twenty-three
Anxiety is the reaction to danger.
—Sigmund Freud
Ford squeezes my shoulder as he drops me off. “Come over to my place tonight and have dinner with my folks. Mom is making her famous chicken enchiladas. Deal?”
“Yum!” Ack—I frown. “I’ll have to ask permission.” Things at home are unpredictable again. I don’t know if it’s the cases my dad is working on, but blow-ups have been way more frequent in general and over the past week for sure. It makes me feel like I’m being sucked out in a riptide and I’ve forgotten how to paddle.
“Don’t you ever think your folks are kind of uptight? You’re always asking for permission. It’s summertime. It seems like their panties must be in a perpetual wad.”
I shrug. His hand hovers over the back of my jean shorts, ready to put my panties in a wad.
I shoot him a wicked grin. “Don’t even think about it. I’m going commando.”
His hand hovers there as his cheeks turn red. “Really?”
From the look on his face, I think he might have trouble concentrating on the way home. I give a little wave good-bye as he drives off.
Mom’s car is parked under the laurel. I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. My odds of getting permission are decent as long as I make sure she realizes it’s a friends-only dinner.
I search the front of the house—no mom. I call her name throughout the hallway—no mom. I peek in the office—no mom. My heart beats a little faster. Beads of sweat trickle at my hairline. Last resort, I knock on my parents’ bedroom door—rap, rap, rap.
“Mom?”
Silence.
“Mom?”
I hear a rustling sound on the other side of the door. Jeez, could my heart pound any faster?
“Mom?”
The rustling sound moves closer to the door. I hear sniffling?
“Yes, Grace?”
Her voice sounds wobbly.
“Um, are you okay?” I tuck and untuck my hands in and out of my hoodie.
“I’m fine. What do you want?”
“Can I see you?” Tuck. Untuck. Tuck. Untuck.
“I’m bus">peace="Ay right now. Do you need something?” Sniffle.
“Can I eat dinner at Ford’s tonight?” I pull at the zipper.
“Yes, that’s fine. Be home by eleven at the latest. Leave your father a note telling him where you are and that I said it was okay.”
Deep breath. I shift back and forth like a waddling penguin. Tuck. Untuck. “Okay thanks. Are you sure you don’t need anything?”
“No. I’m fine. Go to Ford’s.”
Holy shit. Something big must be going down. I sure as hell don’t want to be here for the fireworks. “You sure you’re okay?”
More sniffling. “Yes, honey. See you later.”
I put my hand on the door and lean in. “Love you.”
“Love you too, sweetie.”
I speed down the hall, grab my backpack, and hurriedly scribble the note for my dad. I tape it to the refrigerator and rush toward my bike. This is one time when it’s probably good I don’t have a car—I’d be tempted to get on the freeway and keep driving. I grip the handlebars so tight my hands ache, but I can’t loosen my grip. The muscles in my neck tense as I stress through the different scenarios of what could have upset my mom. I know the who—just not the how. Or the what. Or the why.
“Hey you,” Ford calls out as he swings back and forth on his front porch. “I almost forgot to tell you—everybody at the office was talking about some major ass your dad kicked on one of his cases. He hasn’t won it yet. But the key word is yet.”
Distracted, I glance up at him as I pedal across the gravel drive. He’s waiting for me, grinning. I wonder if he does that for Brittany. My smile falters as I greet him with a lame, “Hey.”
I’m losing it. My ability to pretend everything is fine—when it’s not. To pretend my dad is as cool as I wish he was …
Ford hops off the swing and bounds down the steps, meeting me halfway across the drive. He swoops in and takes my bike for me, leaning it against his house. He walks me inside.“Mammi, Dad—Grace is here.” His voice resonates throughout the house.
Noise comes from the kitchen. The sound of a metal bowl hitting the floor clangs. It’s followed by a string of un-
happy Spanish and the sound of Mr. Watson’s laughter.
By the time we rush into the kitchen, Mama Watson is laughing too. I gape in horror at their saltillo-tiled floor. The reddish-brown tiles are currently glazed in a light green tomatillo sauce.
Mr. Watson comes over andcomurrently gives me a hug. “You came right in time for the show. Patricia is breaking into the art world with a bang. Some people paint on canvas; she paints on tile.”
“Wow.” The mess is mesmerizing.
“Well, Grace, I’d give you a hug too, but at the moment we’re divided by the Green Sea.” She winks at me before holding a rag under running water. After giving it a squeeze she tosses it to Ford, who squats down to clean up the mess.
“Man, she makes a mess and I clean it. How’s that for fair?” He pretends to grumble, but the dimple showing on his cheek gives him away.
“Eli, can you get out some more tomatillo sauce, sour cream, lime, and cilantro for me? Grace—would you mind setting the plates on the table?”
“Not at all.” Glad as always to be included in the family, I grab red and yellow plates from the counter and begin setting them on the table, making sure each plate is centered in the front of the chair. Ford sweeps in behind me and places the silverware. I notice he actually knows which side the knife and fork go on and that he even sets the knife down so the blade faces inward. It’s a little thing, but my heart flutters. I resist the urge to straighten the silverware. It’s placed properly, if slightly askew. I smile. Kinda like Ford. Proper but not.
