Perfectly Ridiculous Read online

  He limps behind me to the elevator. “I’m sorry about Max, if it makes you feel any better. I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”

  “I’m sorry you picked my pathetic mission for your trip after seeing what I’d picked. Maybe if I’d known to warn you that I had the worst luck in the world, neither one of us would be in this situation.”

  “Why don’t I come with you tomorrow to the NGO thing? I could help translate, and then I wouldn’t feel like this entire trip was wasted.”

  “You need to get back home and get to your food bank, and I don’t think they want a guy who looks like you on the pregnancy circuit of Argentina, if you know what I mean.”

  “Why not? There’s little damage I could do if they’re already pregnant.”

  I stare hard at him.

  “It was a joke, Daisy. Lighten up.”

  “I can’t lighten up. I keep thinking how I’m going to explain your presence to my parents, but I can’t let you go to the airport without a ticket either.”

  “I’ll handle it. You haven’t done anything wrong. Maybe you get in so much trouble because you automatically feel guilty, so everyone just assumes you’re guilty.”

  “Maybe.” I press the button to the floor where my parents are located and pray they’re where they said they would be. It’s going to be hard enough to explain my whereabouts all morning and afternoon. “I’m starving.”

  “We haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Maybe we should go down to the restaurant and eat before we meet up with my parents. We could just put the tab on the room.”

  The elevator doors open. “Too late,” J.C. says.

  “I have to get a new travel journal. The napkins aren’t doing the trick as journal paper. Why don’t we hit the gift shop before we bother my parents? I bet they have some really nice ones down in the lobby. Did you see how nice their gift shop was? Don’t you love how you can just buy anything in a gift shop? I mean, it’s like this little mini everything store, and it’s like they know exactly what you’ll need and so they stock it. Even if you’re only craving a candy bar. They have the best selection and—”

  “Daisy, what room are your parents in?”

  The door to their room opens unexpectedly, and my dad stands in the door frame right across from the elevator. He hasn’t taken his eyes off J.C. since he opened the door. I have no time to regroup or plan my defense.

  “Daisy.”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Who is this? What the heck happened to you, son?”

  “Dad, this is J.C., and he was working with me at Libby’s mission. And you know how you always told me that I should look out for the little guy and be a good Samaritan in all circumstances?”

  “I have a feeling that’s going to turn on me at the moment. Where’s Max?” My dad comes out of the room and searches the hallway, as if Max has been on the elevator ahead of us.

  “Max isn’t here, Dad. Meet J.C.,” I say as we step out of the elevator.

  My dad brushes back what’s left of his hair and finally reaches out his hand. “J.C., huh?” But naturally I’m getting the evil eye. Why does my dad give a perfect stranger the benefit of the doubt, while it’s clear I’m going down sometime in the near future?

  J.C. reaches out his good hand and awkwardly shakes my father’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Crispin. I want to tell you how your daughter put her own scholarship in jeopardy to do the right thing, and most people would never do such a thing, so I think you’ve done an awesome job raising her.”

  “Do you now? Did Daisy have anything to do with all that you’re wearing?”

  “Not a thing. But she saved Libby from looking like this, and even though Libby will never know or appreciate it, your daughter did it anyway.”

  “At the expense of her scholarship, is that what you’re telling me?” My dad glares at J.C., and I wish I could just crawl under the nearest rock, but no doubt a scorpion would be hiding out there and I’d look exactly like J.C. did. It’s just that kind of trip.

  “Yes, sir. But she took care of that too. She’s arranged to start a new ministry tomorrow with a local NGO.”

  “Let’s finish this conversation in the room, shall we?” My dad stretches across the door frame to let J.C. know in his own way that this may not be a comfortable situation. “Daisy, as you know, your mother and I had something to tell you. That’s why we came out to the mission to begin with.”

  “Dad, can we talk about it after J.C. calls his grandmother and makes arrangements for his flight home?”

  My mom stands beside my father. “What’s going on?”

  “Daisy has a friend with her.”

  “Daisy, we need to talk with you privately. That’s why we came this morning.”

