Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,15

there with their own private balconies, so my uncle and whatever friends he brings can all have their privacy.”

“Wow.”

Ford swipes at his hair. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. My uncle’s an architect, so he’s definitely into details. If you want, we could hit the roof and check out the sunset. Maybe I’ll even share a deep dark secret.”

Like Ford has any deep dark secrets. Ha, he doesn’t know dark.

“You’re so funny.” I plop down on a beige beanbag and kick off my flip-flops.

It’s amazing to spend a weekend away from home. But I hope Ford won’t try to make a move, as much as it makes me tingle all the way down to my toes. This summer is dedicated to surfing and figuring out how to make it into UCSD through a surf scholarship. I can’t handle any more messy relationships. My family’s stocked up on that score. Besides, I’ve never even dated anybody. Too busy making the grades and not really interested in something that will only end up in a break-up. Because I swear, the first time a boyfriend hits me? I’m out of there.

At bedtime, we take turns getting ready in the bathroom. Ford lets me go first and hangs out in our room while he waits. Awkward … I hesitate before coming out in a blue tank top and blue-and-green-plaid PJ shorts. Ford smiles suggestively at me; I feel like he’s scoping out every detail.

I thump him on the head and mimic his earlier statement, “C’mon. It’s me, Grace.”

He drops to his knees and says, “A thousand pardons, my lady. If I’d known how hot you looked in your nighttime attire, I wouldn’t have made such rash promises to my dear mother.”

I reach out to thump him again and he catches my arm and pulls me toward him. Harder than he meant to, I guess, because I fly at him and we topple on the floor, a tangle of arms and legs. I roll off of his chest and we lie next to each other, laughing.

After a few minutes, I say, “You’re nuts.”

“That’s why we hang out.”

“Because you’re certifiably insane?”

He gets up and turns back to face me before shutting the bathroom door. “Because I, dear Grace, am your comic relief.”

I walk over to the bed replaying flashes of what happened over in my head. Ford is more than comic relief. He’s everything—escape, fun, comfort, encouragement, and a million other things. He’s my security blanket. It makes me feel like a two-year-old, but that’s the truth. When I’m around him, I feel like I’m who I could be all the time.

I flounce onto the bed and space out until the click of the bathroom door opening announces his presence. He comes out wearing a towel wrapped around his waist. My hiss waistjaw drops. He howls with laughter and whips it off, revealing knee-length basketball shorts. I toss a pillow at him, which he catches.

“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,