Perfectly Ridiculous (20 page)

I shake my head. “Well, I sure hope they take my paperwork from the embassy for my scholarship.”

“That's what your dad and I came to tell you this morning. We thought you looked miserable there, and we thought about poor Claire giving up this lovely hotel when you both should be celebrating your accomplishment of graduating from high school. We wanted to make things right.”

“I can't give up my scholarship just because you can pay for school, Mom. I worked hard for that, and it's mine.”

Mom nods. “I understand, but now someone else who needs that scholarship can have it. We came to tell you that Kitchens Unlimited bought my business. We got the final agreement yesterday by fax at the hotel. I'm so grateful we were staying here. I doubt the dump we were in would have had a fax machine, much less a business office. That's why we agreed to this arrangement in the first place. The last thing we wanted to do was take charity from Claire's parents.”

“It takes money to make money,” I tell her.

“It really doesn't. I built that business from nothing, and the price they offered me . . .” She lowers her voice as though someone might overhear. “It was obscene!”

“You're saying I don't need my scholarship? I don't need to qualify for it this summer?” I'm trying to comprehend that life has just been handed to me on a silver spoon. I never get a silver spoon. I'm more of a plastic spork kind of girl.

“I feel terrible telling you such good news on such an awful day for you, but you should be grateful. I don't feel I did my job protecting you in regards to Libby, so you don't have to finish the mission.”

“I do! Don't blame yourself, Mom. Besides, I promised Rosalina I'd be somewhere tomorrow to work with young pregnant girls doing research. It's ridiculous to throw away a scholarship for something so simple.”

“Well, you can cancel it. Maybe even treat yourself to the indoor pool or a spa treatment. Daisy, for once in our lifetimes we get to splurge. I know how serious you are about commitment, and I don't want you to think I don't appreciate that. But I'm worried maybe you've forgotten how to have fun. Maybe you don't make enough time for joy in your life like other kids.”

“I don't want to splurge. I earned that scholarship and I'm taking it. I'm not letting someone like Libby defeat me. I'm going to finish this.”

“But someone else who might not be able to afford school could benefit—”

“Mom, I'm not taking chances with my education. It's all I have going for me, and I earned that scholarship fair and square.”

“You have a lot going for you, Daisy. You're a beautiful girl. You have a best friend who takes you on a trip like this and then works during it to help you. You have job experience, and you're so good with money. What you don't have is the ability to stop and let God lead.”

“That's not true. Yes, I'm good with money, and I don't intend to start spending it like there's no tomorrow because your business got bought. Mom, you and Dad are so talented and I'm so thrilled for you both, but this whole trip was about my independence. I've been independent for three days and now you're telling me I don't need to be.”

“What about us? This is our chance to be the kind of parents that all your friends have.”

“I don't want those kind of parents. I want the kind of parents who scrape by so they can accompany me to Buenos Aires so I don't get hurt. Parents who don't care what the Joneses have because they feel passionate about teen abstinence and make fools of themselves doing a rap at their daughter's high school.”

“You handled yourself fine. So it's proven. No need to go out and prove yourself further. Sometimes we need to know when to stop.” Mom crosses her legs. “I never see you stop. God says to be still and know he is God. When do you sit still?”

“I just sat still. To the point of pruning in the bathtub.”

“Without a journal. Without a plan for your future. I mean sitting. Still. Listening.”

I stand up and pace the busy carpet. “I need to be independent. I still count on you, don't you see? I knew you would be here for me. I knew I could run back to the hotel at any time. I just have to do the requirements because I promised to do them. Does that make sense?”

“Not a bit. God's there for you. He'll always be there for you, but I'm worried your faith is running more on the belief system of Daisy Crispin than it is on God.”

“God helps those who help themselves.” I cross my arms in front of me as if I've won some kind of battle.

“Ben Franklin said those words. Not God. You, Miss Fact Checker, should know that more than anyone.”

