Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,54
tempted to get on the freeway and keep driving. I grip the handlebars so tight my hands ache, but I can’t loosen my grip. The muscles in my neck tense as I stress through the different scenarios of what could have upset my mom. I know the who—just not the how. Or the what. Or the why.
“Hey you,” Ford calls out as he swings back and forth on his front porch. “I almost forgot to tell you—everybody at the office was talking about some major ass your dad kicked on one of his cases. He hasn’t won it yet. But the key word is yet.”
Distracted, I glance up at him as I pedal across the gravel drive. He’s waiting for me, grinning. I wonder if he does that for Brittany. My smile falters as I greet him with a lame, “Hey.”
I’m losing it. My ability to pretend everything is fine—when it’s not. To pretend my dad is as cool as I wish he was …
Ford hops off the swing and bounds down the steps, meeting me halfway across the drive. He swoops in and takes my bike for me, leaning it against his house. He walks me inside.“Mammi, Dad—Grace is here.” His voice resonates throughout the house.
Noise comes from the kitchen. The sound of a metal bowl hitting the floor clangs. It’s followed by a string of un-
happy Spanish and the sound of Mr. Watson’s laughter.
By the time we rush into the kitchen, Mama Watson is laughing too. I gape in horror at their saltillo-tiled floor. The reddish-brown tiles are currently glazed in a light green tomatillo sauce.
Mr. Watson comes over andcomurrently gives me a hug. “You came right in time for the show. Patricia is breaking into the art world with a bang. Some people paint on canvas; she paints on tile.”
“Wow.” The mess is mesmerizing.
“Well, Grace, I’d give you a hug too, but at the moment we’re divided by the Green Sea.” She winks at me before holding a rag under running water. After giving it a squeeze she tosses it to Ford, who squats down to clean up the mess.
“Man, she makes a mess and I clean it. How’s that for fair?” He pretends to grumble, but the dimple showing on his cheek gives him away.
“Eli, can you get out some more tomatillo sauce, sour cream, lime, and cilantro for me? Grace—would you mind setting the plates on the table?”
“Not at all.” Glad as always to be included in the family, I grab red and yellow plates from the counter and begin setting them on the table, making sure each plate is centered in the front of the chair. Ford sweeps in behind me and places the silverware. I notice he actually knows which side the knife and fork go on and that he even sets the knife down so the blade faces inward. It’s a little thing, but my heart flutters. I resist the urge to straighten the silverware. It’s placed properly, if slightly askew. I smile. Kinda like Ford. Proper but not.
Mama Watson and Mr. Watson are in sync. He goes back and forth between her and the table, setting down serving dishes on hot pads and always returning for more. Meanwhile, Ford opens one of the glass cabinets. He pulls out four glasses, lines them up on the counter, then fills them up with water. I watch this seamless process in awe. Not one unkind word. No stress. Just quiet teamwork. It sounds silly, but it fascinates me.
I wonder if my mom is still crying. Whether or not she is okay. Who started the fight? Was it in person or over the phone? My stomach flops and I push all thoughts of home away.
After dinner, we head back to Ford’s room. I feel Ford’s eyes boring a hole in me as I say, “Your mom’s enchiladas are amazing. You’ve been holding out on me.”
Ford remains silent.
I stare at him. “Are you okay?”
He cocks his head to the side. “That’s what I was wondering about you.”
I curl my toes and press them into his rug as I lean back against a TV pillow. A heavy feeling sinks in my stomach. “What do you mean?”
He scoots closer to me. “You know what I mean. What’s with you being upset so much and never giving an explanation? You’re not as good at acting as you think you are. I could tell you were upset the second you walked up. It’s driving me crazy. What’s the deal?”
I stare