Riptide (2 page)

two

mija:
contraction of “mi” and “hija” (“my” and “daughter”), used as a term of endearment

I set my board down on the sand and nudge Grace’s foot with mine, so freaking proud of her. “So about that tube ride … ”

She knocks her hoodie back and does a seated victory dance, complete with squeal, while bouncing her feet in the sand.

I sit down by her, enjoying how cute she is when she gets excited. “Chill. Don’t let it go to your head or I’m gonna have to buy you a visor three times bigger.”

“Whatever. You know you’re proud of me.” She pokes my chest.

“You know, I charge people for that.” I brush wet hair out of my face.

She laughs at my dumb joke. “Really? I thought it was the other way around.”

“Ha ha. And while we’re on our little bragfest, I got news.” Holding this in, waiting for the perfect moment to share, has been epic hard.

She crinkles her nose. “What kind?”

“News of the one-more-reason-moms-in-San-Diego-County-would-love-for-me-to-date-their-daughter variety.” I’m half joking about that. Her mom always seems so stiff; it feels like she’s icing me out.

Grace rolls her eyes. “Well?”

“I’ve got an internship.”

“Where?”

I bust out with a massive smile. “At the best law firm in town.”

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. “Um. 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
s
ure, 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 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 be 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 might go all gourmet chef. I crack the eggs one-handed over the cast iron skillet. I let the eggshells rest in the palm of my hand and bump my hand from underneath to make the eggshells fly onto a nearby plate. I glance over at Grace to see if she was watching. Her smile widens. Bingo.

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.