never know what’s going to set him off.

“I was surfing. Remember? I told you I’d be surfing.” I fight the desire to cringe. Tears well up at the corners of my eyes. Furious, I bite down hard and stiffen my lips.

“Yeah, in the morning. Not all damn day. And what beach were you at?”

I put all my nervous energy into flicking my pointer finger over and under my thumb, hiding my fear. “We went to La Jolla. I thought I told you.”

“Well, maybe you ought to write it down next time.” His jaw muscles flex in and out. Clearly he’s itching for a fight.

I clasp my hands into a fist to still my nerves. “Jeez. I’m really sorry, Dad.”

The veins in his neck throb and his face flushes. “Jeez” was the wrong word choice. Shit.

My dad slaps me over and over as I run across the living room, playing dodge and retreat as best I can. When I reach my room, my escape route fails. He shoves me across my room. I land smack into my dresser, the metal handle jamming into my lower back.

“What were you thinking? Did you think you could get away with it? Surfing all day? Are you trying to dodge your chores?” The back of his hand is poised in the air—ready to strike.

“No, Daddy. I swear.” A small sob escapes.

He tosses me onto my bed, knocking the mattress half off. I clench my wrought iron bedframe; fear courses through me. I have nowhere to run. I shrink back and flinch.

Instead of hitting me again, he stalks out of the room, damage complete.

Once he slams the door behind him, I crumple in a heap against my bedframe, cover my face, and sob without sound. Crying silently has been painfully acquired. My way of not letting him know how much he hurts me. My way of maintaining dignity. My way of pretending I’m tough. Nobody likes a whiner anyway. People ask how you’re doing, but they don’t want the real answer. They want the nice one. Your dad hits you? Forget it.

I think about another of Eleanor Roosevelt’s famous quotes:

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.

When I regain my composure I practically tiptoe to the kitchen, knowing Dad is back in his office. Even so, I don’t want to alert him to the fact that I’m out of my room.

I run the hot water in the sink until it’s three quarters of the way full. My lower back aches—the dresser really nailed it. Then I wipe down the counters while the dishes soak, pausing every now and then to rub at my back or stretch the tight muscles out. I’m careful to dry the counters without leaving streaks. Once the dishwasher is loaded, I measure out the detergent, carefully.

Most people use too much detergent or not enough, but Parkers use the right amount of stuff.
— Dad

It’s usually funny, except when it isn’t.

I walk gently back to my room, hugging the wall, hoping not to be noticed. I pull out some college apps to make it look like I’m working on them. Then I leave Post-it notes all over the house, making certain my parents know my locale. I check myself in the mirror to make sure I don’t have marks anywhere. Then I turn around and peek at my lower back. There’s a bruise already forming. But I’m wearing a long T-shirt so it doesn’t matter. I’ll just have to be careful at the beach around Ford. The advantage of a wetsuit—it hides the marks.

I escape on my bike back to Ford’s house. If I had a car like most kids my age, life would be so much easier. But my parents like control. Cars equal freedom. Therefore, Grace “is fortunate to have a bike to ride.”

After spending the weekend with Ford’s family, it feels like the right place to go. Fifteen minutes later, I skid into the Watson driveway. Mama Watson answers the front door when I knock.

“Grace?
Mija
, come here.” She gives me a big hug and it’s all I can do not to break down and tell her everything. She seems so warm and safe. I fight tears welling up at the corner of my eyes, trying desperately to pretend nothing’s wrong, even though it’s probably obvious from my puffy eyes that I’ve had a less-than-stellar day.

I sniffle. “Is Ford home?”

A look of concern crosses her face. She shakes her head. “No. He texted me something about going to Hop’s for poker. He won’t be home until late tonight.”

My shoulders slump. I expected Ford to be here. Waiting for me. Not hanging out with new people from work. I feel sick. I should have texted. Why would I think that if he’s not with me, he must be at home? He has a life … other friends. Unlike me.

