Perfectly Ridiculous (6 page)

“Daisy Crispin. There's a lantern there next to the door. Feel to your left.” But he finds the light switch and burns my retinas. “Ouch!”

“Sorry. I guess that's why you mentioned the lantern.”

I blink slowly as my sight returns and look at J.C., who can only be described as . . . missing from a boy band somewhere. He's blond-haired with prominent cheekbones that I can make out in the shadows. He's got a messenger bag strapped across his torso, which is muscular and stretching his T-shirt to its proverbial limit. I, on the other hand, look like Marley's ghost, and worse yet, I smell like him. Apparently I will continue to do so for a week. Or until I make my escape to Claire's suite. Whichever comes first.

“I'm sorry. I woke you, obviously.” He shuts off the overhead light and turns on the lantern. I watch him twist his wrist and check his watch, and even in the shadows, he's like someone from an Armani ad. Life isn't fair. Guys can fly all night and look like that. “It's only ten o'clock. Most people don't eat dinner down here until then.”

“I've got jet lag. Arrived today from California. I've been sleeping since around five.”

“Ah.”

“Where are you from?” I sit up in my sleeping bag and mat down my hair, grateful for the darkness. For all I know, I could look like Jessica Biel in this light. Then again, for all I know just because he looks like a teen idol doesn't mean he isn't a serial killer stalking the barrio streets. Of course, he does speak English. And he's cute, so the fear won't come, hard as I try to summon some.

“Arizona,” he answers. “Some woman told me to come out here and sleep.” He holds up a note next to the lantern. “It's not exactly the Latino welcome I imagined.”

“That's exactly what I said! But Libby isn't Latino.”

“Libby?”

“She runs the mission.”

“Right. She must think I'm a girl,” he said.

“I think you're right from what she told me.”

“Well, I've been on a few summer mission trips, and they never let the guys sleep in the same quarters as the girls.”

“You can sleep over there.” I point to the opposite side of the room. “I won't touch you, I promise.” Even if daily rejection is my middle name.

He laughs and lifts his pack from outside the door. “So you haven't done this before, I take it?”

“Is it obvious?”

“You just have no expectations. That's how you're supposed to come on a mission, but it never works like that. It's always worse and better than you imagine.”

“What does that mean?”

“The place is always worse. The people you help, always better than you imagine.”

“Ah.”

He pulls out a bag from his pack and my mouth waters at the mere thought of food. I lick my lips. “You hungry?”

I can't even be demure at this point. “I'm starving—famished, really. Do you have enough?”

“Plenty.”

“There's a table over in that corner.” I climb out of my sleeping bag, grateful I'm wearing yoga-like pants and a long T-shirt, but wishing my hair wasn't flying every which way. I'm not even thinking romance either, just self-respect. J.C. is what I'd consider out of my league.

But as I step closer to J.C., my confidence wanes. Luckily hunger rules my vanity. We both sit at the table, and he smiles at me from over the lantern. He takes a sandwich out of the bag and rips it in half. “I hope you don't mind my fingers. My mom sent me with a crapload of hand sanitizer, so they're clean. She was frantic I was going to come home with the plague.”

“She sounds a lot like my parents, only they came with me. They're staying in town at a hotel.”

“You're kidding me. I thought no one could outparent my mother, but they're here? Really?”

“My mom went to college with Libby. I guess that was their excuse, but I'm still seventeen, so that was their other excuse. Though I'm sure if I were eighteen, they would have found another one.”

“We definitely have to get our parents together at orientation.”

“Are you kidding? Do you want them sharing notes?”

J.C. laughs. “Good point.”

I grab my half of the sandwich and shove it into my mouth. I mumble over the food, “Sorry, I'm eating like a cavewoman.”

He grins and he has one dimple on his right side, which makes him even more out of my league. I appreciate this because it takes the pressure off.

“It's refreshing. I've had too many dates where the girl won't eat. Nice to see one with a healthy appetite.”

“So you're going to Pepperdine too?” I grab his soda. “Do you mind?”

“Be my guest.”

I slurp from the bottle and hand it back to him.

“They didn't feed you when you got here?” he asks.

“Long story. I was supposed to go out with my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend? Friend? I'm not sure what exactly he is, but he had to go back home, and I thought I could make it through the night rather than ask Libby for food.”

“Is she that bad?”

“No. Yes. I don't really know. I just felt self-conscious and didn't want to ask her for anything.”

“That doesn't sound good.”

