Riptide (8 page)

Esmerelda’s engine cuts out with a rattle and a hum when I shut her down. I jump out of the cab and get set up in the bed of the truck. I wad a beach towel into a ball, and lie back on it. There are hundreds of stars out tonight. Twinkling. Sometimes I come out here and talk to PoPo, Ma’s
Papi
, but tonight I need to talk to someone I haven’t talked to in a long time. Jorge.

It never felt weird talking to PoPo. But talking to somebody your age in Heaven? The ache starts in my throat and spreads all the way down to my chest, where it lies heavy, mixed with the weight of guilt and the sting of reality.

C’mon, now. Man up. Just do it.

I gaze up and find the Milky Way. Then find Sagittarius. The archer. A warrior. The best kind of constellation to find Jorge peeking through. Sometimes, I imagine the sounds of bullets popping off like a truck backfiring in some open-air market in Mexico. And Jorge standing there next to some little kid. Then he grabs the kid and throws him to the ground out of the spray of bullets. And when the shots stop firing the kid is safe and his mom runs to him and Jorge to thank him for her son’s life. But it’s too late, because Jorge’s not there anymore. I don’t know how it went down, but I know Jorge’s heart. And if there was a chance to save someone else, Jorge would have died doing it. That’s the only thing I can hold on to when reality spins out of control.

I stare at the brightest star, a lump in my throat. I croak out, “Hey man. You got time to talk tonight?”

Then I wait. The only noise is cars in the distance zipping down the highway and ocean waves rolling gently in.

“Jorge? I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t even go to your funeral. Didn’t find out about things until too late.” I shut my eyes for a brief second. Pull it together. Tighten my grip on the towel and try again. “I didn’t know things were that bad. I thought you were in the process of trying to make things legal. Didn’t know you could get deported when you were trying to figure out how to do it right. I should have hid your family at my house. Should have figured out how to get you a better lawyer.”

Mi Dios
. A sob escapes me and I shove my fist into my mouth. I don’t deserve to cry. I have my cozy life.

Life.

Jorge? He was just getting started. My breathing heaves up and down with the weight of sobs stuffed inside my ribs until it seems like I’ll burst. And for a few minutes all I can do is breathe and fight the release of stuffed emotions, ones that give me
fuego
to fight for all the Jorges. For their families. The stars blur, and I swipe at my eyes and pull it all back in.

My words come out broken. “I’ll … make it … up. I swear.” I sit up and rub the towel on my face. “I save up half of every paycheck. Once I figure out where your mom is living, I’m going to mail her half of this summer’s pay.” It almost hurts to stare straight at that star. Like I can’t look Jorge in the eyes. “I know it doesn’t fix things. But I know you would have done the same. Taken care of your family.”

I sit up and scoot back until I’m leaning against the cab. Then I hold the towel in my lap and sit in silence.

For several minutes. Calming down. Then I look up one last time. “I’m going to spend my life making this right. I’m going to help people, and Little Hien’s my first chance at redemption.”

nine

Surfing expresses … a pure
yearning for visceral, physical
contact with the natural world.
—Matt Warshaw,
Maverick’s

I grab hold of the back of a park bench and stretch my calves. Mom is busy stretching her quads. Our weekly run has been good for us. Mom started it the summer I met Ford, when it seemed like we couldn’t get along in regards to anything. It was her peace offering, an attempt to help our relationship. And it has helped—some. It’s good for us to spend time together when we’re not bickering. One of the best things about running with my mom is not talking. We hang out, run down the same trails, and maintain our own thoughts and differences without feeling the need to get into a verbal sparring session.

A middle-aged man running past pulls a double take, his eyes lingering on Mom’s chest for a split second. Her blond hair, normally layered around her face, is pulled back in a ponytail and, between her muscles and her tan, she looks pretty hot, even if she is mom to a teenager.

Mom stretches her arms behind her, unconsciously pushing her chest out; an old man walking past slows his turtle pace.

“Have you been checking out the Ivy Leagues? Organizing applications?”

