Jungle Crossing (2 page)

"Excuse me, but there are no seat belts in this vehicle." Ignored. "Mom? Dad? Did you hear me? Did you not listen when I told you about the number of auto accidents in Mexico? How am I supposed to survive if this tin can of a car doesn't even have seat belts?"

"Kat." Mom sighed. "Just relax."

"How can I relax if I'm about to die and never see my friends again?"

Mom sucked in a deep breath.

"We could play the silent game," Barb said.

"That's a great idea, sweetie." Mom leaned back and closed her eyes.

"We've got about a forty-minute drive to the hotel," Dad said. "Let's see if you can make it."

I took out my journal and added reason number 38: being asked to play ridiculous, childish games. Barb squeezed her lips shut and blinked at me rapidly; I wanted to smack her.

Mom leaned over and kissed Dad's cheek. "This is so romantic."

Barb clamped one hand over her mouth and motioned at Mom with the other. I turned my head and looked out the dirty window at the green rushing past. Where was the beach? We were drivi ng into the middle of nowhere. A few crumbled buildings dotted the side of the road, but the rest was all poisonous, creature-filled jungle. I kind of wondered if we'd landed in the wrong city.

"Anyone hungry?" Dad asked.

"Yes," we all said.

I was starving: a bag of M&M's and three bags of airplane snack mix was all I'd eaten since breakfast. Dad pulled up to a shack on the side of the road. A woman and a little boy lounged in a hammock, laundry hung from a clothesline, and a sign painted in a first-grader's handwriting said
GOOD EAT
. And I thought Barb's lemonade stand had looked unsanitary! Were these people actually trying to make money? Selling food? Here? A big truck rumbled past, shaking the entire car with a whoosh of air.

"Dad, is this a restaurant?" Barb asked.

"It's fast food Mexican-style," Dad said.

Nothing looked fast about it, except the cars zipping past us, dangerously close.

"I don't know, honey." Mom frowned. "We can eat at the hotel right after checking in. Why don't we wait?"

"Nonsense. I want the authentic stuff," Dad said. "Paul and I always ate at these roadside stands. Great stuff. One time..."

I couldn't believe it. We're about to be crushed by a speeding semi, and here he goes again, rambling about his road trip through Mexico with his archaeologist friend, Paul. He acts like it happened last year or something—but it was, like, last
millennium.

"Yeah, Dad. Um." I sucked in my breath as another truck flew past.

"One of the best tacos I ever ate was at a stand just like this—near Paul's dig site."

Mom shook her head and sighed.

The woman and boy swung in their hammock as if we weren't parked right there in front of them. Neither of them even looked at us. The clothes hanging on the line looked really old—like the kind of stuff we throw into the trash instead of giving to charity. A rickety-looking table held bowls of food, but where was the kitchen? I tried to peer into the dark door of the shack. Was that a real house? Or did they just work here? The taco carts at home looked so shiny and clean compared to this place—and I still wouldn't eat at them.

"I'm not touching any of it," I said. "If I survive the ride to the hotel, I don't want to die from some freaky food-borne illness."

"Let's just take a look," Dad said.

We all got out of the car. I figured I'd be safer standing away from the crazy drivers on the road. The woman swung her legs out of the hammock, looking tired and not all that excited about having a customer.

"
Un taquito con frijoles,
" Dad said.

Flies buzzed all over the food. I could practically see the germs clustered on their twitchy little feet. With a crusty wooden spoon, the woman scraped the scummy layer off a bowl of black beans before dumping a glob onto a paper plate. She placed a handful of greasy rolled tortillas next to the beans and added a spoonful of thin red salsa. As Dad handed her a few bills of Mexican money, I crinkled my nose at the strange spicy meat smell. What was it made of? I glanced around for a menu, like a real restaurant—even a fast-food place—would have. Nothing. I caught the thin boy watching me, and I turned away fast as a car full of normal-looking people drove past. In a normal-looking car. On their way to a real restaurant probably.

"
Gracias,
" Dad said, taking the plate from the woman. She nodded.

The food looked completely contaminated, but my stomach still rumbled as Dad dunked his
taquito
in salsa and gulped it in one bite. He held out his plate for me to try some. No way. I was waiting for normal food like I ate at home. Thousands of miles away.

