Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,42

a tight watch over you.”

She shields her eyes from nearby lamplight. I rush to turn it off. She peeks out from under her hand sheepishly. “Okay, okay. Sorry. It’s just … my head hurts and I feel like I’ve been run over by an eighteen-wheeler.”

I look at her, concerned. And part of me wonders if she was with it enough to hear me say she was my girl. Total slip. Just got caught up in the drama of the moment. We’re not anything. Period. I pat her knee. Then I stand up, hands in my pockets. “Do you want migas? PB&J?”

“Do you have any rice, or cheese and crackers?” She closes her eyes for a second. She looks so helpless laid out on my couch. “And maybe some water?”

Guilt hits me like a Mack truck. I slap my forehead. “Of course, you want water. What was I thinking?”

I run through the kitchen like guys raiding it on Superbowl Sunday. In minutes I’m juggling a plate of cheese and crackers, PB&J on a separate plate, and a glass of water.

Grace winces out a smile. I feel like a jerk. Shouldn’t have taken her to the Point. I pushed her too hard. Her dad is going to be pissed.

She says, “Wow. Now that’s service. Maybe I should get shredded at the Point more often.”

Ouch. To my core. “Not funny. I’m really sorry about that. I shouldn’t have pushed you into it.”

She sets down the cracker. “You didn’t. I got annoyed by a couple of guys teasing me and wanted to prove them wrong. Instead, they probably think I’m a total kook.”

I snort … of all things for her to be worried about right now. Typical Grace. “Who cares what they think? I’ll tell you what I think. Surfing the Point was a bad idea. We’ll stick with other breaks. Cool?”

She sips water and then frowns. “Not cool. I’m not giving up. I’m going to paddle back out there and catch a stupid wave. I can do it. I messed up on my timing. Come on. I’m serious about joining a surf team. You think the college coach is going to want someone who says, ‘Excuse me, sir, I’m too wussy to surf this break. I’ll work on blah blah blah a few jetties down.’ Yeah, right. Paddlepusses don’t make the big leagues.”

I slide my hands down my faces depu and stop at my cheeks. “Ai, Mamacita. What am I going to do with you?”

“Keep me. And let’s start training again. Harder this time.”

“Harder?” I only get to surf with her like three times a week. How is that going to happen?

“Yeah. Don’t go easy on me.”

“You’re not gonna like it.” I drop my hands to my side and stare at the floor, wondering if I’ll even get to go surfing with her again. Mr. Parker was clear about his expectations for protecting Grace from other guys; I’m pretty sure protecting her from rocks at the Point would be implied in the general agreement. I’m in Shitville, pretty much. And genius that I am? I drove there myself.

Grace grabs my hand. It’s like she’s lightning and I’m thunder. One touch and I’m ready to roar. She rubs her little fingers across my thumb and says, “That’s okay, ’cause I like you.”

I burrow next to her on the couch, dying at the awkwardness of this situation. She’s got to cool off—she’s always so hot and cold. First we’re a no-go for a lunch date, then cozy at Huntington, then off at the bonfire, then hot as all

get-out this morning, and now she’s about to make me come unglued.

“What can I say to that?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Fine. But we’ll wait a week for you to recover. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The front door clicks. Aw crap. Ma just got home from her morning girls’ coffee. I wait quietly, hoping she won’t go through the living room. Nope. No such luck. She takes one look at Grace on the couch, drops her purse, and speeds over.

She clucks over Grace. “Mija.” Then she turns accusing to me. “Good God, Ford, what did you let happen to this poor girl?”

I hang my head, annoyed and guilty. I don’t want to look her in the eyes. She’s right. I don’t need her looks or scolding to know that I screwed up.

“Mrs. Watson, it wasn’t his fault.”

Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see Ma’s hands fly up in the air. “It doesn’t matter. You are my princess and he should guard you