“Max said he'd come back to bring me some candy for the kids and I thought I'd just eat some of that, but I guess he got busy. I gave him some money. I wonder if he had trouble exchanging it.”

“No offense, but he sounds like a jerk.”

“I don't think so. Something's up, but I don't think he's a jerk.”

“Girls always say that when the guy's a dog.”

I snort a laugh. “Sorry.” I cover my mouth. “But you're probably right. My background isn't exactly filled with success stories.”

“Neither is mine, if you want the truth. My girlfriend broke up with me because if I loved her, I would have gone to Arizona State.”

“And why didn't you?”

“Because I got into Pepperdine. If she loved me, she'd want me to go where I wanted to go.”

“Maybe love is too complicated.”

“Nope. It's women who are too complicated.”

“That's how it is too. Guys are never to blame.”

“I'm glad you get it. Where have you been all my life?”

I slap him in the arm.

“I heard you got the other scholarship. How'd you raise enough money to get down here? My grandmother fronted mine, which isn't exactly raising capital, but it sounded like such a great opportunity and I thought I could use my Spanish down here, so I signed on as soon as I heard. I already had my local food bank sign off on one week, though.”

“No way! You work at your local food bank? I do too and already put in a week,” I say, once again over a bite of food. He's probably thinking I could eat my local food bank.

The door slams open and Libby is standing there with a flashlight in one hand and a baseball bat in the other.

“J.C., meet Libby Bramer.”

“J.C.'s a boy?” Libby rushes into the room and grabs J.C. by the collar. “You're supposed to be a girl. It says ‘female' on your paperwork.”

“I don't think it does,” J.C. says.

“It must. Or I wouldn't have approved your application. We have nowhere to house you. All of the rest of the volunteers this session are female.”

J.C. looks at me. “Should I apologize for being male?” he says under his breath.

“He shared his sandwich with me,” I offer. It seemed reasonable before I said it.

“Daisy, get in the house. You can sleep upstairs in the loft. Bring your sleeping bag. You'll sleep out here,” Libby says to J.C. as if he's some kind of predator.

Somehow I pictured my first mission experience being more holy than this. I spend my life feeling perpetually in trouble, and the really annoying aspect of this is that I rarely do anything worthy of guilt. I'm feeling troublesome. Like if I'm going to get into trouble anyway, maybe I should just cause it and have the fun to make it worth my while.

Libby's not finished with me. “I can't believe you didn't come in and tell me. Your parents said they raised you right. You were going to sleep out here? With a boy you don't know?”

“I was just—”

“No, no excuses. Get into the house and we'll discuss this in the morning. I'd like to talk to J.C. alone.”

With a screech of his chair, J.C. stands up. “No, you have it wrong, Ms. Bramer. Daisy told me I couldn't sleep here. I asked if I could eat my dinner first, in case the rogue dogs came around. Then I planned to go outside on the porch.”

Libby crosses her arms. “Well.” She clears her throat. “I'm sorry. I misspoke, but you can understand I can't have things questioned when parents trust me with their children.”

“Naturally. No reason to be upset. Let me know what I can do to make things run smoother for you and I'll do it,” J.C. purrs like a kitten. To my shock, it works on Libby.

“Get a good night's sleep and be in the main house promptly at seven for breakfast. Daisy, gather your things and meet me in the house.”

“Right away, ma'am.”

With all the grace of a typhoon, Libby exits the classroom, and the space feels calmer.

“I've seen Libby's type before,” J.C. says. “Just do as she says and stay out of her way. If you stay under the radar, she'll sign off on your mission. Don't take anything she says personally, or she's won.”

I nod. “What choice do we have? I won't have time to fulfill another mission requirement before school starts.”

“That's just the kind of power her sort thrives on,” J.C. said. “Don't be afraid of her. She can sense fear.”

“Why do I feel like I'm embarking on a combat mission?”

“Because you are, Daisy.” J.C. salutes me and I crumble into a giggle. “Private J.C. Wiggs reporting for duty, sir!”

I salute back. “We're going to make the best of this.”

“Darn straight we are.”

I leave the classroom with a smile and just a tad more dignity.

 6 

“Daisy, isn't that bed made yet?” Libby shouts at me, and my body instinctively straightens.

“It's made,” I say, because let's face it, she scares me. She'd scare a pit bull. And though my body was weak from travel fatigue at six o'clock, I instinctively popped up out of my cot and rolled my sleeping bag like I was in boot camp. It makes me wish I possessed more of Claire's boldness in life.