"Mmm. Now, that is authentic," Dad said, crunching into another
taquito.
He ate three more.

P
LAYA DEL
C
ARMEN
, H
OTEL
M
AYA

Hi Guys! Mexico is so green and sunny.

Well, I'm off to the beach (with my sunscreen, of course).

Love, Kat

P.S. Remember to think of me at exactly 4 PM.

P.P.S. Remember to tell me EVERYTHING!

***

Rain. Big, fat drops of pouring rain. But that wasn't the worst of it. Dad was sick—nasty, disgusting sick. When he wasn't rushing to the bathroom, he lay there moaning. If only Mom had paid more attention to my list. Reason number 16: Montezuma's revenge.

I stretched across my bed, writing a postcard to Fiona. The picture of Playa del Carmen's white, white sand and blue, blue water looked nothing like the rainy gray day outside.

"What are you writing about?" Barb asked. "Dad barfing?"

"No, of course not." I lifted my pen and tapped my mouth. "I just don't want them to forget about me." Maybe they'd add one of my postcards to the mini-camp scrapbook. Fiona had kept a scrapbook of every mini-camp since the first one back in fourth grade. I hadn't been invited until last year, when Grace Williams went on vacation during mini-camp. She was shut out from the group all year, so she finally gave up and made new friends. But she wasn't popular anymore, not even close. I
had
to make sure Fiona remembered me!

Barb bounced onto the bed in her swimsuit. "Let's go swimming."

"It's raining," I said.

"So? You get wet when you swim."

Dad rushed into the bathroom again. Listening to that all day was going to make
me
sick.

"Okay." Risking a flash flood (number 20) was better than contracting Dad's disease. "We're going to the pool!" I yelled.

Mom poked her head through the door joining our rooms.

"You go and have fun," she said. "I'd better stay here with your dad."

I don't think she even knew it was raining.

That night, we walked through the fancy hotel garden—full of jungle plants, waterfalls, and squawking parrots—to eat dinner at the Mexican buffet place. Colorful red and green tablecloths and real flowers decorated all the little tables. Guys wearing crisp white uniforms rushed about picking up dirty dishes, bringing people clean plates, and sweeping crumbs off the shiny marble floor. A cute mariachi band walked around playing music, like at my favorite Mexican place back home. I headed right for the sizzling fajita bar—hot and, most important, fresh. But then I made a mini dish of nachos too. I loved having so many choices—and the dessert bar looked amazing. Three different kinds of chocolate cake! If only Dad had listened to us and waited to eat at the hotel, he could be enjoying all of this too.

Right after we sat down, Mom announced, "We've signed you up for a tour." She took a bite of enchilada (how did I miss those?). "Dad called Paul. He did his archaeological research in this area."

I dunked a tortilla chip into green salsa. "Like, duh. Dad can't stop talking about it." I've seen way too many photos of Dad's Big Adventure with Paul over the past couple of weeks—grinning from the tops of pyramids, digging into the dirt, hacking away at the jungle, drinking beer on the beach. "Preparation for
our
big adventure," Dad had called it. I was just traumatized by their shaggy and embarrassing facial hair.

Mom closed her eyes for a moment. "Anyway, Paul recommended the Ek Family Tours. It's an adventure tour for teens, but they also expose you to Mayan culture."

"Adventure? Wandering around the jungle, catching diseases ... and Mayan culture? Would that include eating at disgusting roadside stands? No thanks. And who is this Ick family? I'm not doing anything with the 'Ick' family." I set my fajita back onto my plate. "I mean, do you even know who these people are? They could kidnap us and sell us into some kind of child slavery." Reason number 9. "I'm staying right here. At the resort. Where it's safe and clean." I watched one of the workers mop up spilled soda. "You can't make me go back out there. I'm sticking with the chlorinated pool and the free drinks."

"And ice cream," Barb added.

Mom rolled her eyes. "Paul stayed with the Eks while doing his doctoral research, and they've remained close. Paul told me the tours help the local people to preserve their heritage." Mom motioned to a waitress. "You'll get to see several Mayan ruins."

"Forget ice cream. We can find treasure!" Barb clapped her hands and began mumbling about gold and jewels and priceless statues while Mom ordered another margarita.

