Riptide (6 page)

“Parker, don’t get in over your head. Besides, you owe me an apology for ogling.”

“Was not.”

“Were too.”

“Whatev.”

He tosses the pillow back. “Sweet dreams.”

I place it on my bed and slide under the covers. “Yeah, you too.”

He turns on a nightlight and flips out the main light, then he runs full speed at his bed, bouncing onto it at the last possible second.

I nibble at my lip and wonder how in the world I’ll fall asleep. “G’night.”

“G’night.”

I adjust the covers, making sure my arms are out. This entire day passed without any major stress—I didn’t feel like I was floating in a barrel headed toward Niagara Falls. Riding to the beach with his parents was actually fun. Even though Mr. Watson’s speed-racing stressed out Mama Watson, who would screech “Eli” in a high-pitched voice whenever she wasn’t muttering Hail Mary’s, there was never tension or doubt that they loved each other—which totally makes me think how my parents are the complete opposite. At least, it seems that way.

This is the last thing I want to think about, here in this stress-free zone, but I can’t help it. My stomach starts hurting a little and I can feel the acid churning in there. What is wrong with me? I need to calm down, relax. Breathe deep and all that crap. But no amount of breathing can stop the wheels from turning inside my mind.

Fragmented images fly through my head—some fun, some scary. Surfing at the beach, Dad’s face when he’s angry, shopping, jogging in the park with Mom, Mom lecturing me on making a good impression, wearing clothes I don’t like, working out with Ford. Then come the big fears. The possibility of having surfing taken away if I screw up in school and lose my class rank. Not knowing when Dad’s going to explode. Whether or not I will be able to bring it to the Crazy John’s Surf Comp. It’s like being on an out-of-control tilt-a-whirl at a carnival. Even on a dream weekend, I can’t escape the stress of home.

I wonder what Ford’s thinking about.

I whisper, “You awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna talk?”

His bed creaks as he rolls over. “If you do.”

I hesitate and then whisper-yell, “Incoming!” I stifle a laugh as best I can, already feeling my back muscles loosening up as I grab a beanbag chair and tiptoe-run to his bed. If his mom comes in we’re toast, but I don’t care. I want to be near him. I want to be safe.

He scoots over and pulls back the covers. “Don’t worry. I sleep naked.”

“Ew.”

“Kidding, Parker.”

I throw the beanbag next to me at the end of his bed and sit cross-legged, nervous about being so close to him and aching to be held.

He gets up, grabs the beanbag from beside me, and sets it onto the floor against the side of the bed. Then he swoops me down onto the beanbag with him. His arm around my waist, with just my pajamas between us, makes me shiver. In one quick swoop, he grabs the blanket off his bed and tucks it around me. I pull my arms out on top, needing that freedom—that control.

I croak, “Thanks.”

He clears his throat. “Yeah, sure. But don’t go thinking I’m easy. You know how it is these days. Word gets around that a guy’s easy and he becomes nothing more than a target to nail. You girls can be so shallow. A girl gets some and she’s a hero, a guy gets some and he’s a slut.”

I lean against him, playfully. “Ha ha.”

The inch between our bodies radiates with heat. If I move the slightest bit, his naked chest will be against my arm. He half turns on his side to face me, and the gap between us widens ever so slightly. Mirroring him, I roll onto my side, folded on the beanbag, unsure of what to do—hovering so close to the edge I could tumble off. Ford’s more than just a guy. He’s oxygen when I can’t breathe. Being this close relaxes me; I breathe a little deeper, taking in his soapy scent, holding on to anything good. I reach out and lay my arm in the middle of the space between us. He tilts his head and we lock eyes. I nibble my upper lip. He brushes his thumb across my mouth and says, “Don’t bite your lips, they’ll get chapped.”

A shiver runs through me and I wonder if this is real or not. I bite my lip again, and smile at the involuntary action. He smiles back and plants his hands in his lap, like he’s willing them to behave.

Ford says, “What’s going on? What’s important enough to risk
The Wrath of Mama Watson
?”

I stare at the shape of his fingernails; they’re wide and strong like his hands. He could engulf my hands with his big brown paws. “I don’t know. Stuff. Senior year. Class rank. The Parentals freak out about dumb stuff.”

