nine
Surfing expresses … a pure
yearning for visceral, physical
contact with the natural world.
—Matt Warshaw, Maverick’s
I grab hold of the back of a park bench and stretch my calves. Mom is busy stretching her quads. Our weekly run has been good for us. Mom started it the summer I met Ford, when it seemed like we couldn’t get along in regards to anything. It was her peace offering, an attempt to help our relationship. And it has helped—some. It’s good for us to spend time together when we’re not bickering. One of the best things about running with my mom is not talking. We hang out, run down the same trails, and maintain our own thoughts and differences without feeling the need to get into a verbal sparring session.
A middle-aged man running past pulls a double take, his eyes lingering on Mom’s chest for a split second. Her blond hair, normally layered around her face, is pulled back in a ponytail and, between her muscles and her tan, she looks pretty hot, even if she is mom to a teenager.
Mom stretches her arms behind her, unconsciously pushing her chest out; an old man walk Ve="ing past slows his turtle pace.
“Have you been checking out the Ivy Leagues? Organizing applications?”
I lie, only because the truth would cause a huge argument. In her world, there are no colleges but Ivy League. “Yep.”
Mom grins. “Good.”
This is my in. “Hey mom, there’s a bonfire at the beach next weekend, complete with guitars and off-key singing. Ford’s offered to take me, watch out for me. Is it all right if I go?”
I can see the wheels turning in her head. She scrunches up her face, which gives way to a slight frown. “He’s a good friend, isn’t he?”
I touch my toes. “Yes.”
She bends down, stretching all the way to her toes, and then looks over at me. “Make sure that’s the way it stays. Just friends. He seems like a good kid, but you don’t need a guy distracting you from academics.”
“Yes, Mom.”
She flips right-side-up and stretches toward the sky. “Good girl. A distraction of the romantic sort of any kind is the last thing you need. Wait until you’re attending an Ivy to find the right guy. So you really want to go to this party?”
An unintentional whine escapes. “I totally want to go, and Ford’s going to make sure everything’s above board.”
Mom stops stretching to consider my argument. “Well, you’ve been working hard at your summer studies, and if Ford’s going to watch out for you and you’re just going together as friends…”
“Just friends. I promise.” I beg with my entire body: eyebrows raised, lips parted, hands clasped, down on one knee. Forget pride. Think party.
“I think we can make that happen. I’ll talk it over with your father. I don’t see him saying no. He’s very proud of your class ranking, and it is summertime.”
I give her a quick hug. “Thanks, Mom. It’s way cool of you.”
She hugs me back. “Well, I’m not always a party pooper. Is there anything you want to talk about?”
Of course, there’s a ton to talk about. Namely, what happened to me three days ago. But she’ll talk with me about things until I have no emotional energy left. She’ll point out all the ways I set him off. She’ll question how much of my side of the story is true. How violent was he, really? She’ll go through all the arguments for needing a father figure. Then she’ll end the conversation, because the obvious decision after all the “logical” arguments is to stay.
I suck in my breath and hold it a second. What’s the point? She’ll throw out her made-up statistics regarding what’s worse: having a dad who loses his temper sometimes or having no dad at all.
So as a matter of fact, I don’t want to discuss it. I’d rather savor my permission to attend the bonfire. “Nah. Let’s hit the trail.”
Six weeks to go until the competition. I attach my leash to my left ankle and wade into the water. Cold water laps against my legs and creeps in through my suit.
“Grrr!”
Ford laughs and splashes behind me, his board jostling against his body as he catches up to me. I continue wading out, ensuring he has to match my pace. Today I’m supposed to pretend I’m competing. I splash onward, determined to act like a badass even if that’s the furthest thing from the truth. Because if I don’t “fake it until I make it,” then all my dreams and hard work might as well be litter floating out on a riptide.
The water hits my thighs and I hop on the board and paddle out, again taking the lead. I don’t know if Ford’s buying what I’m selling, but that doesn’t matter anyway. What does matter is that I deliver. It means everything. Even though the real competition is weeks away, it doesn’t stop the nervous jitters running through me.
A wave pitches forward and, as it’s about to crash, I duck dive—and it freakin’ works! First time I’ve ever had the strength to push my board down under a wave. I’m stoked I’m already seeing improvements after a week.
The wave passes; I paddle over toward the lineup to wait with the usual crew. I wave at Buzzy and Damien.
Ford joins the lineup about five feet over to my right. “Nice moves getting out here, Parker. You look like a pro.”
A wave passes through and we drop down on our boards, turn around, and paddle. It’s too late to catch the wave and if we aren’t careful, we’ll be sucked into it and pulled toward the shore.
Some surfer who dropped in on the wave near me yells, “Out of my way, femme.”
Adrenaline pumping, I paddle left fast. If you get run over because you’re in someone’s wave, not only does it hurt but everyone thinks you’re a shubie—a poser, a fake.
Once out of the way, I turn around to see three surfers on the same wave.
Ford sits tall on his board. “I hate party waves.”
“Me too.”
He pops back down. “Incoming. Paddle, Grace! Let’s catch this one together!”
I drop down on my board and look behind me to gauge the wave. It hasn’t broken yet. I paddle like there’s no tomorrow. The wave begins to suck me and my board up to the top. I lean my weight forward and paddle harder. The board drops down to the trough of the wave and pulls out in front. I pop up and look to my left, stoked about my start.
Ford’s standing up too, with matted [, wy left, st, wet hair stuck to the side of his face.
I focus and pull a hard bottom turn to the right and veer up the midline face of the wave. The momentum of the wave pulls me forward, bleeding speed. At the top of the wave I pull my very first floater, riding across it. Just as quickly,
I pop back down to the bottom, picking up more speed as I land back in the flat zone. Keeping my head facing the line, I repeat the maneuver and begin a short series of floaters, pumping my board up and down from the top of the wave to the midsection, creating my own Grace Parker ocean roller coaster. I love the feeling of the wave below me, propelling me forward. That need to pay close attention to it and constantly adjust for an optimal ride.
I carve hard one last time and then bail as the wave fizzles.
Cheers erupt from a few fellow surfers followed by a barrage of remarks.
Damien paddles over and gives me a hug. “Great job, babe. You really nailed it.”
Ford says, “Lay off it, horndog.”
Damien says, “Yeah, brah. Who do you think taught her that?”
Ford parks his board next to mine, still frowning about Damien. “That must have been some ride. What’d you pull?”
Annoyed by his over-protectiveness, I keep it minimal. “A floater.”
Damien keeps his board next to mine. Knowing it’s totally going to piss Ford off, I ask Damien, “Can we work on airs again?”