Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,36
her feet. Buzzy gives me a thumbs-up and Damien nods at me like right on. I roll my eyes. Grace’s arms are folded tightly across her chest, but she has an I couldn’t care less look on her face.
Brianna stands up and shivers. Goose bumps ripple across her skin. Then she grabs her towel and wraps up in it. I wish there were more of it, to cover her body better.
Buzzy says, “Hey. You new in town?”
Brianna laughs. “No. Ford was just teaching me how to surf.”
Damien leans against his Jeep. “Oh yeah. Our buddy Ford. He’s a great teacher.” Then he walks around to Brianna and extends his hand. “I’m Damien.”
She says, “Brianna.”
Buzzy says, “Nice to meet you.” He all but wolf-whistled in that statement.
Brianna shoots him a wicked grin. “But I didn’t meet you.”
He blushes. “I’m Buzzy.”
She reaches out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
And for the first time in my life, I watch Buzzy’s ears turn bright red. Wow. Brianna really does have an effect on guys.
She glances at Grace, who hasn’t moved. “Hi. I’m Brianna. And you are?”
Stare-down central. “Grace.”
Without any further acknowledgement, Brianna turns back to me. “Thanks for the surf lesson. Maybe we can do it again sometime.”
I nod. Awkward, saying good-bye in front of these two goobs and Grace.
“Well. I guess I’ll see you Wednesday,” she adds. Then she gets in her car, maneuvering between Buzzy and Damien who may as well be puppies with their tails wagging and their tongues hanging out.
Before she drives off, Brianna rolls down the window and holds out a piece of paper. “Here, Ford. I had a lot of fun.”
I take it. “Yeah. Me too.”
She says, “Well, bye.”
“Bye.”
She drives off and the four of us stand around stupidly, watching her car disappear from the parking lot. Me holding a small piece of paper with her phone number. In front of Grace. And confused as to why I should be hiding the smile that’s trying to take over my face.
thirteen
Man is a knot into which
relationships are tied.
—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Saturday night keeps running through my mind like a CD that skips. I made such a mess of things flirting with Damien. But what did Ford expect? We’re not together and I promised my mom nothing would happen between me and Ford. And he was totally anal about his chaperone role. He didn’t even call Sunday to see if I wanted to surf after church. What was up with that? And then there was that girl wearing his old wetsuit at Encinitas yesterday. Grrr.
By dinnertime, I’m mentally and emotionally exhausted and my stomach is growling; untouched college applications (printed out by Mom’s administrative assistant) wait.
“Grace, dinner’s ready.”
“Coming, Mom.”
The mounds of college mailers and info packets overwhelm me. It’s summertime. I shouldn’t have to deal with junk until school starts. I wonder whether or not I’ll be able to keep my class rank. The UCSD surf team has high academic standards—being valedictorian on top of being a kick-butt surfer girl might be the deciding factor.
Mom singsongs, “Grace, we’re waiting.”
“I’m really coming now,” I holler, hurrying down the hallway like a good little daughter should. “Smells yummy. What’d you make?”
Dad says, “I decided to give it a whirl tonight.” He grins and winks conspiratorially. “So it might not be quite as healthy as usual, but what’s a little splurge now and then?”
I grin; he’s an awesome cook. “Fantastic. I’m starving!”
He leans down and whips a chef hat onto his head. I clap my hands over my mouth and laugh. With a dramatic flair, he lifts the lid off a covered dish and says in a cheesy French accent that he always uses when cooking, “Voila! vowl What we ’ave here eez a lovely steamed asparagus topped with a hollandaise sauce. You can zee for yourself zee beautiful tossed salad. And”—he puts a hand to his mouth and kisses it like the dramatic cooks in the movies—“for zee main course? We have a broiled wild-caught salmon topped with somezing simple—garlic and lemon.”
“Yum! I should have raced for zee table!”
We bow our heads and wait for my dad to say the prayer.
I’m in the middle of filling out the basics for a college application to Princeton, my dad’s alma mater, when my cell buzzes. Technically I shouldn’t be taking calls right now, but I check to see who it is—Ford.
I whisper, “Hey. I can’t talk long. I’m working on college apps.”
“Nice to chat with you too.”
I write in Eco club on my list of