“Dude, it’s summer. Don’t stress early. And welcome to the club. Lots of parents freak out over dumb stuff, especially senior year.”

“Yeah, right. I can so see your perfect parents blowing up.”

“Nobody’s parents are perfect. Everyone has issues.”

I snort. “Some more than others. What kinds of issues go on in your family? Your mom gets diagnosed with the messy absentminded-professor syndrome?”

“Uncool,” Ford says. “You’re not the only person in the world entitled to problems.”

I touch his hand. “Sorry. What are your parents freaking out over?”

“It’s not so much that my parents are freaking out. I put enough pressure on myself.” There’s a long pause as he glances down and fidgets with his hands. “This internship at your dad’s firm is important. It’s part of my resumé.” He scoots an inch away and pulls back while he looks me in the eyes. “I gotta be careful, make sure I don’t screw it all up.”

He’s so driven. He knows what he wants and goes for it. “What do you want to do? Really?” I ask.

Ford shrugs. “The only thing I want right now is to surf and hang out with you. Unless you wanna talk about your crap, let’s chill.”

Why won’t he talk about himself? But I just say, “Can I stay over here a little longer?”

He burrows into the beanbag and pulls me to him. “Yeah, it’s not like we’re doing anything … you know what I mean.”

I do. He’s totally making sure I know he’s not hitting on me. He’s such a sweetheart. I fold into him, feeling his warmth against me. My chest is brushing his, my hips are leaning into him; I tentatively lay my arm across his middle, snuggling into him, relaxing as he cradles me, and letting go of anything but the thought of him. I drift off, thinking
finally, peace
.

six

moon cakes:
a pastry associated with the
moon festival celebrated by the Chinese, Taiwanese, and Vietnamese in mid-autumn, usually filled with meats or sweets

I walk into the office building ten minutes early. Week two. Day four. My mission: wear Teresa down and get some dirt on the real work, something more than copying papers. Doing that for the next seven weeks with Hop and Brianna? Somebody ain’t coming out of that alive, and I put my money on Brianna being one of the two survivors.

I jog up the stairs, open a glass door, and enter Teresa’s lair … whistling.

She looks up from her desk, glasses perched on her nose like an old lady. She’s not
that
old, but she’s not as young as Jada. I’m guessing mid-thirties to forties.

I say, “
Buenos dias
.”

She half frowns. “Good morning.”

I walk toward her, hands in my pockets. “I thought you spoke Spanish?”

She says, “Not unless I’m translating.”

I press on. “¿
Porque
?”

She pushes her glasses up and looks around. “And who would I be speaking Spanish with? I answer phones and make appointments.”

I lean against her desk, smiling like she gave me the biggest compliment in the world. “Oh Terrrrresa.” Totally rolled that R, extra. She seems embarrassed to embrace her Latina side in this law office, which is really odd. Being bilingual is awesome. I’ll win her over. Before long, she’ll be making me
tortas con carne
and saying, “
¿Que paso?
”

After a quick knock on her desk, I wink. “C’mon. You run this place. What’s the scoop? How does an intern get to do more than make copies? Besides—you can speak a little
espa
ñ
ol
with me.” I look around conspiratorially. Then I whisper, “I won’t tell. Cross
mi corazon
.”

She fights a smile and waves me away. “It’s a good thing you’re early today.”

I back away from her desk and bow. “Only
para
ti
.”

She waves me away, but her cheeks are red.

I sit down and say, “Nice glasses. Kind of hipsterish.”

She types furiously on her keyboard. “
Gracias
. And you might talk to Jada. There’s an immigration case they’ve taken on and all the paralegals and admins are going nuts trying to keep up with the caseload, which means you might get to do something besides make copies.”

Aw, yeah. I smile wide. “¿
Que
?”

She says, “You heard me.”

“Yeah. I heard you.”

Teresa adjusts her headset and gets back to typing.

Brianna walks in looking like a Banana Republic model. And while it’s not free-spirited hippie-girl clothes, she’s looking good. But I like Grace’s look better. And even though I’m surrounded by hot girls all summer, they don’t hold a candle to Grace. An office romance would have nothing on our middle-of-the-night beanbag tryst. But there’s nothing wrong with a little innocent flirting—I’ve never been one to ignore a pretty girl.