I climb down the ladder from the loft that served as my bedroom for the night. My stomach clenches at the sight of Libby, who I'm sure is a lovely person and accomplishes much in the third world, but that doesn't make her my BFF.

Inside her house, the walls are whitewashed and the few furnishings are sparse, don't match, and are all arranged in a particular order that brings a rustic, homey quality to the room. On either side of the rectangular room there is a loft in each corner, both of which are no more than wooden landings with room enough for beds. There is no privacy in the house, and I wonder what it's like to have people come in and out for ministry—it reminds me of
Little House on the Prairie
. The lofts are reached by rickety, bamboo-like ladders. I'm certain it's not bamboo, but it hardly matters, and like J.C. says, I want to stay under the radar, so I don't ask. Something tells me Libby doesn't want to offer decorating advice anyway.

My particular loft will sleep two, though there's only one cot, and the other loft is Libby's bedroom and has an old cotton mattress of sorts, piled with blankets. I “made my bed” by rolling it back into a ball and hiding it under my cot.

Libby calls down to me from her cot again. “Daisy, I've got water on the stove, so would you add the oatmeal to it once it comes to a full boil? Add a little sugar too, or it never seems to get sweet enough, and you kids use a week's supply.”

I pad over to the stove on the cool cement floor and see that the water is already boiling. The cardboard tube of oats is right beside the stove. It's got the Quaker on it and everything, but reads
avena tradicional
instead of whatever it reads in America. I open the container and realize I have no idea how much to add, but the idea of being snapped at for being useless keeps me quiet. I assume Libby will find the fact that I can't make oatmeal another character flaw on my parents' part, so I just pour in the oats and pray for the best.

“Daisy!” Libby shouts.

I look up and her ghostly face peers down at me. There's something distant in the way she looks right through me. There's rejection, certainly, but there's something missing inside of Libby Bramer, and it feels impossible to really connect with her. It's something I can't put my finger on but keeps her preoccupied in her mind while her mouth spews obligations and rules. It makes me want to find the part of her that has devoted her life to the children of Argentina. I know it's in there somewhere.

“Did I put too much in?” I ask her.

She looks at the pot. “It's fine. The door. Get the door. Are you deaf?”

I give the oatmeal a stir, head to the rustic front door, and unlatch the two-by-four that serves as a lock like on a medieval castle. Three guys straight out of Argentina's
GQ
face me. “The rest of the boy band are here.”

“Pardon?” Libby asks.

“Just a joke!” I call out. I open the door wider so that she can see the three model-like guys standing on her cement stoop. Does Buenos Aires have any ugly guys? And with the bounty that's before me, why am I still obsessing about where Max is? Maybe this is one of those “when God closes a door, he opens a window” kind of things. The view from this window is astounding.

My mind wanders to Max and what might have possibly kept him from coming back the previous night, and what it all means. It's that closure thing again. If I'm going to be dumped, I at least request the decency of being dumped properly, am I right? Simple respect, which puts me back in the moment.

“I'm sorry,” I finally say to the group of three young men.
Tres amigos.
“Welcome. You're here to work?”

“We're the translators for the Vacation Bible School,” the tallest of them says in a thick accent. “I assume you're American.”

“How can you tell?”

“Sneakers.” He looks down at my feet.

“You're supposed to be female!” Libby shouts from the loft, and the three of them stare at me as if I've rejected them. I just shrug. How can I possibly make excuses for Libby?

“That's Libby. She's in charge, and she was under the impression she had a female staff this time. Right now it's looking like the opposite except for me.”

“Ah,” the tallest says as he looks up to see Libby. “Our church is having a women's retreat this weekend. No women available.”

“Come on in. I'm cooking oatmeal for breakfast and we'll prepare for the week.” I open the door wider and they walk in one by one. “I'm Daisy Crispin, from California.”

“Oscar Sosa,” the tall one says. “From Argentina.” He has one of those furry lips that isn't quite a mustache and makes me want to rub my finger over the spot and run for the hot wax. He's still gorgeous, but with some simple hygiene, he'd be perfect.

“I'm not going to play chaperone this whole week!” Libby calls, and then noticing that the guys can hear her, she goes back to the side of her bed and opens her Bible. “Lord have mercy! I'm supposed to run the school this week, not keep hormone-fueled kids apart! God, are you hearing me?” she rants.

While Libby's talking to herself or expressing her disappointment with God, it's beyond awkward as the guys stand in front of me, probably not remotely interested in me, and certainly not fighting any urge to get closer.

