Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,37
extracurriculars. “What’s up?”
“Can we talk Thursday morning?”
I close my eyes. “We’re talking now.”
“Let’s get more specific. This is more of an in-person conversation; I want to see your face. Can I swing by and talk about the other night over breakfast?”
I stop in the middle of writing Spanish Club Vice President. Vice president is always the way to go; you get the title but don’t have to do anything … unless the president no-shows.
“Parker?”
“Yeah.”
“So how about it?”
I swallow. My brain is in a mad scramble to get out of this mess. I’m not sure how to fix things between us, but I never expected Ford to be so up-front.
“Dang,” he says. “I mean, it’s not like we ended Saturday on the best of notes.”
Inhale, exhale. Breakfast at my place won’t work. What’s he thinking? I never have anyone over at my house. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
His voice is quieter than usual. “Yeah, okay.”
fourteen
forbear: to hold oneself back
from especially with an effort
—www.merriam-webster.com
I’m barely out of my neighborhood when Esmerelda’s engine cuts out. Really? This morning? I hit the steeri ~ar"ng wheel. Then quickly say, “Sorry, girl. I know you do your best.”
I pop the hood and stare at the engine.
Forty minutes later I’m back on the road. Sweaty. Greasy. Smelly. Not the way I pictured things today. As I turn the corner to Grace’s street, I notice that Esmerelda’s added a new screech to her rattle. Great. Just what I need. The only good thing is she didn’t break down on a work day.
As I pull into Grace’s, I notice she’s sitting on her porch like always. She looks pissed.
I get out of Esmerelda and Grace pops up to standing. “What gives?”
“Sorry. Esmerelda gave out on the way here. I’ve been tinkering around with her engine for the past forty minutes. The good news is she’s working for the moment. The bad news is I don’t expect it to last. I’ll take her by my dad’s shop tonight.”
“You got a thing against calling me now?”
“I know, sorry.” I throw up hands covered in blackish grease. Really? She’s so wrapped up in herself she doesn’t even notice my pit stains or the grease all over my hands.
Grace takes in a deep breath and blows out her frustration. She’s so anal about being on time, it’s kind of annoying.
We pick up breakfast tacos and coffee at Lola’s, where I use their bathroom to scrub as much grease as possible off my hands and forearms. Grace didn’t offer her bathroom, which would have been a totally obvious gesture. She’s weird about that kind of stuff.
Our ride to the beach is silent. I haven’t figured out what to say, and I guess Grace hasn’t either. For the sake of our friendship, my internship, and Grace’s future, there’s only one thing to do. Patch things up and move forward.
I roll into a parking spot at the empty glider port. This is a day to surf Black’s, AKA Torrey Pines State Park among tourists, AKA the nudie beach among concerned moms. My mom? She laughs and calls it cheap exposure to European-style beaches. One of my favorite things about Black’s? Three-hundred-foot cliffs as a backdrop.
I sit on my tailgate and wait for Grace to quit reorganizing my bag. She’s way intense about making more space. When she glances up, her face shining like she won the lottery, I motion her over. That look. The look of ex-citement. The cute way she scrunches her nose. The first of a million reasons I keep coming back to Grace. That and what Ma calls my savior complex. Always needing to help people. But I still haven’t figured out what Grace needs saving from … I just have a feeling. I can’t explain it.
“Why don’t you snag our breakfast and join me?” I pat a spot on the tailgate next to me.
Grace gets the food. I sip some coffee. She perches on the rusty edge next to me and swings her legs. Mine dangle, still. I grab the bag from her and dig around until I find my order. I nudge the bag over to Grace, but she doesn’t reach for her ordeh flegr.
Oh well. I’m starving. I take a massive bite and chew enough to tuck it into the side of my mouth. “So, the way you treated me the other night pretty much stunk.”
Grace fiddles with the bottom of her T-shirt, which means she knows I’m right. But I don’t see her running to apologize. Typical. And if I