Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,45
her coffee cup to her. “It was only a little piece.”
She hones in on me. “A plate, mijo.”
That mijo wasn’t the term of endearment. It was the war-
ning one. The I’m your mama and I can take you out kind. I make a big show of walking over to the cabinets and pulling out two plates. I hand Ma one.
“Madam. May I serve you chilaquiles? I heard the cook is exceptional.”
She chuckles. “You’re too much, mijo.”
“Ah. Now that mijo is music to my ears.” I scoop a small portion onto her plate, teasing her.
She makes a big show with her hands and winks. “That’s the perfect amount. For a single-celled amoeba! Give me a real portion.”
I shovel a large serving on her plate. After plopping two giant scoops on my plate, I say, “Thanks, Ma.”
She nods and pats my arm. “You’re a good boy, Ford. It’ll work out.”
I walk into the office ten minutes early.
Teresa looks down her glasses at me. “Mr. Parker wants to see you.”
I stop short, hovering my soon-to-be nonexistent butt over the chair. “Might as well get it over with, right?”
She frowns at me, concerned. “Que paso?”
“I screwed up. Took his daughter surfing at a place she wasn’t ready for … apparently. Her face looks like it got in a fight with a meat grinder.”
Teresa gasps.
“Well, I might be exaggerating a little bit.”
Teresa gadth="18" align="justify">She whispers, “It was nice working with you, Ford.”
My head drops. I haven’t even thought about getting fired. I’ve been more focused on the getting-reamed-out part. My folks don’t yell, but since I’m dealing with a lawyer, I expected a verbal assault of sorts. Not getting canned. I whisper, “My rec letter.”
“Let me know if you need anything,” Teresa says. “Recommendations. Anything.”
“Thanks.” Man, this is too heavy. I straighten up and comb at my bangs. Teresa gives me a strange look. Then I grin. “Might as well look good when my head’s on the chopping block. I mean, I am a pretty boy.”
She smiles back. “I don’t know what to do with you. Buena suerte, Ferdinand.”
“Gracias.” I walk tall down the hallway. I’m a Caudillo. Well, a Caudillo-Watson. We don’t tuck tail and run.
I knock on Mr. Parker’s office door.
“Come in.”
I walk right in. “Excuse me, sir? Could we talk about this weekend?”
He gives me a disgruntled look. He’s puffed up like a rooster at a cockfight. Looks like the man version of Grace when she gets ready for a fight. It’s kind of funny.
He says, “Well, I sure as hell didn’t invite you in here to shoot the breeze.”
Whoa. Starting off easy. “I’m sorry about Grace’s accident,” I say. “Sorry about not walking her inside—she thought it would make things worse. But I shouldn’t have dropped her off on the front porch without taking the heat with her. That’s been bothering me.”
A little air goes out of him. “Well, I’m glad you can own up. Grace—she’s my little girl. If I let someone take her out surfing, I expect that person to take care of her. We made a deal. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, but part of watching out for her includes not taking her to the Point and then letting her fend for herself. She could have been … Well, you and I both know she’s damn lucky.”
I force myself to look him in the eye. “Yes sir.”
“You ever play poker, Ford?”
I resist the urge to loosen my collar. “Yes sir.”
“You know what happens to people who welch on their bets?”
I clear my throat. “No sir.”
He leans forward. “They get kicked out of the game. How do you feel about that?”
“Not too hot, sir.”
“Her mother doesn’t want her to surf again. Ever.” He sits behind his desk, comfortable. Holding all the cards.
That’s bogus. No way would Grace quit surfing. “How do you feel about that, sir, being a former surfer yourself?” I ask.
“That’s a good question, Counsel. I’m not in favor of that.”
This is a game to him. Reaming me out. Making me sweat. It’s bullshit. I pull my shoulders back. “And what would you be in favor of?”
“Grace needs to take a week off. She needs to focus on college applications. She needs some time away from the waves. I don’t want her getting right back out there. She could use a little time to develop some healthy fear. The ocean’s big stuff, son. It demands respect. Something you both seem to be short on.”
I grit my teeth before asking, “Where do we go from here?”
He gets