seven
Out of the water, I am nothing.
—Duke Kahanamoku
Beads of water roll off Damien’s dreads. A big set comes at us and he says, “All right, girl. Let’s catch this one together. Just for fun.”
I paddle hard. “I’m breaking left.”
He’s a few feet over and a bit behind me. “You got it, babe.”
After this past weekend at Huntington, I knew I needed to get up the nerve to ask other guys for a ride to the beach. Damien was the one I felt the most comfortable asking. Since he gave me a lift, I guess we’re kind of surf buddies for the day.
I watch as the wave crests and Damien gets sucked up in the sweet spot. I paddle hard and kick to catch it. Oh yeah. I drop in next to him and we surf next to each other for a few seconds before breaking different directions to carve down the line. I don’t pull any fancy moves. Hanging out with Damien is chill, and it’s fun front-porching it, but I know I need to get serious and work on my 360 even on the days I’m not surfing with Ford.
The wave fizzles out and I exit the ride.
Damien and I paddle back over to each other. Sure, he may rub Ford the wrong way, but I think that’s a total guy thing.
I reach Damien and say, “So when are you going to teach me how to pull an air?”
He straddles his board, hands resting on the rails. “Me teach you moves? I thought you were teaching me.”
I splash at him. “Oh come on. You know you pull sick airs.”
He grins. “I might be persuaded to give you a few pointers.”
This feels so flirty and fun. “And how does that work?”
“I pick you up tomorrow.”
Tomorrow is Ford’s day off. I say, “I already made plans.”
“A girl in demand. I can respect that. What’s the rest of your week looking like?”
I ponder, mull it over dramatically. “Friday?”
He flashes pearly whites. “Done, boss.”
Damien drops me off after a sweet surf session. When I walk through the front door, Dad’s sitting in the recliner with his lips curled in a scowl. Crap. I hate it when a case drives him so nuts that he seeks the refuge of our house. His safe zone equals me walking on eggshells. He looks ready for a fight. Fear flashes through me like lightning.
“Hey, Daddy.” I try to sound upbeat. “Everything okay?”
He pops up out of his chair. “Where have you been all day? I’ve been worried sick.” He greets me with a slap across the face.
I reel backward, shocked at the sting warming my cheek. I blink a couple of times, angry at the unexpectedness. His outbursts are always random, never logical. Even on the days when nothing happens, he still has the advantage because I never know what’s going to set him off.
“I was surfing. Remember? I told you I’d be surfing.” I fight the desire to cringe. Tears well up at the corners of my eyes. Furious, I bite down hard and stiffen my lips.
“Yeah, in the morning. Not all damn day. And what beach were you at?”
I put all my nervous energy into flicking my pointer finger over and under my thumb, hiding my fear. “We went to La Jolla. I thought I told you.”
“Well, maybe you ought to write it down next time.” His jaw muscles flex in and out. Clearly he’s itching for a fight.
I clasp my hands into a fist to still my nerves. “Jeez. I’m really sorry, Dad.”
The veins in his neck throb and his face flushes. “Jeez” was the wrong word choice. Shit.
My dad slaps me over and over as I run across the living room, playing dodge and retreat as best I can. When I reach my room, my escape route fails. He shoves me across my room. I land smack into my dresser, the metal handle jamming into my lower back.
“What were you thinking? Did you think you could get away with it? Surfing all day? Are you trying to dodge your chores?” The back of his hand is poised in the air—ready to strike.
“No, Daddy. I swear.” A small sob escapes.
He tosses me onto my bed, knocking the mattress half off. I clench my wrought iron bedframe; fear courses through me. I have nowhere to run. I shrink back and flinch.
Instead of hitting me again, he stalks out of the room, damage complete.
Once he slams the door behind him, I crumple in a heap against my bedframe, cover my face, and sob without sound. Crying silently has been painfully acquired. My way of not letting him know how much he hurts me. My way of maintaining dignity. My way of pretending I’m tough. Nobody likes a whiner anyway. People ask how you’re doing, but they don’t want the real answer. They want the nice one. Your dad hits you? Forget it.
I think about another of Eleanor Roosevelt’s famous quotes:
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.
When I regain my composure I practically tiptoe to the kitchen, knowing Dad is back in his office. Even so, I don’t want to alert him to the fact that I’m out of my room.
I run the hot water in the sink until it’s three quarters of the way full. My lower back aches—the dresser really nailed it. Then I wipe down the counters while the dishes soak, pausing every now and then to rub at my back or stretch the tight muscles out. I’m careful to dry the counters without leaving streaks. Once the dishwasher is loaded, I measure out the detergent, carefully.
Most people use too much detergent or not enough, but Parkers use the right amount of stuff. — Dad
It’s usually funny, except when it isn’t.
I walk gently back to my room, hugging the wall, hoping not to be noticed. I pull out some college apps to make it look like I’m working on them. Then I leave Post-it notes all over the house, making certain my parents know my locale. I check myself in the mirror to make sure I don’t have marks anywhere. Then I turn around and peek at my lower back. There’s a bruise already forming. But I’m wearing a long T-shirt so it doesn’t matter. I’ll just have to be careful at the beach around Ford. The advantage of a wetsuit—it hides the marks.
I escape on my bike back to Ford’s house. If I had a car like most kids my age, life would be so much easier. But my parents like control. Cars equal freedom. Therefore, Grace “is fortunate to have a bike to ride.”
After spending the weekend with Ford’s family, it feels like the right place to go. Fifteen minutes later, I skid into the Watson driveway. Mama Watson answers the front door when I knock.
“Grace? Mija, come here.” She gives me a big hug and it’s all I can do not to break down and tell her everything. She seems so warm and safe. I fight tears welling up at the corner of my eyes, trying desperately to pretend nothing’s wrong, even though it’s probably obvious from my puffy eyes that I’ve had a less-than-stellar day.
I sniffle. “Is Ford home?”
A look of concern crosses her face. She shakes her head. “No. He texted me something about going to Hop’s for poker. He won’t be home until late tonight.”
My Klare h shoulders slump. I expected Ford to be here. Waiting for me. Not hanging out with new people from work. I feel sick. I should have texted. Why would I think that if he’s not with me, he must be at home? He has a life … other friends. Unlike me.
Mama Watson says, “I know I’m no Ford. But do you want to talk over hot cocoa?”
“Oh, no. I’m okay. Thanks though.”
She steps toward me, hesitantly. “I’m here if you change your mind.”
I nod and get back on my bike. I pedal away from home base toward town, wondering where to go.