“I can't stop, Mom. If I stop . . .” My voice starts to crack. “If I stop, I'll have to think about how Max is just another guy who broke my heart. I'll have to think about how I failed at Libby's and how I didn't do the one small requirement asked of me for the scholarship. I'll have to stop and dwell on all my failures.”

“Then that's just what you need to do, because I don't care how perfectly you think you've done anything—you're flawed. This is my whole point. The more you rely on your own perfection, the more God will show you it's his you need to rest upon. Are you prepared for that?”

I have no quick answer for her question, and I have the urge to escape the fancy suite and run away. If this kitchen company comes through, I'll be more than happy to take the money and give the scholarship to someone else. But if it doesn't—my family is not known for its business acumen—then I'm covered. But I don't want to say that in front of my mom and let her believe I doubt my parents.

My mom goes on. “So how long will you fight for your so-called independence? What if God is trying to say it's time to let your guard down and rely on others?”

“I did that, and look where it got me—in jail with Max's car stolen. Not to mention J.C. passed out. That's what community got me.”

Mom shakes her head. “No, that's what trying to micromanage got you. You could have let J.C. handle his own problem. You could have let Libby know she was in danger rather than protect her with ignorance. You made those decisions, Daisy. You played God.”

I stand up and walk to the table of food near the window. I shove a roll into my mouth rather than find an answer.

“I thought you'd be happier than anyone about the sale of my business. You with your love of store-bought clothes and having followed Claire around the country club all those years, and having worked for spoiled Gil with that revved-up sports car of his. I couldn't wait to tell you of all people, but you want to throw it back at me and work for a scholarship you don't need. I don't understand that.”

“Mom.” I swallow the roll and grab her hands, which are soft and manicured. “I couldn't be happier for you and Daddy. No one deserves success like you two. You've dedicated your whole life to what you believe in. When Daddy got sick, you came in and rescued the day with your talent. I'm so proud of you, but I want to feel that same sense of accomplishment. Do you understand that?”

“No, because you've had to work for everything up until now, unlike your friends. You've had to watch them have great success while you worked for it. I want you to know what that feels like for a change.”

I almost can't believe that came out of her mouth, but I've seen what having money has done for my friends. They've succeeded in college applications because that's what is expected of them, not because they have their own drive. I'm worried if I suddenly have things handed to me, I won't remember how to work for them and I'll be dependent forever.

Still, I want to know that the money truly exists.
Show me the money!
If for any reason, Mom is a tad too optimistic and I haven't completed my scholarship requirements, I'll be living in the realm of excess toilet paper in my parents' garage forever. That's a chance I cannot take.

My mom stands and walks closer to the window, where she perches herself on the golden paisley chair with its elegant Queen Anne legs and rests her chin on her hand. “I hadn't thought about you wanting to do it alone. I guess that makes me nervous. How will you share your life with someone if you think you have to do everything alone?”

“It's like all those chastity talks you had with me, Mom. It didn't mean much unless I'd made that decision for myself.”

Her eyes grow huge.

“And of course, I did make that choice for myself, Mom.”

“Don't scare me like that. The longer you fight and avoid relaxing into what God has for you, the more I worry. Faith should be like a beautiful downhill ski run, not a clumsy climb uphill in cross-country gear.”

“Maybe my faith is sloppy—too reliant on myself. But I'm not sure I know how to let go of the reins, or that I can trust God if I do.”

We both gasp.

And there you have it, Mom is right again.

 18 

In the morning, I wake up in the luxury golden bed under a mound of a down feather comforter. It dawns on me that I feel no better waking up in the suite than I did in the cement cabin. My mind still worries about the day's events and I'm without peace. Will I need my scholarship? Won't I? Will Max explain his betrayal to me? Or won't he?

I feel guilty for enjoying this plush life in six-hundred-thread-count sheets while Claire lives my own life in the coldhearted mission of misery.