She gives me a slight nod and takes a seat a couple chairs down from me.

I laugh and smell my pits. “I swear I doubled up today. Really.” Then I pat the chair next to me.

Brianna rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Where’s your pride?”

I shrug. “Lost. With my ego?”

She picks at imaginary lint. “I doubt that.”

A slight bit of guilt crosses over me as I think of Grace. But what am I supposed to do? She’s off-limits. I gulp down the ache in my throat. I need to get focused on my own priorities, and that includes making a difference, not copies.

The door opens and in walks Hop.

Teresa says, “Barely on time.”

Hop looks at the clock. “One minute to spare. Crazies on the bus this morning.”

Now that Hop’s here, I’m ready to break the news about our potential lucky break.

Teresa says, “You may go to Jada’s office and get your assignment for the morning.”

Brianna mutters, “Great. More copies.”

“Why such a limited vision?” Hop asks. “We might graduate to filing paperwork.”

Teresa grunts. “Fat chance.”

I walk down the hall, whispering to Hop and Brianna about the immigration case and how we have an angle on getting to do something worthwhile this summer.

I walk into Jada’s territory, words rolling around in my head as I wonder how to get us in on some real legal action. The tension hangs in the air like San Francisco fog.

Well, here goes. “Good morning, Jada.”

She glances up from behind a mountain of boxes, her tiny diamond nose ring the only thing decorating her otherwise frustrated face.

“What?” I joke. “Are they trying to bring new meaning to the phrase
buried in paperwork
?”

She glares.

I throw my hands up in the air in surrender. “
Ai
. Sorry. Really. It looks like a ridiculous amount of stuff to process and sort.”

Jada flicks a piece of lint off her skirt. “No shit, Sherlock.”

I pat one of the boxes. “Listen, I know we’re newbs, but we’re not at the top of our class for nothing. I swear we could help you tear through this pretty fast and we won’t screw up.” I turn around to Brianna and Hop. “Right?”

Brianna steps forward and says, “He’s right. Just tell us what to do and we’ll ace it for you.”

Jada scans the three of us like she’s trying to decide if we’re for real. Then she points to a box and says, “Some of those files still need to be stamped for receiving. Date’s on the Post-it. Screw it up and somebody gets the axe, and it won’t be me. Ford, you stamp. Brianna and Hop, I’m going to show you how to sort and label.”

Hop talks non-stop the entire drive to his apartment. Dude talks more than most girls. Good thing he’s funny.

Before turning into his lot, I ask, “So, do I need to park on the street? What’s the deal with guests?”

Hop laughs. “Who said you were a guest? That kind of thinking might make me feel a little sorry when I take all your money.”

I snort. “Ha. Where do I park?”

“You can park in our spot, 1412 A. The neighbors might think we got a vehicle.”

I turn in and cut the engine. Esmerelda’s cough sputters.

Hop says, “Whoa, dude. We’ve got standards.” He pats the dash. “She might make us look bad with her crankiness.”

The apartment building is kind of a dump on the outside. Hop’s got a good sense of humor—my truck looks at home here. I step outside and enjoy the image of Hop struggling to open the passenger door.

When he finally barrels out, much like Grace does, he says, “What I lack in muscle, I make up for in cunning. How else do you think my skinny ass survived this part of town for sixteen years?”

I double-take. “Sixteen? I thought you were a senior.”

He shrugs, sheepish. “I am. Let’s go check out Mom’s latest and greatest.”

The key sticks when Hop tries to unlock his front door. He jiggles the key and lifts the door to get in. A little WD40 would fix that. I’ll bring some with me next poker night.

We walk into a small, immaculate apartment. The living and dining rooms are kind of combined into one. The perfect bachelor pad. You can see their kitchen from the front door. And the smells coming out of that oven make me want to cry.

I say, “Dude, this could be my second home.”

Hop grins appreciatively. “Wait until you taste it. Mom works at Bountiful Moon bakery.”

“I’m their newest customer.”

“Tell ’em Hop sent you.”

His mom walks in from the hallway.

“Hey,” Hop says. “These moon cakes for poker night?”

