thirty-four
situational irony: an occasion in which the outcome is significantly different from what
was expected or considered appropriate
—www.grammar.about.com
Grace hurt. By Mr. Parker. That’s what runs through my head as I knock on my parents’ door at three in the morning.
My folks sleep heavy. I could throw a party and they wouldn’t wake up. I pound on their door again.
Grace on the phone, crying. She’s tried to tell me. She’s hinted.
The lock on their door unclicks and Ma opens it, her hair in all directions. She groans, “Mijo, it’s three in the morning. This better be good.”
“Grace can’t live there, Ma. Her dad hit her.”
Ma snaps her eyes wide open and lets out a stream of curse words in Spanish. She’s awake now. “Slow down, mijo. Where is Grace?”
I bounce on my toes. “She’s at her place. Packing. I told her we’d pick her up. That she can move in with us.” Then I wait for the bomb.
Ma nods. “Of course. Let me get dressed. I’m going with you. Put on some jeans and a T-shirt. Grab my keys.”
I nod, upset and scared. For Grace. Feeling impotent. Wishing I were there already.
Ma looks at me like she gets it. She pats my cheek. “Mijo, she’ll be fine. You’re a good son. Let’s get moving.”
Five minutes later, Ma and I are out the door. The ride to the Parkers’ is quiet. A thousand little things start flashing through my head. Clues I missed. Grace never having me over. Her parents being so uptight. Controlling. The day Grace got sliced by that kook. The lifeguard’s dirty look. The bruise on Grace’s hip. Things I didn’t connect. Or maybe, didn’t want to see. I was so focused on my freaking internship. On that letter of recommendation. On helping more Jorges. On Little Hien. I didn’t see the person standing in my own backyard. A little white girl on a surfboard. My best friend.
My stomach retches. I roll down the window and stick my face out, letting salty wind blow in my face. Taking deep breaths. Trying not to throw up. Trying to reconcile how a dad can love his daughter but can’t control himself. I’ve seen the look of pride on his face when Grace catches a good ride. I’ve had burgers with them at In and Out after a surf session and laughed at the same stupid jokes. It blows my mind. Mr. Parker is known for keeping his cool in litigation—it’s like an incompatible computer system. My head spins with pictures of books flying at Grace. With Mr. Parker’s face laughing at something funny. Grace always sitting on her front porch ’cause she couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.
Guilt. I’m knee-deep in the shit. Trying to keep Grace from dating people to stay on her dad’s good side. Not wanting to date her ’cause her old man would ruin my future. That should have set off warning sirens. Instead, I was trying to figure out how to save my sorry ass. But Grace? She’s the one who needs saving.
Thinking of the stupid things that have always bothered me about my own parents makes me feel small. Like wishing Ma was more of a neat freak. Or that Dad didn’t have grease worn into the skin around his nails all the time. Appearances. Who the hell cares? Reality is what counts.
Ma pulls up to Grace’s house. Grace is sitting on a suitcase in the middle of the driveway, hunched over, hands tucked inside her hoodie. Ma parks, and I rush out of the car. But somehow Ma beats me to Grace. She swishes over there and sweeps Grace up in a big hug. I feel stiff and stupid. Not sure of what to do.
Grace slumps into Ma’s arms. Ma strokes her hair and murmurs comforting phrases in Spanish. Then a long, dry, shuddering sob comes out of Grace. I run over and put my arms around them from the other side. It’s a Watson sandwich, with Grace in the middle.
She draws strength from it and straightens up. We both pull away from her, giving her some space. I give her hand a little squeeze but don’t let go. Then I bend over and get her suitcase. Ma grabs her backpack and hands Grace an old teddy bear.
The front door flings open and Mr. Parker storms out in a T-shirt and pajahirt andma pants. Shit. I wish my dad were here.
He barrels over to us. I fling my arms out in front of Grace and Ma, nudging them back. Then I step forward, between them and Mr. Parker.
He narrows his eyes. “This isn’t your business.” Then he glares at Grace. “You’re going to leave? Think you can do better?” He spreads his arms out wide and laughs a mocking laugh. “Shoot for the moon with your dreams. Go to the local college and become a surf bum. Wow. What’s the point in being valedictorian?”
I turn back to see tears running down Grace’s face. Ma is too busy hugging Grace and alternating between praying and cursing in Spanish. I stare down Mr. Parker. “That’s enough, Jack.”
He moves forward. “Yeah, and what are you going to do about it? Really? Is she worth your future?”
I step up. “Yeah, she is. And you know what, Jack? I quit. And my future? You don’t own a minute of it.”
“You punkass kid.” He lunges at me with a right hook.
I step left, circle my arm around his incoming fist, deflect it, grab his wrist, and twist it behind his back, yanking it upward hard enough to make him calm down. Adrenaline pumps through my body, surging to the point I’m almost shaky.
“Real men don’t punch kids. Period.” I twist his arm up a little tighter, so angry; it’s taking all my control not to hit him. I’ve got to show Grace I’m different. I lower my voice and say, “Screw you and your connections.”
Then I shove him to the ground, away from me. My guess is he’ll be nursing his arm instead of picking a fight.
He half sobs, half yells, “I’m finished with all of you. You hear that, Grace?”
This is not the time to linger. I rush toward Ma and Grace and corral them to the car. We hurry into the SUV like that, holding hands. With broken hearts.