thirteen
Man is a knot into which
relationships are tied.
—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Saturday night keeps running through my mind like a CD that skips. I made such a mess of things flirting with Damien. But what did Ford expect? We’re not together and I promised my mom nothing would happen between me and Ford. And he was totally anal about his chaperone role. He didn’t even call Sunday to see if I wanted to surf after church. What was up with that? And then there was that girl wearing his old wetsuit at Encinitas yesterday. Grrr.
By dinnertime, I’m mentally and emotionally exhausted and my stomach is growling; untouched college applications (printed out by Mom’s administrative assistant) wait.
“Grace, dinner’s ready.”
“Coming, Mom.”
The mounds of college mailers and info packets overwhelm me. It’s summertime. I shouldn’t have to deal with junk until school starts. I wonder whether or not I’ll be able to keep my class rank. The UCSD surf team has high academic standards—being valedictorian on top of being a kick-butt surfer girl might be the deciding factor.
Mom singsongs, “Grace, we’re waiting.”
“I’m really coming now,” I holler, hurrying down the hallway like a good little daughter should. “Smells yummy. What’d you make?”
Dad says, “I decided to give it a whirl tonight.” He grins and winks conspiratorially. “So it might not be quite as healthy as usual, but what’s a little splurge now and then?”
I grin; he’s an awesome cook. “Fantastic. I’m starving!”
He leans down and whips a chef hat onto his head. I clap my hands over my mouth and laugh. With a dramatic flair, he lifts the lid off a covered dish and says in a cheesy French accent that he always uses when cooking, “Voila! vowl What we ’ave here eez a lovely steamed asparagus topped with a hollandaise sauce. You can zee for yourself zee beautiful tossed salad. And”—he puts a hand to his mouth and kisses it like the dramatic cooks in the movies—“for zee main course? We have a broiled wild-caught salmon topped with somezing simple—garlic and lemon.”
“Yum! I should have raced for zee table!”
We bow our heads and wait for my dad to say the prayer.
I’m in the middle of filling out the basics for a college application to Princeton, my dad’s alma mater, when my cell buzzes. Technically I shouldn’t be taking calls right now, but I check to see who it is—Ford.
I whisper, “Hey. I can’t talk long. I’m working on college apps.”
“Nice to chat with you too.”
I write in Eco club on my list of extracurriculars. “What’s up?”
“Can we talk Thursday morning?”
I close my eyes. “We’re talking now.”
“Let’s get more specific. This is more of an in-person conversation; I want to see your face. Can I swing by and talk about the other night over breakfast?”
I stop in the middle of writing Spanish Club Vice President. Vice president is always the way to go; you get the title but don’t have to do anything … unless the president no-shows.
“Parker?”
“Yeah.”
“So how about it?”
I swallow. My brain is in a mad scramble to get out of this mess. I’m not sure how to fix things between us, but I never expected Ford to be so up-front.
“Dang,” he says. “I mean, it’s not like we ended Saturday on the best of notes.”
Inhale, exhale. Breakfast at my place won’t work. What’s he thinking? I never have anyone over at my house. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
His voice is quieter than usual. “Yeah, okay.”