I lie, only because the truth would cause a huge argument. In her world, there are no colleges but Ivy League. “Yep.”

Mom grins. “Good.”

This is my in. “Hey mom, there’s a bonfire at the beach next weekend, complete with guitars and off-key singing. Ford’s offered to take me, watch out for me. Is it all right if I go?”

I can see the wheels turning in her head. She scrunches up her face, which gives way to a slight frown. “He’s a good friend, isn’t he?”

I touch my toes. “Yes.”

She bends down, stretching all the way to her toes, and then looks over at me. “Make sure that’s the way it stays. Just friends. He seems like a good kid, but you don’t need a guy distracting you from academics.”

“Yes, Mom.”

She flips right-side-up and stretches toward the sky. “Good girl. A distraction of the romantic sort of any kind is the last thing you need. Wait until you’re attending an Ivy to find the right guy. So you really want to go to this party?”

An unintentional whine escapes. “I totally want to go, and Ford’s going to make sure everything’s above board.”

Mom stops stretching to consider my argument. “Well, you’ve been working hard at your summer studies,
and
if Ford’s going to watch out for you and you’re just going together as friends…”

“Just friends. I promise.” I beg with my entire body: eyebrows raised, lips parted, hands clasped, down on one knee. Forget pride. Think party.

“I think we can make that happen. I’ll talk it over with your father. I don’t see him saying no. He’s very proud of your class ranking, and it
is
summertime.”

I give her a quick hug. “Thanks, Mom. It’s way cool of you.”

She hugs me back. “Well, I’m not always a party pooper. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Of course, there’s a ton to talk about. Namely, what happened to me three days ago. But she’ll talk with me about things until I have no emotional energy left. She’ll point out all the ways I set him off. She’ll question how much of my side of the story is true. How violent was he, really? She’ll go through all the arguments for needing a father figure. Then she’ll end the conversation, because the obvious decision after all the “logical” arguments is to stay.

I suck in my breath and hold it a second. What’s the point? She’ll throw out her made-up statistics regarding what’s worse: having a dad who loses his temper sometimes or having no dad at all.

So as a matter of fact, I don’t want to discuss it. I’d rather savor my permission to attend the bonfire. “Nah. Let’s hit the trail.”

Six weeks to go until the competition. I attach my leash to my left ankle and wade into the water. Cold water laps against my legs and creeps in through my suit.

“Grrr!”

Ford laughs and splashes behind me, his board jostling against his body as he catches up to me. I continue wading out, ensuring he has to match my pace. Today I’m supposed to pretend I’m competing. I splash onward, determined to act like a badass even if that’s the furthest thing from the truth. Because if I don’t “fake it until I make it,” then all my dreams and hard work might as well be litter floating out on a riptide.

The water hits my thighs and I hop on the board and paddle out, again taking the lead. I don’t know if Ford’s buying what I’m selling, but that doesn’t matter anyway. What does matter is that I deliver. It means everything. Even though the real competition is weeks away, it doesn’t stop the nervous jitters running through me.

A wave pitches forward and, as it’s about to crash, I duck dive—and it freakin’ works! First time I’ve ever had the strength to push my board down under a wave. I’m stoked I’m already seeing improvements after a week.

The wave passes; I paddle over toward the lineup to wait with the usual crew. I wave at Buzzy and Damien.

Ford joins the lineup about five feet over to my right. “Nice moves getting out here, Parker. You look like a pro.”

A wave passes through and we drop down on our boards, turn around, and paddle. It’s too late to catch the wave and if we aren’t careful, we’ll be sucked into it and pulled toward the shore.

Some surfer who dropped in on the wave near me yells, “Out of my way, femme.”

Adrenaline pumping, I paddle left fast. If you get run over because you’re in someone’s wave, not only does it hurt but everyone thinks you’re a shubie—a poser, a fake.

Once out of the way, I turn around to see three surfers on the same wave.

Ford sits tall on his board. “I hate party waves.”

“Me too.”

He pops back down. “Incoming. Paddle, Grace! Let’s catch this one together!”