Mama Watson and Mr. Watson are in sync. He goes back and forth between her and the table, setting down serving dishes on hot pads and always returning for more. Meanwhile, Ford opens one of the glass cabinets. He pulls out four glasses, lines them up on the counter, then fills them up with water. I watch this seamless process in awe. Not one unkind word. No stress. Just quiet teamwork. It sounds silly, but it fascinates me.
I wonder if my mom is still crying. Whether or not she is okay. Who started the fight? Was it in person or over the phone? My stomach flops and I push all thoughts of home away.
After dinner, we head back to Ford’s room. I feel Ford’s eyes boring a hole in me as I say, “Your mom’s enchiladas are amazing. You’ve been holding out on me.”
Ford remains silent.
I stare at him. “Are you okay?”
He cocks his head to the side. “That’s what I was wondering about you.”
I curl my toes and press them into his rug as I lean back against a TV pillow. A heavy feeling sinks in my stomach. “What do you mean?”
He scoots closer to me. “You know what I mean. What’s with you being upset so much and never giving an explanation? You’re not as good at acting as you think you are. I could tell you were upset the second you walked up. It’s driving me crazy. What’s the deal?”
I stare at the floor. Tears trickle out. I hope my hair is hiding them. Ford tucks my hair behind my ears. Damn.
His arms envelope me and he presses his cheek against my wet one. It’s a sacred momena sidtt, and neither one of us speaks.
Ford pulls back enough to look at me. “Why don’t you trust me with whatever is upsetting you? At least give me a chance.”
“I don’t know. Things are too complicated—too messy.” A little sigh shudders through me.
“What you mean is, what if I make things worse?” He massages my hands, relaxing them from the tight fists they were balled into.
I shrug my shoulders. “Sounds pretty crappy, huh?”
“No, just real. What if I promise on my honor not to make whatever it is worse?”
Considering my options, it seems like talking to Ford might be the best one. “Which includes not telling anyone else?”
Ford repeats, “Which includes not telling anyone else. Which I might add, is the business of trust. You confide in me and I don’t share your secrets. And vice versa. Pretty nice concept—huh?”
“In theory, yes.” My tears have dried up. “You swear?”
“A man’s word is his bond.” Ford grins.
I feel like I’m about to jump off the edge of a cliff. My pulse speeds up and my hands start sweating. “I’m serious. Swear?” I give him a pleading look. I have to know he’s not just screwing around being silly.
“On a stack of Bibles. Pinky promise.” His fingers interlock with mine. So yeah, he’s keeping it light, trying to make me smile. But his eyes are serious and concerned, which is enough for me to feel safe.
“Okay, I’m gonna hold you to it.” I scrutinize his face.
He gently takes my hands in his. “Jeez, Grace. Tell me already.”
“Well, I don’t even know where to start.” I shift back and forth.
He scrunches in next to me against the TV pillow. “How about the weird vibes I get from your family?” he asks. “What’s with that?”
My mouth dries up. I swallow as I absorb the question.
“Well … um, things aren’t as happy as they seem. My folks don’t exactly get along. And sometimes my dad can get carried away.”
My cheeks burn. I squirm. What if Ford thinks I’m stupid? Or what if everybody’s family is like mine? It’s like part of me is freaking out about telling even this much, and another part of me is relieved.
“Like, overprotective? Carried away how?” Ford asks. His voice has a hard edge to it. He scoots closer to me.
“I don’t know … he just does.” I fidget with the frayed ends of my jeans and keep my eyes focused on the rug. I’m afraid to see the expression on Ford’s face.
“Like he’s a prosecutor in a courtroom?”
“No. Never mind. Life isn’t all courtroom drama. Forget I said anything.”
Ford bristles. “I’m trying to figure out what you mean. Carried away … ”
I’m exhausted. “Why do we have to talk about this right now? About my crap? What about yours? Like, tell me more about Brittany?” The momentary escape is slipping through my fingers with every word I speak.
Ford gives me a puzzled look before scooting away from me. A long silence stretches on into eternity, like he can’t decide whether to push or be okay with what I’ve said. I hold my breath.
He says, “I don’t know who Brittany is … why don’t you tell me what you’re talking about?”
The fact that he’s playing stupid irritates me. Like I want to put up with that kind of crap. What kind of friend is he anyway? I stand up and put my hands on my hips. “The girl. The hot one that you’re coaching.”
He forces a smile. “Brianna? She’s not training. I just gave her a beginner’s lesson that one day. She’s a girl from work. What’s up?”
Even though we’re not together, it feels like he’s cheating on me. I swallow. It’s like I’m playing chicken with heartache. “Nothing. It’s just … she seemed like a nice girl. Pretty. You should … you know. Go for her.”
Ford crosses his arms. “You know, Grace, I don’t need your approval or permission to date anyone. And Brianna and I have gone on a date—bowling. But … thanks for the advice.” He stares me down, a puzzled look on his face.
I steel my insides, wondering what in the world is wrong with me. Why do I keep pushing him away?