Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,71

not entering my first one at seventeen. Everyone else seems to have some sort of cheering squad, whether it’s family or friends. I’ve got nobody. How’s that for Loserville?

Twenty minutes later, I reach the front of the line, where a cute Asian guy with blue tips on spiky bangs is checking people in.

He shoots me the pearly whites. “You got your paperwork all filled out?”

I rock back and forth on my tiptoes. “Yep.”

He glances over the page and then back at me. “This your first comp?”

I pull at my board shorts. “Yep.”

He grins. “You nervous?”

I’m noticing a pattern here; I give him a tiny smile. “Yep.”

“Can you speak more than one word at a time?”

My tiny smile breaks wide open. “Nope.”

He hands me my comp shirt. It has the number 15 on it. “Well … ” He looks back at my paperwork. “Well, Grace Of One Word, I’ve got two for you: good luck.”

I take the shirt, feeling sheepish. It kind of seemed like he was flirting with me. But my heart’s taken—and broken. So much for playing it safe. There is no safe.

The girl behind me huffs, and I realize I’ve been standing here like an idiot holding up the line. Mr. Flirty of Two Words winks at me; I move on.

I try to ignore all the other competitors milling around, but I can’t help it. Some of the girls seem nervous; others look pretty sure of themselves. Those girls are grouped together talking smack, swapping stories, and laughing. There are a few girls in the zone … they’re stretching, doing yoga, and chilling out with their board watching the waves. This last group, they’re my kind. I find an open spot, lay down my board, and stretch as I watch the ocean roll in—thick strands of loosely woven linen rumbling toward the shore.

Every few minutes, I stare at the number 15 printed on the bright blue T-shirt. That could be my lucky number, or a number to forget.

It doesn’t matter how many times I survey the crowd, Ford hasn’t shown up. I keep thinking he will, because Ford’s that kind of guy. But the countdown is ticking and he’s not here.

Another half hour goes by as the beach fills with spectators. All these people to watch me crash and burn, or to score the ride of my life. I’m really here. I’m really doing this. It feels surreal.

All the contestants are called into the official tent, where a hot guy with bleached-out hair, a killer tan, and dreads rehashes all the rules for us—as if we haven’t lost sleep memorizing them. Because there’d be nothing worse than getting disqualified. After he wishes us luck and giv luck anes us our heat numbers, we spill out of there like a bunch of kids on a playground.

I wax my board and focus on different moves I want to try. I need to think about all the moves I can make, ones that will impress the judges. Maybe I should play it safe, pull the moves I could do in my sleep.

After all the training Ford and I did this summer, I really want him here. He’s my glue; he keeps me together, and today I really need that—him. Just thinking about doing this on my own freaks me out.

I can’t think about that, though. Or him. Or how much I want him or need him. It’s pointless. He wanted depth. I wanted to stay in the shallow end because I was too scared to jump off the high dive without floaties.

An air-horn blares and the first heat begins. They paddle out to the breakers. I comb the wax and notice the moves girls are pulling. Some are pretty sweet. Moves I haven’t tried, but they don’t necessarily earn more points than the moves I’ve worked on—floaters, backside snaps, closeout snaps, and airs. And as Ford said during one of our workouts, “A badass move that’s poorly executed doesn’t impress the judges, but it does affect your score. So learn ’em and own ’em.”

A few heats later, I’m up. My stomach lurches. Stepping into the water to paddle out, next to a competitor who looks like she does 360s for her warm-up, intimidates me. I hope no one can tell I’m trembly. We paddle to the waiting area, which is cordoned off by floating buoys and sponsors’ signs. She’s a couple of inches taller than me, and ripped. I noticed she wasn’t mouthing off beforehand and she didn’t act nervous. She