eighteen
chilaquiles: fried tortilla chips
with eggs, salsa, and cheese
Ai. Mr. Parker’s going to let me have it. I’m screwed. For once I comb my hair. Like that’s going to save me. I dropped Grace off on her porch Saturday night with a face that looked like it had road rash. And it was my fault. Well, maybe not totally. But I took her there. I didn’t paddle out with her. I wasn’t nearby when she got thrashed. A clear-cut case of negligence. Case closed. My ass is grass. Good-bye future internship hookups.
I run my hand across my jaw. Then I trudge to the kitchen as if one of Ma’s cast-iron skillets is hanging around my neck. The smell of chilaquiles perks me up. One of my favorites.
“Coffee’s in the French press.” Ma waves a hand toward my mug. Then she goes back to stirring fried tortilla strips, onion, and eggs. “Hand me the hot sauce, mijo.”
I grab the jar of salsa she made yesterday. My mouth is watering. “So what’s the occasion? “
“Your impending head on a platter.” She dumps half the sauce into the pan, where it will simmer until it’s thick. Man, I love that smell.
“Gee thanks, Ma.” I pick at the cheese waiting to melt over it all. “You gonna show at my funeral?”
She swats my hand away. “Pour yourself some coffee. And mijo? Refill mine, por favor.”
“Yes ma’am.” I sit at the bar.
She turns toward me, waving a wooden spoon. “You need chilaquiles this morning.”
I sip black coffee. “Yea
“So how are you planning on handling this?”
I shrug. “Don’t know.”
She sprinkles cheese over the skillet in a circular pattern. Always making things look good. “Mijo. You find Mr. Parker. Tell him you are sorry. And then stand there and take what you have coming.” She raises an eyebrow. “Within reason.” She takes the skillet off the stove and sets it on a hot pad near me.
I reach out and pick off a gooey tortilla strip. “Ai, caliente.” I blow on it fast a few times before popping it in my mouth. Then I tuck it to the side so my tongue doesn’t get too burnt to enjoy breakfast.
Ma whacks me on the head. I pull back grinning. She says, “Use a plate.”
I slide her coffee cup to her. “It was only a little piece.”
She hones in on me. “A plate, mijo.”
That mijo wasn’t the term of endearment. It was the war-
ning one. The I’m your mama and I can take you out kind. I make a big show of walking over to the cabinets and pulling out two plates. I hand Ma one.
“Madam. May I serve you chilaquiles? I heard the cook is exceptional.”
She chuckles. “You’re too much, mijo.”
“Ah. Now that mijo is music to my ears.” I scoop a small portion onto her plate, teasing her.
She makes a big show with her hands and winks. “That’s the perfect amount. For a single-celled amoeba! Give me a real portion.”
I shovel a large serving on her plate. After plopping two giant scoops on my plate, I say, “Thanks, Ma.”
She nods and pats my arm. “You’re a good boy, Ford. It’ll work out.”
I walk into the office ten minutes early.
Teresa looks down her glasses at me. “Mr. Parker wants to see you.”
I stop short, hovering my soon-to-be nonexistent butt over the chair. “Might as well get it over with, right?”
She frowns at me, concerned. “Que paso?”
“I screwed up. Took his daughter surfing at a place she wasn’t ready for … apparently. Her face looks like it got in a fight with a meat grinder.”
Teresa gasps.
“Well, I might be exaggerating a little bit.”
Teresa gadth="18" align="justify">She whispers, “It was nice working with you, Ford.”
My head drops. I haven’t even thought about getting fired. I’ve been more focused on the getting-reamed-out part. My folks don’t yell, but since I’m dealing with a lawyer, I expected a verbal assault of sorts. Not getting canned. I whisper, “My rec letter.”
“Let me know if you need anything,” Teresa says. “Recommendations. Anything.”
“Thanks.” Man, this is too heavy. I straighten up and comb at my bangs. Teresa gives me a strange look. Then I grin. “Might as well look good when my head’s on the chopping block. I mean, I am a pretty boy.”
She smiles back. “I don’t know what to do with you. Buena suerte, Ferdinand.”
“Gracias.” I walk tall down the hallway. I’m a Caudillo. Well, a Caudillo-Watson. We don’t tuck tail and run.
I knock on Mr. Parker’s office door.
“Come in.”
I walk right in. “Excuse me, sir? Could we talk about this weekend?”
He gives me a disgruntled look. He’s puffed up like a rooster at a cockfight. Looks like the man version of Grace when she gets ready for a fight. It’s kind of funny.
He says, “Well, I sure as hell didn’t invite you in here to shoot the breeze.”
Whoa. Starting off easy. “I’m sorry about Grace’s accident,” I say. “Sorry about not walking her inside—she thought it would make things worse. But I shouldn’t have dropped her off on the front porch without taking the heat with her. That’s been bothering me.”
A little air goes out of him. “Well, I’m glad you can own up. Grace—she’s my little girl. If I let someone take her out surfing, I expect that person to take care of her. We made a deal. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, but part of watching out for her includes not taking her to the Point and then letting her fend for herself. She could have been … Well, you and I both know she’s damn lucky.”
I force myself to look him in the eye. “Yes sir.”
“You ever play poker, Ford?”
I resist the urge to loosen my collar. “Yes sir.”
“You know what happens to people who welch on their bets?”
I clear my throat. “No sir.”
He leans forward. “They get kicked out of the game. How do you feel about that?”
“Not too hot, sir.”
“Her mother doesn’t want her to surf again. Ever.” He sits behind his desk, comfortable. Holding all the cards.
That’s bogus. No way would Grace quit surfing. “How do you feel about that, sir, being a former surfer yourself?” I ask.
“That’s a good question, Counsel. I’m not in favor of that.”
This is a game to him. Reaming me out. Making me sweat. It’s bullshit. I pull my shoulders back. “And what would you be in favor of?”
“Grace needs to take a week off. She needs to focus on college applications. She needs some time away from the waves. I don’t want her getting right back out there. She could use a little time to develop some healthy fear. The ocean’s big stuff, son. It demands respect. Something you both seem to be short on.”
I grit my teeth before asking, “Where do we go from here?”
He gets a hard look on his face. “Grace doesn’t surf the Point. And you keep a better watch on her if you want to continue to be surfing buddies. Now, there’s just one other thing I need to talk to you about.” He pauses, staring at me with narrowed eyes. “I may work long hours, but I know there’s somebody taking her out on the days you’re in my office. Who is it?” He leans in, his face worried. “There’s nothing going on there, right?”
I shove my hands in my pockets and ball them into fists. I remind myself he’s helped a lot of people—my people. Then I smile like everything’s golden. He’s not firing me; he’s playing cat and mouse. And yeah, I might deserve to sweat a little. I dropped Grace off injured without even walking her in. That was pretty much asking for it.
“Damien?” I answer. “Not a chance anything’s going on there, not if I have anything to do with it. Is that all, sir?”
He leans back into his chair. “For now.” Then he does that whole two fingers from his eyes to me, the I’m watching you sign, which would be funny if it were a joke.