I drop down on my board and look behind me to gauge the wave. It hasn’t broken yet. I paddle like there’s no tomorrow. The wave begins to suck me and my board up to the top. I lean my weight forward and paddle harder. The board drops down to the trough of the wave and pulls out in front. I pop up and look to my left, stoked about my start.

Ford’s standing up too, with matted, wet hair stuck to the side of his face.

I focus and pull a hard bottom turn to the right and veer up the midline face of the wave. The momentum of the wave pulls me forward, bleeding speed. At the top of the wave I pull my very first floater, riding across it. Just as quickly,
I pop back down to the bottom, picking up more speed as I land back in the flat zone. Keeping my head facing the line, I repeat the maneuver and begin a short series of floaters, pumping my board up and down from the top of the wave to the midsection, creating my own Grace Parker ocean roller coaster. I love the feeling of the wave below me, propelling me forward. That need to pay close attention to it and constantly adjust for an optimal ride.

I carve hard one last time and then bail as the wave fizzles.

Cheers erupt from a few fellow surfers followed by a barrage of remarks.

Damien paddles over and gives me a hug. “Great job, babe. You really nailed it.”

Ford says, “Lay off it, horndog.”

Damien says, “Yeah, brah. Who do you think taught her that?”

Ford parks his board next to mine, still frowning about Damien. “That must have been some ride. What’d you pull?
”

Annoyed by his over-protectiveness, I keep it minimal. “A floater.”

Damien keeps his board next to mine. Knowing it’s totally going to piss Ford off, I ask Damien, “Can we work on airs again?”

ten

Coco Nogales is a surfer from Mexico City,
who sold gum as a homeless kid until he heard of Puerto Escondido. He moved there after saving up money for seven months to buy
a bus ticket. Now he’s a world-class surfer.
—according to
The Wave
by Susan Casey

I’m stoked. Today I’m surprising Grace—taking her to a skate park. She’s gonna flip. Most surfers skateboard, but Grace has never tried it. I think it’s fear. But I’m going to teach her how to surf on concrete and reinforce some skills she needs for a 360. It’s a great way to have fun and to get her away from chumps like Damien for an afternoon. I need to make up for screwing up the other day at the beach. It was obvious I kind of pissed Grace off when I popped off at Damien.

As I drive through a part of town Grace has probably never seen, a big pang hits me in the gut. This is—was—Jorge’s hood. He’s the reason I even feel comfortable coming here. I pull into Rick D’s Skate Park.

Grace squeaks, “Skateboarding?”

“Longboarding, Parker, longboarding,” I say. “It’s a great way to work on your footwork, like cross-stepping. And then we’ll work on some footwork to help you with the elusive 360.”

“Falling onto water has a lot less consequences than onto concrete.” She twists her hands around, eyeing the Dervish, a freaking awesome longboard skateboard.

Bam. I cock my head at her and enjoy giving her the Look. The mom look. Might be the only time I get to use it. “Are you turning chicken?”

She flaps her arms and says, “Bawk.”

I laugh. “At least you’ll admit it. Helmets, pads, and Kevlar gloves will help protect you from getting all scraped up.”

She folds her arms across her chest. “What about broken bones?” Then she glances around. “Or bullets?”

The bullets comment irritates me. “This place is all good during the day. Just don’t hang around here at night.” Still, a little uneasy, I glance around just in case. Yeah, that happens every now and then in this neighborhood. But not at the skate park. And not in the daytime. I brush those concerns off with a wave of the hand. “We’re not riding a half-pipe or ramps, just a course with a gentle slope. It’s as beginner as it gets. Besides, you forget how good your balance is.”

She frowns. “I don’t have the gear.”

She’s grasping at straws now. “I bought a board here last summer. The guy who works here said he’d hook us up with gear for you to borrow.”

Ten minutes later, I’m watching Grace adjust the strap to her helmet, which is lopsided. I reach over. “Dude. Let me help.” She lifts her chin and looks at me, grateful. I’m enjoying the moment. Tightening the strap, touching her just below her delicate jawline. Cheesy, yes. But true. All the way.

