seventeen
Champions keep playing
until they get it right.
—Billie Jean King
Ford and I decide that the best approach with my parents is to tell them as little as possible about today’s events. So after dinner, Ford drives me home, unloads my surfboard, and drops me off at the front door. I’m wearing one of his too-big-for-me surfer jackets to cover my arms; it’s my face that we can’t cover up.
Right as I’m about to head in to face the firing squad, Ford makes a sign of the cross and runs around to the driver’s seat. We’d agreed that if he came in it would seem like a bigger deal—he never comes inside my house after surf sessions.
He jumps into Esmerelda and bolts.
Jeeze, it’s not like he’ll go to prison or something. It was my screw-up. I clap my flip-flops together to shake the sand off and leave them on the front porch.
I unlock the door to find my parents hanging out in the living room looking cozy. They’re going through a good phase right now, which will hopefully work in my favor. Then I try to not hobble too noticeably as I cross the room.
Right as I’m about to round the corner, Mom says, “My God, what happened to your face?”
I stop. “Nothing really. I fell off my board and got a few minor scrapes. The lifeguard checked it out. Everything’s okay.”
“The lifeguard? Minor scrapes? You fell?” Mom is no longer relaxed or leaning against Dad; she’s sitting up straight. “Your face has more Band-Aids covering it than skin showing, and you say everything’s okay?” The loud, shrill tone in her voice makes my headache worse.
I clench my hands into fists at my side to keep from holding on to my head.
Mom rushes over to give me a hug, and when she pulls back, she examines the scratches on my face.
I pull back, annoyed. “It’s nothing. I took a tumble … got sucked into the falls.”
Mom rejoins Dad on the couch and grips his arm,
a stressed look on her face. Dad eyes me with a semi-exasperated look of concern. “You’re going to have to spill more than that to diffuse your mom’s red alert signal. What the hell happened? Those Band-Aids are going to hurt like hell when you rip them all off.”
I grin somewhat sheepishly. We’d swapped out a large bandage covering several scrapes on my cheeks for lots of small, flesh-colored Band-Aids in hopes of attracting less attention. Now I know why Mama Watson clucked, shook her head, andes wished me luck.
“Ford and I surfed the Point at Turmo and I caught this epic wave, but my nose pushed downward and I flew off the board and got rolled into the wave. It was big waves today, so I hit bottom for a little bit before I came back up. Someone was there to help me out. The lifeguard checked me. I’m fine.” I stop to catch my breath after rolling all that out without stopping.
Dad says, “The Point? You know better than to surf that. It’s not a beginner break.”
I huff. “And I’m not a beginner. Besides, how can I get better if I don’t surf harder waves?”
Mom scoots to the edge of the couch. “You won’t get better because you won’t be surfing any more waves. I’ve never liked you surfing. And what about your future? College? What if you’d really gotten hurt?” She turns to my father. “And you—you helped get her into this mess.”
Dad scoots back. He does a double take between Mom and me.
“Are you kidding me?” I say. “I’m almost eighteen. You can’t ban surfing.” My head is pounding and my face hurts from talking so much. “I’m ahead on all my studies. I’m number one in the class. What more do you want? My college apps in blood? This is crazy.”
“Whoa,” Dad says. “Everybody slow down here. Elaine, don’t you think you’re overreacting?”
“Overreacting? Our daughter comes home with her beautiful face all scraped up and I’m out of line? I don’t think so.” She turns on me, her face a bright pink, and points her finger at me. “What if you got knocked out or brain-damaged? There goes the Ivy League. There goes your future. Don’t expect me to take care of you when you’re a quadriplegic in diapers. Ask your dear old dad or one of your surfing buddies. Do you think Ford’s going to stand by and feed you carrots through a straw the rest of his life? Because I don’t.”
“Grace is plenty ladylike, and she needs some sort of physical activity besides school,” Dad says. “She needs an outlet. And for God’s sake, she’s not going to end up a quadriplegic. Let’s chill out on the melodramatics.” He turns his body toward Mom and scoots over until their legs touch. “Can’t we find a middle ground? She knows her limits now. Right, Grace?”
I bite my lip and nod. Ouch—I forgot my lip is cut.
Mom tears up. “How? I don’t want someone knocking on our door saying my baby drowned.”
Dad puts his arm around her and she collapses into him, sniffling. I understand her being worried, but I wish she got the irony of her concern for my physical welfare. She worries about the beach, but what about Dad’s tirades?
Dad points to a nearby chair for me to sit in. I sit and wait, my heart in my throat and my lifeline in his hands.
He says, “How about if Grace doesn’t surf the Point again—”
“But—” I start.
“Don’t interrupt when I’m helping you,” he growls.
I shrink, nodding silently.
“How about she not surf the Point anymore? And she takes a break from surfing this next week? That gives her time to heal and you time to relax.” He looks back and forth between us. “Deal?”
I say, “Deal.” Then I keep my mouth shut. Besides, I have to sit this week out anyway.
Mom shrugs and says, “I wash my hands of this. Don’t come to me for sympathy if you get hurt again.”
Dad shoos me out of the room. Before he turns his attention back to Mom, he gives me a wink.
I slink down the hall, grateful and determined not to screw up the next time I surf the Point.