"Oh," Mom said. "I almost forgot the best part. Señor Ek invited you to his granddaughter's birthday party—apparently it's quite a big deal."

"Apparently the girl doesn't have any real friends." I scoffed. What kind of loser invites strangers to her birthday party? Who would I invite to
my
next party if I was kicked out of Fiona's Five? "Mom, this whole thing sounds disastrous." I didn't want any part of this deal. We'd end up like those stupid tourists they're always showing on cable news—held for ransom, or worse! I had to get us out of this; Mom had obviously lost it.

"Wait, Mom. You said a teen tour. Hello? Barb isn't a teenager."

Barb smirked at me. "So? You've only been a teenager for three days."

"Four. Today's almost over." I turned thirteen the week after school got out (and had a slumber party that even Fiona called "oh-so funtastic").

"Girls," Mom warned. "Señor Ek personally made an exception for Barb, since Paul is almost like family to him—and us. I trust Paul completely."

"Yippee," Barb said.

"Great. I'll be the only one with a dorky kid tagging along. But maybe they'll kidnap her instead of me."

Barb's eyes welled up with tears, and Mom shot me a sharp look.

"I hope your dad will feel better in a couple of days," Mom said. "Then we can go sightseeing as a family."

"Maybe we should go home." I could get there just in time for mini-camp. I smiled. Maybe I could avoid Grace Williams's fate after all.

"We're not going home," Mom said. "Dad will recover, and everything will be back on schedule."

"You could just send me home," I said, ignoring Mom's sad eyes.

***

P
LAYA
d
EL
C
ARMEN
, H
OTEL
M
AYA

Hi! I'm going on this special teen tour. Sounds pretty cool.

Nice to ditch the parentals and meet some cute guys.

How did you guys rate Zach B? Did the french fry incident lower his score?

Love, Kat

P.S. 4 PM

P.P.S. Remember EVERYTHING!!!

The next morning, we waited with some other people in the airy hotel lobby for the "Ick" Family Tour. We heard the bus rattling around the circular driveway before we saw it. It was an old school bus painted with huge murals of parrots, Mayan ruins, warriors with feather headdresses, and a big jaguar on the front. The door opened and a twentysomething guy with long black hair and dark skin jumped out. He looked kind of like the suave assassin in that Spanish movie Mrs. Ruiz showed us the last week of school. Hair: 8.5. Face: 8.7. Smile: 9. Possibility of being dangerous kidnapping stranger: 9.9. Remember it's the cute ones that really fool you. He read names off a list.

"Katherine and Barbara Crosby?" he said with a thick accent. "Señor Paul's
amigas.
" Charming accent: 8. "Welcome, welcome,
bienvenidas!
"

"Thanks, I guess," I said. The guy was a little
too
enthusiastic.

"I saved a seat up front for you." He swung his hair over his shoulder. Okay, maybe his shiny black hair was a 10, but he still looked kind of dangerous.

"Oh, goodie!" Barb said.

A thousand butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I climbed aboard this strange bus with a possible criminal. We should just fly home. I could go to mini-camp, and Dad could recover in the safety of his own home. After everyone got on the bus, I looked behind me. Three girls about my age sat on separate seats—one had long blond hair with electric blue highlights. Behind me, a boy who looked a grade or two ahead of me sat with his younger brother, who was hunched over a video game. A pair of pale blond girls sat together near the front.

In the last seat sat a true Bronze Sun Goddess. She had a dark tan, and her hair was done in gobs of tiny braids with silver beads on the ends. They brushed against her bare shoulders when she moved her head. Sure, she looked good now, but in twenty years she'd be covered with skin cancer lesions and wrinkles. Right? Two guys sat backwards in the seat in front of the Sun Goddess—speaking French. Even from behind I could tell the guys were perfect 10s. In looks anyway.

The bus started with a bang and chugged out of the driveway. Of course there weren't any seat belts.

"Okay, everyone," the tour guide said. "
Buenos días. Me llamo Alfredo.
We going to have real good time today. Today we kayak in beautiful Caribbean and snorkel. See many fish."

Yeah, but how many sharks, jellyfish, and barracuda? I thought of all the dangerous creatures on my list. Swimming with all the germs in the hotel pool was bad enough, but at least they didn't have big teeth or deadly stingers.