I pass her the gloves.

She says, “I’m about to pee my pants.”

I laugh. “No worries. I’ll say you’re with someone else.”

She pushes me. My skin warms where her hand should still be.

She says, “When’d you learn how to do this?”

I laugh. “Every little boy skateboards. At least the cool ones do. But Jorge got me into the tricks and stuff.”

She gives me a sad look. That’s the one look I don’t want. I ignore it. I’ll have my day. Someday. In court. When I’m on the side of folks like Jorge. He could have been the next Coco Nogales. But Jorge’s six feet under and Grace’s pity looks don’t change shit. Her naive and flippant sympathy irritate me. Somebody like her dad should have handled Jorge’s case. But his firm only takes so many pro bono cases. The whole deal sucks. Period.

I harden myself. Shrug her off. “I usually practice in the afternoons, after you go home.”

“What’s up with being so secretive?” she asks.

“I don’t have to tell you everything. I’ve skateboarded forever. It’s time to branch out—hence, longboarding. I have my secrets.” I hop on my Dervish and carve big arcs on the sidewalk. I walk up and down the Dervish, cross-stepping like it’s a surfboard.

Grace fiddles with the frayed edge of a pair of shorts. “Show off.”

I keep it up. “Jealous.”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

I stop by running my board into the grass and flip off it into the air.

Grace screeches, “What the heck? You could break your neck.”

I cup my hands over my mouth and bass before playfully mocking Grace. “What the heck? I could break my neck,” followed by rap-sounding noises.

She pushes into me with her side. “Quit it. I’m serious.”

I bass some more, beatbox, and rap, “Qu-qu-qu-quit it. Qu-qu-qu-quit it. The little lady’s scared I’ll bit it.” I quit and tug at my chinstrap.

“I don’t suggest you pursue a career as a rapper, and you might want to work on the whole staying-in-the-same-verb-tense thing.”

“Aw, c’mon, girl. You know I’m irresistible.”

“Whatev. No more flipping in the air off moving objects. It freaks me out.”

I shrug. “Let’s start you off as basic as it gets—carving. It’s all in the hips. Pretend you’re carving on the water and that’s pretty much it.”

She makes a point of eyeing the board and then the concrete.

“Check it. I’ll walk next to you while you get started. You can even hold on to me for balance. We’ll take it super slow and let you feel the rhythm.” I stand in front of her, the board at our feet between us, holding my hands out.

She grabs hold of my hands. Her board rolls back and forth a little. She tightens her grip.

I smile. “See, no
problemas
. Now I’ll walk forward and when you feel comfortable, sway your hips back and forth, keeping your feet in the same position they would be on your surfboard. It’s easy. Promise.”

I walk sideways, facing Grace. She’s tense, I hold on to her and smile. A few feet later, she relaxes a bit.

“That’s it. Loosen up. Try turning your hips. I’ll stay with you.”

She nods. She’s in the zone. She turns her hips and a smile creeps across her face.

She whispers, “It’s like surfing concrete.”

I’m not even sure she knows she said anything out loud. Her face is lit up like a kid at Christmas. She lets go of my hands and weaves back and forth, gliding on the sidewalk.

This is one of the few times outside of surfing I’ve seen her this relaxed. This happy. My day is made.

She carves big arcs. Getting confident. Maybe too much. She tightens her curves and her speed picks up. I jog toward her. She’s headed straight for a patch of grass. Shit. She didn’t give me a chance to teach her how to—she nails the grass and hops off the board. Whew.

I say, “Whaddya think?”

She lies down on a patch of green. “I think this is amazing.”

I join her. “You ready to learn how to cross-step?”

She turns to face me. “You know it.”

I roll to my side and face her. “Think we can include this in our training regimen?”

She lights up from the inside out. “Heck yeah. This is total clutch.”

I raise my hand for a high five. She meets me midair. We connect for the slightest moment. I curl my fingers around hers for a moment before letting go. Holding hands with Grace is like playing with fire, and I’m not much on getting burned.