Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,44

up and I’m out of line? I don’t think so.” She turns on me, her face a bright pink, and points her finger at me. “What if you got knocked out or brain-damaged? There goes the Ivy League. There goes your future. Don’t expect me to take care of you when you’re a quadriplegic in diapers. Ask your dear old dad or one of your surfing buddies. Do you think Ford’s going to stand by and feed you carrots through a straw the rest of his life? Because I don’t.”

“Grace is plenty ladylike, and she needs some sort of physical activity besides school,” Dad says. “She needs an outlet. And for God’s sake, she’s not going to end up a quadriplegic. Let’s chill out on the melodramatics.” He turns his body toward Mom and scoots over until their legs touch. “Can’t we find a middle ground? She knows her limits now. Right, Grace?”

I bite my lip and nod. Ouch—I forgot my lip is cut.

Mom tears up. “How? I don’t want someone knocking on our door saying my baby drowned.”

Dad puts his arm around her and she collapses into him, sniffling. I understand her being worried, but I wish she got the irony of her concern for my physical welfare. She worries about the beach, but what about Dad’s tirades?

Dad points to a nearby chair for me to sit in. I sit and wait, my heart in my throat and my lifeline in his hands.

He says, “How about if Grace doesn’t surf the Point again—”

“But—” I start.

“Don’t interrupt when I’m helping you,” he growls.

I shrink, nodding silently.

“How about she not surf the Point anymore? And she takes a break from surfing this next week? That gives her time to heal and you time to relax.” He looks back and forth between us. “Deal?”

I say, “Deal.” Then I keep my mouth shut. Besides, I have to sit this week out anyway.

Mom shrugs and says, “I wash my hands of this. Don’t come to me for sympathy if you get hurt again.”

Dad shoos me out of the room. Before he turns his attention back to Mom, he gives me a wink.

I slink down the hall, grateful and determined not to screw up the next time I surf the Point.

eighteen

chilaquiles: fried tortilla chips

with eggs, salsa, and cheese

Ai. Mr. Parker’s going to let me have it. I’m screwed. For once I comb my hair. Like that’s going to save me. I dropped Grace off on her porch Saturday night with a face that looked like it had road rash. And it was my fault. Well, maybe not totally. But I took her there. I didn’t paddle out with her. I wasn’t nearby when she got thrashed. A clear-cut case of negligence. Case closed. My ass is grass. Good-bye future internship hookups.

I run my hand across my jaw. Then I trudge to the kitchen as if one of Ma’s cast-iron skillets is hanging around my neck. The smell of chilaquiles perks me up. One of my favorites.

“Coffee’s in the French press.” Ma waves a hand toward my mug. Then she goes back to stirring fried tortilla strips, onion, and eggs. “Hand me the hot sauce, mijo.”

I grab the jar of salsa she made yesterday. My mouth is watering. “So what’s the occasion? “

“Your impending head on a platter.” She dumps half the sauce into the pan, where it will simmer until it’s thick. Man, I love that smell.

“Gee thanks, Ma.” I pick at the cheese waiting to melt over it all. “You gonna show at my funeral?”

She swats my hand away. “Pour yourself some coffee. And mijo? Refill mine, por favor.”

“Yes ma’am.” I sit at the bar.

She turns toward me, waving a wooden spoon. “You need chilaquiles this morning.”

I sip black coffee. “Yea

“So how are you planning on handling this?”

I shrug. “Don’t know.”

She sprinkles cheese over the skillet in a circular pattern. Always making things look good. “Mijo. You find Mr. Parker. Tell him you are sorry. And then stand there and take what you have coming.” She raises an eyebrow. “Within reason.” She takes the skillet off the stove and sets it on a hot pad near me.

I reach out and pick off a gooey tortilla strip. “Ai, caliente.” I blow on it fast a few times before popping it in my mouth. Then I tuck it to the side so my tongue doesn’t get too burnt to enjoy breakfast.

Ma whacks me on the head. I pull back grinning. She says, “Use a plate.”

I slide