  “I know, Mom, but J.C. has to get home. He got stung by a scorpion and then a child abuser beat him up.” I’m hoping that the child abuse thing makes them forget all about the fact that J.C. is (1) male and (2) someone I’ve known for three days in a foreign country.

  “A child abuser?” My mom’s eyes narrow.

  “We had a little boy at the camp who kept wandering over alone with a bottle. No one with him at all. So J.C. was walking him home one afternoon, but J.C. got stung by a scorpion on the way back. I guess the little boy got scared.”

  “How does the child abuser come into this?” My mom has her arms crossed, and it’s clear she doesn’t believe even an inkling of the story. This is going to be harder than I thought.

  “The little boy came back the next day, and we noticed he was bruised up, so we snuck him out to the medical clinic—”

  “Why did you sneak him out? You should have told Libby. You two have no idea how things work down here, and you could have gotten into big trouble.”

  “Well, we sort of did, Mom. J.C. is beat up because he didn’t want to lead the boy’s stepfather back to the mission and get Libby into trouble.”

  My mom looks at my father. “What do you think of all this?”

  “I think we’ve always taught Daisy to stand up for the right thing, and today she did it. Along with her friend here. I’m proud of you, Daisy.”

  Did my father just say he was proud of me? When I nearly got arrested in a foreign country? I think I’m going to faint. But I realize it’s too late because the next thing I know, J.C. is on the ground, laid into the designer carpeting. His broken arm is twisted up in a way that doesn’t look good.

  “Dad! Do something!”

  My father assesses the situation, too slow for my tastes, and tells my mother to call the concierge and get help. “Have you two eaten today?” Dad looks up at me.

  “I haven’t, but he was in the hospital until this morning, so I assumed that he did. At least something.”

  My father grabs J.C.’s good wrist and checks his pulse. “His heartbeat is fine. Steady.”

  “Can we not play ER now? Do something.”

  “Daisy, go sit with your mother. You’re far too emotional in these situations. He’s going to be fine.”

  Says Dr. Crispin. And may I just say, a CPR class so you can perform skits in the local schools does not an expert make!

  It’s nearly dinnertime, and it’s clear J.C.’s in no shape to go home for an umpteen-hour flight. “I need to call his grandmother again. She probably thinks he’s on the flight home by now.”

  “Wait until he comes to,” my father says. “You don’t want to tell the old woman he’s out cold and give her a heart attack. Go and get me some ice.”

  I do as I’m told, and I’m grateful my parents are here. After three days of handling crisis after crisis, it feels amazing to not have to think on my feet for a moment. I suppose I never fully appreciated that in my parents. They took the brunt of a lot of stuff for me, and it scares me that maybe I’m not ready to take the heat for my own life. In less than a month and a half, I will be in college, on my own, and responsible for getting myself fed, clothed, and educated, and suddenly that doesn’t feel as freeing as it did a few
days ago.

  My mom hands me the ice bucket, and I run down the hallway until I hear the clank of an ice machine. I put the bucket under the lever and push, praying under my breath that this whole nightmare of a vacation will end as soon as possible.

  “The concierge has contacted the on-call doctor,” Mom says when I get back. “Until then, the concierge said not to move him.”

  “What about his arm? What if it’s been knocked out of its place again?”

  “The cast will hold it.” My dad takes a bathroom towel my mother brought him and wraps some of the ice cubes inside it. He holds it to J.C.’s forehead, but he doesn’t stir. “Is he diabetic?” my father asks. “Does he have insulin to inject?”

  My eyes pop open. “I never thought of that, but you know, he was never without food in his backpack.”

  “Where’s his backpack now?”

  “It got stolen with the car.”

  “The what? Never mind. Honey, get me some juice out of the minibar. Did you see him with any kind of shot or insulin pump?”

  I just shake my head, but in that magic bag of tricks he carried about, who knows what he had in there?

  My mom runs to the minibar and fiddles with the key that’s hanging from it for what seems an eternity. “Mom, hurry!” I run to the tiny fridge after she’s opened it and look at the juices available. “Grape or bilberry?”

