Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,68

of concern on her face. “Do you want to talk about it?”

No. I don’t want to talk about it with anyone but Ford. And he’s not here. He’s done with me. I treated him like crap. And now I don’t even have a friend. I double over and bawl my eyes out again, in Mama Watson’s lap. She pats my hair and I cry over more things than I can focus on—until I’m too tired to cry.

I sit up, feeling like the marshmallow man. Mama Watson passes me a box of tissues. I grab a few and wipe at my cheeks.

She says, “Would you like to talk now, Mija?”

I do, but I’m afraid that if I start talking everything will gush out of me like I’m a compromised dam. And fear of what will happen then—whether she believes me or not—holds me back. Even though things are messed up at home, I do love my parents, and I know they love me. I love surfing … and Ford. But he’s moved on. After cinching my emotions tight, I shake my head.

She reaches out and tucks my hair back so she can see my face. “Mija, I know you really wanted Ford to be here. He’ll be back later. You two can work things out. But I want you to know, Ford, he’s just a boy. A great boy. El te ama mucho. Pero he can’t fix whatever is this wrong. It took me a long time to learn this, but once I did, life got so much easier. The only person who can make the decision to help you is you. And the only place to put your trust is God. ¿Entiende?”

I nod. “Si.” Part of me wonders if Mama Watson’s God is my God. I think about the reverence on her face when she makes the sign of the cross after mealtime prayers. Or how she’s so positive that He’s the answer. It’s like I’m watching her relationship with God through a glass window. My face pressed up against it. And my God hangs out in the foyer of our church, working on more important things, while I run down the halls of my house trying to escape my dad.

I get up. “Thanks.”

She stands up and hugs me. It feels good. Safe. “Anytime. I’m always here. I love you like my own, mija. When you’re ready to talk, I’m here.”

thirty

¿Que dijale?: What does it tell you?

It’s six a.m. on a Saturday morning and I should still be in bed. But today is the surf comp. Grace will be out there without me. And then there’s last night with Brianna. Blew me away. Didn’t expect things to go there again. It’s weird, kissing someone I’m not even exclusive with, and I don’t know how I feel about it. How Brianna feels about it. Making out with her so soon. I mean, kissing her is amazing—her lips are so smooth and soft. But I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do. Which sounds crazy. Everything’s crashing together all at once.

I bang around the kitchen looking for cereal.

“You trying to break my cabinets?”

I whip around, embarrassed. “Sorry. Couldn’t sleep.”

Ma adjusts the tie on her robe and bustles into the kitchen. She waves a hand at the barstools. “Take a seat. You need my migas and some coffee and some sense talked into you.”

I slump onto the barstool, exhausted. “Thanks.”

Ma goes into cooking mode and whips everything out with the ease of a person who hasn’t lost a wink of sleep. She peeks out from behind the fridge. “So, you and Grace are having problems?”

I bury my face in my arms, in a cross between exhaustion and embarrassment. Ma can read my face like a book—there’s no way I want her looking at me if we’re talking about Grace or Brianna. She’d kill me. “Yeah.”

The refrigerator door shuts. “Grace came by yesterday.”

“She did?” I sit up. “How was she?”

Ma opens the carton of eggs. “Seems like she’s having a bit of a hard time.”

I drop my head back in my arms. “That’s just Grace. She’s a drama queen.”

Bam. Ma whacks my head. Not like it hurt. Just the normal watch it gesture.

“Okay. Okay. That wasn’t nice.”

The sizzle of an egg hitting the pan is the sound of love and forgiveness. Ma says, “You know, regardless of what’s going on between you two, she could use a friend right now. I didn’t raise you to turn your back on someone in need.”

I groan.