Free Riptide by Lindsey Scheibe Page B

talking to somebody your age in Heaven? The ache starts in my throat and spreads all the way down to my chest, where it lies heavy, mixed with the weight of guilt and the sting of reality.
    C’mon, now. Man up. Just do it.
    I gaze up and find the Milky Way. Then find Sagittarius. The archer. A warrior. The best kind of constellation to find Jorge peeking through. Sometimes, I imagine the sounds of bullets popping off like a truck backfiring in some open-air market in Mexico. And Jorge standing there next to some little kid. Then he grabs the kid and throws him to the ground out of the spray of bullets. And when the shots stop firing the kid is safe and his mom runs to him and Jorge to thank him for her son’s life. But it’s too late, because Jorge’s not there anymore. I don’t know how it went down, but I know Jorge’s heart. And if there was a chance to save someone else, Jorge would have died doing it. That’s the only thing I can hold on to when reality spins out of control.
    I stare at the brightest star, a lump in my throat. I croak out, “Hey man. You got time to talk tonight?”
    Then I wait. The only noise is cars in the distance zipping down the highway and ocean waves rolling gently in.
    “Jorge? I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t even go to your funeral. Didn’t find out about things until too late.” I shut my eyes for a brief second. Pull it together. Tighten my grip on the towel and try again. “I didn’t know things were that bad. I thought you were in the process of trying to make things legal. Didn’t know you could get deported when you were trying to figure out how to do it right. I should have hid your family at my house. Should have figured out how to get you a better lawyer.”
    Mi Dios . A sob escapes me and I shove my fist into my mouth. I don’t deserve to cry. I have my cozy life.
    Life.
    Jorge? He was just getting started. My breathing heaves up and down with the weight of sobs stuffed inside my ribs until it seems like I’ll burst. And for a few minutes all I can do is breathe and fight the release of stuffed emotions, ones that give me fuego to fight for all the Jorges. For their families. The stars blur, and I swipe at my eyes and pull it all back in.
    My words come out broken. “I’ll … make it … up. I swear.” I sit up and rub the towel on my face. “I save up half of every paycheck. Once I figure out where your mom is living, I’m going to mail her half of this summer’s pay.” It almost hurts to stare straight at that star. Like I can’t look Jorge in the eyes. “I know it doesn’t fix things. But I know you would have done the same. Taken care of your family.”
    I sit up and scoot back until I’m leaning against the cab. Then I hold the towel in my lap and sit in silence.
    For several minutes. Calming down. Then I look up one last time. “I’m going to spend my life making this right. I’m going to help people, and Little Hien’s my first chance at redemption.”

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,