  “Grape,” my father announces without a pause. “Check if there’s orange somewhere in there.”

  “Got it. Dad, what if he chokes?” I hand him the tiny bottle.

  “Hold the towel under his head. If it’s a diabetic coma, we’re better off taking our chances.”

  As I watch my father try to pour orange juice into J.C.’s lax lips, I can only hope that’s true.

  17

  My Life: Stop—July 9

  Night—and the city is so beautiful!

  As you can see, dear journal, I got myself a new travel journal. Maybe with it, I brought the hope that the rest of this trip will improve vastly.

  I’d hoped this trip would be my foray into my new and independent world. That I would prove to my parents how over-parented I’ve been and that I’m capable—but it seems their version of me may be closer to the truth than I’d like.

  Still, I’m proud of my parents and their ability to let go a little. They gave me their phone this morning, they didn’t ask questions, and they trusted me to drive off into the wild blue yonder with Max Diaz. And . . . I ended up at the police station, and Max’s car will probably end up in the scrap pile. Maybe I’m dangerous. Is that why my parents are overprotective? What if I’m not ready to be on my own and this failed mission trip is a marker? Maybe it’s like God’s pink slip—a notice that no, I’m not quite ready to be on my own.

  Is that thought to protect me? In case my scholarship doesn’t come through? I can’t take my parents’ money for college. They have scraped and scrimped their whole lives, and they’ve done their job. It’s my problem now. I’m my own problem, not theirs.

  I’ve had some quiet time. Spent time with the Lord while in the bathtub. I think the reception is better in the bathtub, personally. Maybe it’s because I’m all exposed and can’t really hide a thing at that point, but it’s a place I feel at peace in prayer.

  My dad went with J.C. to the local hospital. Let’s be honest, I may have bad luck, but J.C. seems to medal in it. He wasn’t diabetic, but severely hypoglycemic. My father was right with his treatment. Again.

  What would I have done if J.C. had just passed out on me? What if I’d made him worse, or even killed him because I couldn’t think of a better plan to get him to Buenos Aires? I can’t imagine trying to explain to his grandmother that he was beaten to a pulp AND unfed, and I’d stood idly by while it all happened. That’s a conversation I’ll never have, praise God! My dad took that burden off me, which makes me feel all warm and cozy. Thank you, Daddy!!

  J.C. is everything I dreamed about in a guy, but even as I write this, my thoughts stray to Max. J.C.’s a stand-up guy, willing to fight for “the weakest of these” like the Bible preaches, and as gorgeous as any actor you’ll see in the latest iCarly episode. But there’s a dark side, and I almost hate to admit how shallow and hypocritical I am here. But J.C. has incredibly bad luck. I mean, catastrophe follows him like the black dog of depression that Winston Churchill talked about. I realize how ironic this is, considering that if Claire had ever taken bad luck into account, I would never have acquired a best friend.

  I suppose luck is not a godly concept or a fruit of the Spirit. The rain will fall on both the just and the unjust, right? We’re supposed to reap what we sow, but what about when we don’t? What about when we save an abused toddler from his evil stepfather and get rewarded by a stolen car, a broken arm, and a diabetic coma (okay, a hypoglycemic fainting spell)? Somehow it’s not as hot, right? What about that? It’s one of those questions I’ll definitely have for God when I get my face-to-face. Along with why I had to wear homemade clothes at that elite private school. Did he think that improved my character somehow? Because I think it just left scars.

  I mean, fine, make me born into a family who is crafty and creative and thinks making my clothes is a fine idea—but don’t make me aware of it! I mean, couldn’t I have been just like my parents and thought it was a cute and perfectly reasonable idea? Wouldn’t that have made life much simpler?

  This is something I’ll be musing in my Argentina travel journal, since it doesn’t look like I’ll be doing much traveling. Though I will be asking young girls how they got pregnant. That ought to appeal to my mother and father. Just like the bandaged boy I brought back. I suppose it’s not easy for my parents either. No doubt they wonder why they got me and not some earthy chick who liked to do gardening.

