Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,72

seems calm and intense, if those traits can possibly coexist.

We sit on our boards like they’re race horses, waiting for the gun. Our cue sounds and we paddle hard to be the first to catch the incoming waves. The first one rolling toward us is perfect; I stare at it, mesmerized, and wonder what Ford would say about this wave. Crap. I should be catching it, not thinking about it. The other girl gets it and I back off, waiting for the next ride. We didn’t even paddle-battle.

Shit. Pull it together, Grace.

Here comes one, rolling at me full throttle. I paddle with everything I have and drop in and cut back and forth across the wave. I zip across to hit the lip, where I boost some kickass air before landing. I pull a couple of floaters and exit high on adrenaline.

My first real ride in a comp and I kicked ass! I’m higher than high right now, but I have to focus on the next wave.

We both get in a couple more rides before the air-horn blows. We immediately quit what we’re doing and paddle in. Even catching a fun wave on the way in and front-porching it would earn a DQ. Nobody who’s serious about competing would catch a ride in. It’d be nuts.

The morning rounds are intense, and I keep reapplying sunscreen, looking around, trying not to freak out when I see someone who has my dad’s haircut. It’s like being a prisoner on death row. You know there’s only so much time before they’re coming to get you.

I maRegular"ke it through quarterfinals, and then wait to find out who makes it past the semifinals. I think I caught some sweet rides my last round, but I was so focused on my waves that I have no clue how the other girl did. I’m sitting here by myself, of course. No friends here to support me. But hey, I’ve got free water and granola bars.

I consider checking my voicemail, but I don’t even want to know how many messages are waiting for me. If I saw my parents’ number on the screen right now, even once, it might be enough to send me running back, tail between my legs, and I can’t do that.

The blue-haired guy walks out of the judge’s tent with the sheet. The one that could mean this was all for nothing, or prove I was right to skip out on brunch with a bunch of old geezers. Four of us bombard the guy as he pins up the paper we’re all dying to see.

I hang back a little waiting, to see how the other girls respond, gauging their reactions and hoping I advanced. One girl pulls her hoodie up over her head like she’s trying to hide and walks away. I hear a couple of sniffles and wonder if I’ll be joining her. The girl from my last heat shrugs. And a girl who I saw making sick moves look like a cakewalk, the one I decided to call Super Girl—well, she walks away smiling.

I’m not sure what the shrug meant. It could go either way. Was the shrug an I knew I’d make it shrug? Or was it a that’s the way the cookie crumbles shrug? Maybe she can shrug it off, but her shrug could mean everything to me.

I close my eyes, and then open them and shuffle over to the paper—to see my name listed as one of two girls advancing to the finals. It’s all I can do not to whoop and holler and dance around and celebrate and be silly, but that’s not something you do alone.

A girl with pink highlights says, “You caught some bitching rides earlier. Better watch out. Ann’s not going to give you shit in finals. She’s the fave.”

The gravity of this moment hits me, and all happy feelings get sucked out of me. So, yeah, I made it to the finals, but what if I drop in late or wipe out? I’ve seen the other girls—who should have advanced but didn’t. They’re full-on hardcore. It’s not like they gave any freebies. Whichever surfer girl walks away with the trophy and the prizes will have had a platinum heat. And I’m not sure how I’ll stack up against Ann. She pulled sick moves in earlier heats and made them look like a cakewalk.

I lug my board over to the roped-off area for contestants. We have about ten minutes to get ready. I bend down