She nods and her eyes lighten. “Suzhou are on the counter. New recipe in oven. Chocolate nut fruit.”

Hop gives his mom a big squeeze. “You rock. Thanks.”

Her eyes widen. She nods at me. “You must be Hop’s friend from work.”

I step forward and shake the hair out of my eyes. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Ford. It’s nice to meet you.”

“I am Mrs. Liang. Nice to meet you. You like moon cakes?”

I take in a deep breath and close my eyes. Then I open them. “I love them.”

“Good.” She looks at Hop. “Make sure your friend get enough to eat. Extra Suzhou. He growing boy.”

I like the way she thinks.

Hop says, “Yes ma’am.”

“
You boys don’t get too loud this night. You know Mrs. Tan will complain rest of week at Laundromat.”

Hop rolls his eyes. “Mrs. Tan can—”

“Say what she like,” Mrs. Liang says. “Watch the noise.” Oh man. The Look is definitely universal.

Hop backs down fast. “Yes ma’am.”

Then Mrs. Liang goes back into her room and closes the door. A minute later, the sounds of a sewing machine fill the space she left.

I look at Hop. “Dude, your mom has you whipped.”

He shrugs. “And your mom doesn’t?”

I grin. “Ma’s from Mexico. What do you think?”

He grins. “Want a moon cake?”

“You know it. What’s Suzhou?”

He grabs some plates and stacks a few moon cakes on them. “My favorite. They’re made from pork. Mom adds some kick to hers. Hope you can handle the heat.”

I grab the plate out of his hands. “Handle the heat? Ma’s mole sauce will make a man beg for mercy. When do the guys get here?”

Hop’s face turns serious. “About that. One of my friends needs—”

The doorbell rings. Hop shouts, “We already started loading up on the moon cakes.”

The door flies open. A short Asian kid decked out like a pimp stands in the doorway, complete with dark glasses and gold chains. “What’s up, yo?”

Then he strides over to the bar and loads up a plate. He gives me a side glance and does the head nod.

I say, “’Sup?”

Hop balls up a paper towel and pegs Future Pimp in the head. “Leave some for the rest of the guys, Hien.”

Hien doesn’t blink an eye. He joins us at the table.

Hop says, “Nobody told Hien he’s Asian. He’s had an identity crisis since elementary when he moved here.”

Hien takes a big bite and says, “Yeah, and Hop’s sucked at poker since we started this weekly gig. You don’t see me complaining. He keeps me supplied with bling, yo.”

I shove a moon cake in my mouth so I don’t laugh at this little hip-hop dude.

Hop says, “Yeah, yeah. Where’s the rest of the crew?”

“Ah dude, they be helping the latest FOB figure out the bus system. They’ll be here any minute.”

Hop nods.

“FOB?” I ask.

Hien tucks a large bite in his cheek. “Fresh Off the Boat. As in still not speaking the English well.”

“Oh.”

Hop says, “Our group … we take them in until they get things figured out. And Hien, here, he’s our non-example of how to fit in.”

I think about Jorge and ask, “Are these FOBs legal?”

Hien narrows his eyes. “You legal?”

I lean back. “Totally didn’t mean it that way dude. I just wondered if I could help, you know?”

Hop pelts Hien with the paper towel right between the eyes. “He wants to go into immigration law. Help people not get deported, yo.”

Hien wads the paper towel and throws it back at Hop. “Yeah, well, you never know.”

Jorge’s face floats through my mind. I can’t let it go. “They have a place to go? You know, like use computers. Learn English. Find a lawyer?”

“Yeah,” Little Hien says. “There’s an Asian American Cultural Center that helps FOBs. But their computers suck.” He shrugs. “Sometimes it’s better to go to the library. Lawyers? They’re for peeps with cash, bro.”

I nod, thinking I bet Ma could get the university to donate some old computers to them. Ones that are only a year or so old.

The door flies open and three guys come in talking smack. They head straight for the moon cakes and help themselves. If Hien is a Future Pimp, the rest of these guys have futures in the computer or gaming industry.

Soon the game of poker begins. Texas Hold’em. I’ve seen this game on TV and played it a few times on the Internet.

I arrange my cards, then ask, “What’s the ante?”

Hien says, “Twenty-five cents.”