  The good thing about all this chaos with J.C.’s sugar drop is that I haven’t had time to process Max being pseudo-engaged. Or be obsessed about it, since it’s clearly not my problem and there’s nothing I can do to rescue him. He has to be his own hero. I have to be mine. Granted, with help from above, but there are those times that God feels so far away.

  I said I wouldn’t obsess, but I have to say that Rosalina is so beautiful, so who wouldn’t feel self-conscious about having a crush on and a prom dance with Max? He told me he loved me. He said the words at graduation. Why would he do that if Rosalina was waiting?

  I have to wonder if Max isn’t right about her and her ulterior motives, but that’s because I know Max. At least I think I do. What if what I feel about him in my gut isn’t true? What if he’s just another dog like Chase, who only used me to feed his ego, not because he had any actual feelings for me?

  “Daisy! Are you still in there?” My mom knocks on the bathroom door. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, Mom! Just writing in my journal in the tub.”

  “Dinner’s going to be here soon. Maybe you should get out now.”

  “Be right there!” I call.

  Back to NOT obsessing about Max. There are probably a lot of issues and history between Max and Rosalina, especially if their moms are involved. As much as I want to dislike her for being beautiful and being tied to Max, I can’t let my jealousy taint my Christian view of her. She’s involved in NGO work every day, so how can she not have a heart inside that 34D chest of hers?

  I can’t just assume that she’s got all these evil intentions. That would be prejudice.

  Prejudice is ignorance. Prejudice is ignorance. Prejudice against a pretty girl is ignorance.

  Nope. Not working. Still don’t like her.

  I mean, Max isn’t worth anything financially, and that can’t be the ideal mate for an ambassador’s daughter, so there’s something he’s not telling me. There have to be feelings on her part—and his? Maybe Max is taking out some misplaced anger about not going to college on poor Rosalina. Maybe she has that body dysmorphic thing where she doesn’t realize she’s hot.

  After all, it was so nice for Rosalina to find me a job when she could h
ave just hated me (as, let’s face it, I wanted to hate her). I’m sure she knows how Max can turn on the charm. He’s probably aimed it at her many times, but as for me, I believed it. With my whole heart I believed that he was different. I wish I knew what it was about me that attracts the rats, but I seem to be giving off some kind of radio signal. It’s definitely time that I changed my frequency because it’s like a dog whistle: all I’m calling in are the hounds!

  But yeah, even after all that, I still don’t like Rosalina. Sorry, God. I’m doing my best, but you don’t want me to lie, right?

  More tomorrow after the new mission field. I like the sound of that: new mission field. There’s so much hope in that phrase!

  I come out of the tub and cinch the plush hotel robe around my waist. My journal is clutched in my pruned fingertips, and I feel cleansed inside and out. My mom is standing over the table filled with food she’s ordered from room service, and I can hardly believe my mom has splurged on food brought to her. Normally she’d find the nearest grocery, borrow a hot plate somewhere, and cook something to save money. She is dressed in a form-fitting pencil skirt and heels with a wispy, scarf-like shirt.

  “Mom, what are you wearing?”

  She looks down. “Your father bought me this today in town. Isn’t it gorgeous? I told him it was too extravagant, but he said that we only live once and plopped the money down on the counter. It was so manly.”

  “He bought you that outfit and the ring?”

  “We were celebrating a gift God presented us with. Don’t worry, we tithed first.”

  “I’m not worried. I’m just—you look beautiful, that’s all. I’m not used to seeing you in clothes that show your shape.”

  “I didn’t have much of a shape before.”

  “And you ordered room service. Are you sure you’re my mom and not some alien imposter?”

  She smiles to the point of dimples, then strides slowly toward the window. “We sold the business.” She turns on her heel with her hand placed on her chest. “My business. That’s what we came by to tell you this morning—that our money woes are over. You don’t need the scholarship if you don’t want to take it, and you certainly don’t have to be mistreated by Libby. I know you have enough humility in you that you weren’t rude to her. I didn’t raise you that way.”