Mama Watson says, “I know I’m no Ford. But do you want to talk over hot cocoa?”

“Oh, no. I’m okay. Thanks though.”

She steps toward me, hesitantly. “I’m here if you change your mind.”

I nod and get back on my bike. I pedal away from home base toward town, wondering where to go.

eight

royal flush:
the five highest cards of a
suit where the ace ranks high; the best
hand in certain games of poker

My cell buzzes and I check my messages. Grace texted me:

Breakfast on Dad this morning. Pick me up hungry. Treating you to fave coffee shop first.

I throw everything in my truck and head out. When I roll up Grace’s drive, she’s waiting on her front porch. Her norm. She’s always so stoked about the waves she can’t stand missing out on a minute. That’s one of the things I love about Grace.

I leave Esmerelda running and play it cool walking up her driveway. She’s walking toward me, bag over her shoulder. “Want me to grab your board?”

She nods and walks toward the truck. She never says yes when I offer to grab her board. I jog over and grab it. Don’t want to look too eager. Then I carry it under my arm and whistle as I head over to place it in the bed of my truck.

Grace stands by the passenger door. “So you gonna be a gentleman or what?”

I smile and hurry over to yank the door open, uncomfortable. This would have been cool before I made the Deal-with-the-Dad. She’s throwing out all the signs. Heck, at this point she’s gonna be asking me out. And then I’ll be stuck between a rock and a hard place. She climbs up into Esmerelda and lets me close the door.

I trot to the driver’s side ’cause I’m playing it cool. She looks good today. I shift into drive, figuring out how to joke this off. “So who is this demure sugar mama sitting next to me? Buying breakfast. Wanting doors opened. Were you abducted by aliens last night?”

“No. Poker players.”

I laugh. “Yeah. Well, you’ll be glad to know I was robbed. Of like five dollars in quarters. At one point I had twenty. But since fifteen of those buckeroonies were bonus, they don’t count. These guys would crack you up, Grace. You should have seen them last night. You’d have thought I was hanging out with professional poker players. One dude even wore sunglasses the whole time. And kept a straight face.”

Grace settles back into the seat. “Well, I’m glad you had fun with your new friends.”

She sure as heck doesn’t sound like it. I exit her neighborhood. “I can tell. Where to after coffee, Queen Grace?”

“Bagel Palace?”

Grace could care less where we eat before surfing. In fact, the quicker the better. So she’s being extra sweet suggesting one of my favorite places, Bagel Palace, which can have major lines.

“You got it.” I turn up the radio.

Breakfast at Bagel Palace shakes things back to normal. When we get to the beach, I carry our boards and Grace carries the bags. We reach our spot to set up camp. I lay the boards down. Grace tosses me wax and I get to work. She shimmies into her wetsuit and zips herself. That’s weird. It’s usually my job.

I say, “All right, Femme Fatale—you ready to bust a 360 or what?”

“I hope.”

I toss her the wax. “Hope? What kind of talk is that?”

She shrugs.

“You gotta get out there and show the wave who’s boss.”

She grabs her board and turns around.

I go for it. “So, who you been surfing with this week?”

She says, “Damien’s been giving me rides. He even gave me some nice pointers on airs.”

Inwardly, I wince. The dude’s a total douche and his reputation with the ladies isn’t the kind of thing I want Grace involved with, and it’s certainly not what Mr. Parker would want for her. Damien will just take what he can get and then walk away with her dignity and a smile. Freakin’ A. What to do …

I zip my suit and then attach my leash. “Watch out for him. It’s cool he’s giving you pointers, but remember his reputation.”

Grace huffs. “It’s not—”

I back up and say, “I’d hate for you to get mixed up with that. Remember your focus: surfing and academics. Heartache’s not on the list.” As she opens her mouth to protest, I say, “Let’s kick it.”

