Riptide by Lindsey Scheibe Page B

head. “Leave some for the rest of the guys, Hien.”
    Hien doesn’t blink an eye. He joins us at the table.
    Hop says, “Nobody told Hien he’s Asian. He’s had an identity crisis since elementary when he moved here.”
    Hien takes a big bite and says, “Yeah, and Hop’s sucked at poker since we started this weekly gig. You don’t see me complaining. He keeps me supplied with bling, yo.”
    I shove a moon cake in my mouth so I don’t laugh at this little hip-hop dude.
    Hop says, “Yeah, yeah. Where’s the rest of the crew?”
    “Ah dude, they be helping the latest FOB figure out the bus system. They’ll be here any minute.”
    Hop nods.
    “FOB?” I ask.
    Hien tucks a large bite in his cheek. “Fresh Off the Boat. As in still not speaking the English well.”
    “Oh.”
    Hop says, “Our group … we take them in until they get things figured out. And Hien, here, he’s our non-example of how to fit in.”
    I think about Jorge and ask, “Are these FOBs legal?”
    Hien narrows his eyes. “You legal?”
    I lean back. “Totally didn’t mean it that way dude. I just wondered if I could help, you know?”
    Hop pelts Hien with the paper towel right between the eyes. “He wants to go into immigration law. Help people not get deported, yo.”
    Hien wads the paper towel and throws it back at Hop. “Yeah, well, you never know.”
    Jorge’s face floats through my mind. I can’t let it go. “They have a place to go? You know, like use computers. Learn English. Find a lawyer?”
    “Yeah,” Little Hien says. “There’s an Asian American Cultural Center that helps FOBs. But their computers suck.” He shrugs. “Sometimes it’s better to go to the library. Lawyers? They’re for peeps with cash, bro.”
    I nod, thinking I bet Ma could get the university to donate some old computers to them. Ones that are only a year or so old.
    The door flies open and three guys come in talking smack. They head straight for the moon cakes and help themselves. If Hien is a Future Pimp, the rest of these guys have futures in the computer or gaming industry.
    Soon the game of poker begins. Texas Hold’em. I’ve seen this game on TV and played it a few times on the Internet.
    I arrange my cards, then ask, “What’s the ante?”
    Hien says, “Twenty-five cents.”
    And so we’re off. About halfway into the game, with most of my money gone, Hien looks up at me and asks, “So how do you and Hop know each other?”
    I toss out a quarter. “From our internship at Bristol and Wentworth.”
    “Internship?” Hien tugs his sunglasses down a bit and looks at Hop with one eyebrow raised.
    Hop cracks his knuckles. Then he chimes back, “Hey, there are hot, styling babes where I work. Better than the catch at the lame-o movie theater.”
    Sunglasses shoot back up and Hien slouches into his chair. “Hey. I get you into free movies, so show some respect.” He leans back into the table. “What kind of hot babes? You gonna hook a bro up?”
    “You don’t need a girl,” Hop says. “You need status. The legal kind. I was thinking Ford and I might figure out a way to help.”
    He looks across the table at me. Jorge flashes through my mind again. I glance at Hien, who’s sitting there tense behind his glasses, constantly rearranging his cards. My summer just took on a whole lot more meaning.
    I swallow hard and say, “Sure, man. We got you covered.”

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