I'm enjoying the Argentine sunshine streaming through the windows, and since the sun hasn't been shining too much since I arrived in the southern hemisphere, I can only assume this is a good sign. My parents are in the suite's attached bedroom, and apparently J.C. is sleeping on the sofa. I'm sure the hotel management thinks the Simpsons have come to life and are currently staying in a luxury suite overlooking the infamous cemetery.

Sleeping in was a delight, but then there's a knock on the door. I wonder if my parents have ordered breakfast at some ungodly hour, but I hear someone speaking in English and I realize I'd better get dressed quickly. I climb into the only pair of clean jeans I have left, don a bright pink sweater, and twirl a scarf around my neck so I appear cosmopolitan and not simply an American teenager. I slather my face in tinted sunscreen (i.e., makeup that's mother-approved) and enter the main salon of the suite.

Max is there, dressed in black jeans, a silky, red-collared shirt, and black dress shoes. Let's just say it's not an outfit one could pull off in America, but here he looks as natural as if he were the lead in
Dancing with the Stars
.

“Max, what are you doing here?”

“Come sit down,” my father tells me.

“Where's J.C.?”

“He's still sleeping,” my mother answers.

My father holds the manila envelope with my instructions for the day.

“Dad, what are you doing with that?” I reach for the envelope, and he lifts it above his head like I'm five years old.

“Did Max tell you not to sign up for this ministry?”

“He did, but he had ulterior motives, so I didn't listen. It's his fiancée who gave me the packet. Did he tell you that?”

“He did,” my father says.

I scowl at Max, but he stares out the window rather than man up and face me. Tattletale.

“Didn't your mother talk to you yesterday about being still in the Lord?” Dad asks.

“Yes, but—”

“Did you pray about this ministry?”

“No, but I didn't really have time. Rosalina had the envelope and I didn't want to let the opportunity get away from me, so I grabbed it.”

“Even after Max told you he had reservations about it.”

“Dad, he—”

“Part of being independent is knowing who to trust when you're in an uncertain situation. Since you're in a foreign country and know little about the customs or the rules here, I would think you would automatically defer to your friend Max, who knows the lay of the land.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“You need to call this Rosalina person and tell her you will not be there as promised.”

“But Dad, let your yes be yes and your no be no.”

“Be as wise as serpents and gentle as doves,” he says back to me. “Abortion is illegal in Argentina, did you know that?”

“No,” I answer.

“Only with a lot of paperwork and distinct rules is it available here, and these questions are to mine information and tell young women there is an easier way for them than going through labor and parenting.”

“I didn't know.”

“But Max did, and next time when you're in Buenos Aires, I expect you to listen to him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are always so headstrong, Daisy, but sometimes you need to know when to ask for help and find a way other than brute force.”

“Can I go now?”

“No, Max is here for a reason. Max?”

“I feel bad that you didn't get your prom in the States, so my church is putting on a formal tonight,” Max tells me. “Claire will be back, and if J.C. is up to it, he can come too. But I want you and Claire to wear the gowns your mother bought and come with me so Buenos Aires can show you a proper good time.”

“Gowns?” I look toward my mom and she nods. “What about Rosalina? Isn't that the real reason I didn't get my proper date?”

“I've told my mother, Rosalina's mother, and Rosalina that enough is enough. We'd be unequally yoked, and I still plan a life in ministry. She wants to marry a foreign head of state. I want to work for the Lord. Over dinner last night, that was the final straw—the fact that I had no aspiration for a ‘real' job. She freed me from my bond, and she's off to find love in a wealthier, more stable place, I'm certain.”

I look at my parents, and they're both grinning and nodding their heads.

“I knew I was right about you, Max, but you do try a girl's soul,” I say.

“I believe I've heard those words before.” Dad smiles.

“And for once you're not in complete control,” my mother says. “Think you can handle that? Just having fun for a night?”

“I do.”