Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,4

nothing to say. They’re blank boards, nothing on them. And, for sure, there are plenty of hotties out there. But Grace? She’s off the charts—every guy with a brain and a pair of nads drools when she walks past in those comfy surf T-shirts that hug her in all the right ways. To me, she’s hot. She’s fun. She surfs, likes to work out. Laughs at my dumb jokes. She’s cool. When I pull up to the beach, Grace sitting next to me in Esmerelda, I know all the guys are wishing she was in their truck instead, letting them help her with her surfboard.

For the past two years, I haven’t progressed one bit past the best-friend-o-meter. And I’ve been so gone over Grace that I haven’t even considered another girl. Heck, I talk big in the lineup, but what guy doesn’t? The truth is, I’m inexperienced when it comes to girls. Grace is the only one I’ve had eyes for and she hasn’t shown interest, at least not that I can be sure about. This summer it’s time to steer my own ship, and there are two destinations I plan on sailing for: one, dating Grace, and two, impressing colleges with my internship at one of the top law firms in San Diego. So far, number one ain’t looking so hot. ’Cause the whole deer-in-the-headlights sure, we can go on a friend date? Not exactly encouraging.

The ride to my house is filled with music, no convo, and mental replays of this morning. I wish Grace had been more excited about my internship. Sometimes I feel like she’s hot and cold about things. About me. Sometimes chasing her gets me all bent, like a crap end to a decent ride.

I pull up the gravel drive to mi casa, listening to the usual crunch of pebbles under my wheels. Esmerelda’s engine cuts with a sigh and I hop out. As I walk around the front of the car, Grace bursts out of the truck, legs flailing cartoon-style as she lands on the grass.

She mutters, “Stupid door sticks.”

I crack up.

She whacks me on the arm. “You know—it’s easier to open the door from the outside.”

“If someone would wait, instead of getting her panties in a wad, I might be able to get to the door in time to help out.”

“If someone didn’t feel the need to drive around in an old truck with rusted hinges … ” Her voice fades off in a singsong trail.

“Sacrilege! Wash that mouth out with soap.”

She smiles and shakes her head.

“Careful now, Esmerelda’s sensitive.”

Grace follows me up the gravel path and then separates when I start crossing the grass. She keeps to the sidewalk like always. For a while, I told her it’s okay to walk on our grass. Grass is grass. You know? But Grace can’t help herself. It’s like she’s destined to color inside the lines. Me? I figure lines are more of a suggestion—like speed limits.

All the windows are open and the screen door is letting the breeze into the house, which means one thing. Ma, God help us all, is on a cleaning spree. Unfortunately, she’s not really good at it. So, there will be piles of laundry left on the couch or a cleaning rag abandoned on the countertop, mid-swipe. Anytime I’ve seen the inside of Grace’s house, it’s spotless. It’s dumb, but sometimes I’m kind of embarrassed about the little messes here and there.

We walk through the entry and I hurry past what Grace calls The Great Wall of Watsons. Basically, it’s the worst wall in America. It’s chock-full of crap like little league plaques, karate trophies, and Ma’s four diplomas. Yep, that’s four. Most people are content to get a bachelor’s. Some spring for a master’s and a few driven souls get their doctorates. But Ma? She had to get two master’s degrees. It drives me nuts how Grace lingers when we pass the way-to-go show. She knows it too.

“Mammi. Grace and I are home for lunch.”

Ma enters from the hallway.

Grace says, “Great skirt, Mrs. Watson.”

Ma pads across, gives me a big hug, and plants a loud kiss on my cheek. Then she wipes at my hair like I’m in kindergarten. “Mammi ! Come on.” I bob away from her like a boxer, footwork included. This is the routine. Never fails. I look over at Grace, slightly embarrassed again.

Her response? A tiny amused smirk.

I look back at Ma and roll my eyes, which is quickly returned with a swat to