Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,66
… like that was all my fault. As if you had no role in that.”
I grip the sides of my board. “It’s a good thing you’ve got Brianna to console you.” The words spew out of my mouth like a plume of smoke from a volcano about to blow. It’s like I can’t help myself.
He pulls away from me. “Dang straight. Heck, you even gave her the thumbs-up. So is that why you’re acting like this? Somebody is interested in me and I take her out on a date. And you’re jealous. All your drama. It’s ridiculous. I deserve someone who appreciates me. Someone who wants me. Drama? This isn’t me. I can’t stand it.”
I narrow my eyes. I’ll give him drama. Like he hasn’t been jealous of Damien all summer? I steel myself not to look into his eyes, knowing they’ll melt my resolve. I’ve got to do what’s best for me right now, and that includes protecting myself from all guys, Ford included.
“I’ve got news for you, Ford Watson,” I say. “It’s fine with me if you want to take Brittany out. In fact, Damien and I went on our own little date after the Point that day.”
“Are you kidding me? Damien?” He shakes his head side to side, slowly. He seems to be realizing something I’ve been worried about all this time—that I’m not worth it. Then he says, “I don’t know you anymore. I’m out for reals this time.”
I think it’s the word anymore that hurts the most. It feels like salt water in my eyes … and up the nose. But I take it. I deserve it. Because in the end, I know it doesn’t matter.
He paddles away from me until he catches a ride in.
I sit on my board, watching him from behind. My world just went from color to black-and-white, and I’m too worn to do anything about it.
I walk into our house with slightly pink cheeks, hoping no one will notice and wondering what my parents are both doing home. I am so busted.
The first thing I see is the two of them sitting on the couch, lit up like neon lights, waiting for me—I freak out on the inside. I’m in big trouble, but I can’t figure out what I did that was so bad they both decided to come home at the same time. Did Mom figure out I haven’t started the college essays?
Mom greets me with a smile and says, “Hey, honey.”
Now I’m really freaked.
I stand on the welcome mat, hoping to God I’m not dripping water and not wanting to go in any further. Did I rinse all the sand off my feet? And crap, I forgot an extra sand-free towel to use when I enter the house. Of all the days to—
“Grace, why don’t you come sit down with us?” Dad points to a leather chair.
I pat at my rear end. Yep. Still wet. “Um, I know I’m wearing shorts, but I’m also wearing my swimsuit bottoms underneath them. They’re still damp.”
Mom says, “No big deal, sweetheart. It’s just leather. Take a seat, we’ve got exciting news for you.”
I look back and forth between them and caen eat,utiously take a seat. On her leather chair. In my wet swimsuit. This is the Twilight Zone.
Dad says, “Tomorrow is your big day to shine, Grace.”
Crazy. Aliens have inhabited my parents’ bodies. Unsure, I say, “Yeah. I mean, yes sir.”
Mom leans forward, excited. “Jack, tell her about it!”
What the crap? She sounds like a game show host.
Dad totally plays into her charade, booming, “You’ve been invited to a private, unofficial Ivy League schmooze!”
“What?” My emotions are in overdrive and the warning sensors in my brain are starting to go off. Retreat is not an option though.
Mom places a hand on Dad’s forearm and leans forward eagerly. “You know Warren Driscoll, one of the senior partners at your dad’s firm?”
I nod in slow motion. I’ve heard the name on occasion, followed by a string of curse words.
Mom continues. “Well, he’s hosting the brunch, and he remembered Dad mentioning that you’re hoping to go to one of the Ivies, and we got an official invite.” She ends an octave higher from sheer excitement.
I’m floored. Totally blindsided. Brunch? The comp starts in the morning. But I’m not going to cry. I have to keep it together and figure out how to get out of this nightmare. Breathe in. Breathe out.
“He sent you an invitation the day before his party …
isn’t that kind of