Then I run into the water, shins splashing salt. She laughs and follows, too competitive not to race me. The best moment of the day so far. We paddle out to where everyone else is already catching waves. Grace lags behind.

An hour later, I’ve shredded waves. Grace has been shredded.

She paddles over to me looking tired and pissed. “C’-
mon,” I say. “Your last try was better. You sort of pulled a 200, if that’s a move.” Then, to lighten things up: “But I have to say—your wipeouts have style. The way your body angles toward the water as your board nosedives is impressive.”

“What is this? A bad attempt at reverse psychology?”

I shrug. “If the board shorts fit … ”

She squares her body and paddles toward an incoming set. In a rush to catch the wave, she hits it right and pulls a massive bottom turn before assaulting the lip. Her board goes vertical for an instant before she spins 180. And thar she blows. She bunks the rotation and crashes. A minute later she pops up to the surface sputtering.

I paddle over, grinning. Push her board over to her. She clings to it like moss on a rock. “You’re da bomb, baby. Da bomb. You were so close. I totally thought you were going to nail it. Ready to get back in the saddle?”

Her cheeks puff up before she blows the air out. “I’m cashed.”

I look over at the guys. “Did you hear that, Buzzy? She says she’s cashed.”

He spits and then runs his hand through his super-short blond hair, making saltwater spray off of it. He tilts his head and checks me out. “
Bull
shit.”

Damien paddles closer. “
Hell
no she’s not. She’s just getting started. Hey, Grace. Good to see you out today. I didn’t know you were going to make it.”

Freaking interloper. But that was enough for Grace. Her ego can’t take a double whammy. She puffs up like a little rooster, cheeks red. Good. She needs some fire. And what the hell was that about
didn’t know you were going to make it
? What? Does Damien keep tabs on Grace now?

“C’mon. Let’s show ’em what you got.”

Grace paddles over to the lineup. Buzzy, Damien, and I follow. Party waves suck. There’s a few kooks out here who don’t know crap about the way things go down on crowded days. They better stay off my waves. A nice set barrels toward us about a hundred yards out.

I reach over and give Grace’s board a pat, like I would my truck. “The waves are filthy. This is it. I can feel it. You’re gonna go crazy on those waves and show folks how it’s done.”

Grace laughs and nods, kind of high-strung. She seems off today; I don’t get it. We paddle over to the spot where it should peak and wait. When it’s go time, I give Grace’s board a shove and say, “Paddle!”

Aw, crap. She dropped in on the wave at the same time as a newbie. Freakin’ A. He’s moving to cut her off. But Grace carves hardcore. She’s not taking this—and then the jerk shoves her off her board.

Dude’s going down.

I turn around, looking for some peeps. Buzzy. Sweet. I y
ell, “Did you see that shit?”

Buzzy looks toward the jerkoff riding straight down the line. What a waste of a wave. He says, “Hell yeah I did.”

Damien paddles over like he can’t get out of my business.

I head over toward Grace. She’s not up yet. Panic fills me. I grab her board and tug on her leash. There’s drag. She pops up to the surface.

I lean over, worried. “Why’d you stay under so long? That wigged me out.”

She clenches her jaw, climbs on her board. She turns her back and tugs on her wetsuit. There’s a small hole in her wetsuit, down low, at the small of her back.

“He sliced your wetsuit with his fin?” I turn toward Buzz and Damien and yell, “Somebody needs to take care of that chump. He ran over Grace with his fin. I’m gonna paddle in with her. Who’s got dibs on kicking his ass outta here?”

Damien says, “I’ll help him find his car.”

Buzzy says, “Hell yeah.”

“Don’t beat him up,” Grace says. “Okay?”

Damien frowns. Then he smiles and says, “How about a firm suggestion? And then if he doesn’t see reason … ” He holds his hands up. There’s only so much a guy can do. This may be his only moment of redemption.

I give him a thumbs-up. I tell Grace, “Start paddling. You’re probably bleeding in the water, and unless you want to attract any more sharks than you probably already have, I suggest you don’t slow down until you hit the shore.”

When we reach the shoreline, I flag down a lifeguard. She jogs over with her first aid kit.

The lifeguard asks, “Everything okay?”

I say, “Not so much. A moron ran over her with his board.”

The lifeguard steps in closer. “Ouch. Could you pull down your suit for me and let me get a look at it?”

“Not until he’s looking a different direction.” Grace turns to me. A lot of emotions pass across her face, but I don’t get any of them.

Unbelievable. I give her a
what’s up with that
look, then I turn around, annoyed. Like, I’ve seen her tah tahs when a wave hit her suit the wrong way last August, and she doesn’t want me to see the top inch of her butt? Really?

Then she grunts and I hear her unzip her suit by herself.

I peek around. She flinches, and it drives me nuts she’s not letting me help her. That dude really knocked her around. I kind of hope Damien needs to provide a little extra persuasion to get him to leave. Never thought I’d be on the same side as him.

The lifeguard lets out a low whistle. “That’s one hell of a bruise. The cut’s not too bad. At least you don’t need any stitches.”

I half turn and take a look. Damn. How’d she get the bruise? The lifeguard digs around in her first aid kit, then blocks my view with her body. Her arm is moving like she’s wiping the cut. Grace doesn’t make a sound.

Then the lifeguard pulls out a bandage.

I give Grace a thumbs-up. She bestows a tiny half smile.

The lifeguard applies the bandage. Then she says, “Wait a bit to make sure your cut isn’t bleeding before you get back in the water. And take care of yourself. I’d say you’ve got enough injuries for the week.”

Grace nods, cheeks red.

The lifeguard looks at Grace and then at me—hard—like I had something to do with the jerk-off running over her. She says, “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Grace says.

The lifeguard shrugs. “Take care of yourself.”

I put my arm around Grace. “Don’t worry. She’s in good hands.”

We walk over to the boards. Grace bends toward her board. I make a quick block.

She puts her hands on her hips. “I got a little cut on my butt, not my arms.”

“You get five points for rhyming but that’s not enough for me to allow you to carry your board, ma’am.”

She raises a brow. “Cheap points.”

“Cheap rhyme.” I wink. “Take a load off. Those waves aren’t going down anytime soon.”

I take her hand, an electric moment, and pull her over to a beach towel. We plop down.

I say, “How’d you get the bruise on the top of your butt?”

She frowns. “How about respecting a girl’s privacy? You weren’t supposed to look.”

“Temptation won.”

She digs her toes in the sand, classic Grace. “I fall on my surfboard all the time, detective.”

I tug her ponytail. “Well, maybe you need to be more careful, Womanista.”

She shrugs and stares at the ocean. I watch her, waiting. Then she looks at me and smiles like nothing bad happened today. “Let’s grab a snow cone—it’s on my dad.” She looks so cute as she holds her hand out for mine. I let her pull me up and we run over to the snow cone stand.

Thirty minutes later, we’re in the party line. The guys give Grace mad props for coming back out.

Buzzy whistles. Then he says, “You really get sliced?”

I say, “Is the Pope Catholic? Yeah, she did.”

Grace laughs.

“Girl, you’re
boss
.” Damien says. He puffs his chest and surveys the ocean. “Whatever wave you want … it’s yours. You cherry-pick it.”

Some other guys pipe in with “Hell yeah.” Grace eats it up. And I love that everyone is being cool. Although I hate that Damien comes off as her protector. You’d think he owned the Pacific. I have no problem helping Mr. Parker keep guys like him away from Grace. In fact, I’d say it was in everyone’s best interest. I’m starting to see the good side of making a deal with Mr. Parker. Grace needs someone to field guys for her.

After driving around aimlessly for about an hour after dinner, I finally pull into an empty parking lot by Black’s Beach. Between the stress of watching out for Grace and wondering what I can do to help Little Hien, I’m scrambled.