“
Hola
,” says the second one with a black waterfall of sexy curls. “Jose Palovar from Chile. I apologize for not being female. I'll talk to my parents about it.”

I smile at his comment. “You do that. I also think we can manage to keep our hands to ourselves, but I know I'm a lot to take in.” I laugh, but I'm not sure he understands that I'm joking. My humor doesn't translate, apparently.

I realize the scent of oatmeal isn't all that welcoming. It smells a bit like stale cheese in the makeshift cottage. For me, it brings up too many memories of welcoming people into my mother's messy, craft-making lair. I feel that same sense of shame wash over me. I realize that shame shouldn't be mine, but I'm embarrassed all the same.

Just once I'd like to “meet cute” instead of the series of humiliating introductions that happen to me. Just once, is that too much to ask?

The third guy follows after the other two, and my breath catches at the sight of him. He has those ice-blue eyes that I've seen only on models in perfume commercials. The eyes combined with jet-black hair give him an almost inhuman look. He's the kind of person you can't help but stare at, and I'm sure for him, that's disconcerting. But dang! I wonder what that's like to hover so far above the normal human fray.

“Leo Cristal.” He stretches out his hand, but I'm too mesmerized to reach for it. It's not even that I'm interested. He's way too out of my league, but I've never seen someone like him in person. He should be carved into marble and preserved.

“You're a translator?” I say this as if I'm asking him if he can talk too. I try to recover some semblance of dignity. “You look like you should star in vampire movies.”

So much for dignity.

“Not much call for that down here.” He laughs. “Are you saying I look like a vampire?” He lifts his hands into claws.

How does one explain as a Christian that vampires are very popular right now? That it's a compliment that I think he wants to suck someone's blood?

Vampire movies.
Is there really any recovering from that comment?

“Where are you from?” I ask Leo.

“Transylvania,” one of his friends answers with a laugh.

Leo is flushed, but his eyes soften as he acknowledges my humiliation. “Believe it or not, I've heard that before, so don't feel bad. You'll have to trust me that I make a better translator than a vampire. A better Christian too, and I'm a vegetarian.” He grins. “I'm from right around here. Just a few miles up the road.”

“Daisy, what are you talking about vampires for? What do they teach you in that Christian high school of yours? It's like I say, America is on the fast track to trouble.” Libby stops and stares down at the stove. “Get to that oatmeal before it bubbles over,” she says, and I suddenly feel like Cinderella.

I walk to the stove and the giant metal pot and begin to stir the thick, bubbling brew. With both hands on the long wooden spoon, it does seem like I could make an incantation over the oatmeal, but I think that would be the final straw for Libby and my dark American ways. I'm on shaky ground as it is. I wish I understood why everyone assumes I'm such trouble before giving me an opportunity to prove myself a nuisance.

Libby climbs down the ladder from her loft. Her hair is straw-colored and without life. She's wearing beige cotton pants and a billowy, shade-of-wheat shirt. In a country full of color, Libby takes bland to an art form. She walks straight up to the three young men and stares them down as if they're all guilty of something.

“I specifically asked for female translators. Does your mission service have trouble telling the difference?”

“The mission group had a shortage of women this month. They figured males would be better than no one,” says Oscar, the tallest with the bad mustache.

Libby groans. “It would have been nice if they'd warned me. The accommodations aren't really set up for both male and female workers.”

Oscar stares at me. “That won't be a problem if there's only Daisy, right?”

Libby focuses her laser glare on me. “I suppose I can send you back to the hotel with your parents. We can make do with one less.”

“But Libby, I came all the way from California to fulfill my scholarship requirements.”

She gives me a cursory glance and goes back to speaking. “As I was saying, I guess God has decided the team will be all male this time.”

“Libby, you don't need to make Daisy leave,” Oscar says. “I'm certain we can all control ourselves. She's like our little sister. Right, guys?”

I realize they are trying to stand up for me, but to be so quick to call me a little sister isn't doing anything for my already bruised ego. Is it wrong to wish they had the decency to pretend that they're salivating and will control themselves no matter how hard it is?

Libby purses her lips. “If we're going to be male this week, maybe you should go and stay with your parents, Daisy. That would be the sacrificial thing to do.”

“It totally would be, but then I don't meet my scholarship requirements and have nowhere to go in the fall. I think you'll agree college is something I can't forgo, no matter how generous I'm feeling.”

“Why didn't you think of all this ahead of time?”

“I did!” I say with too much force. “But the letter didn't arrive until late, and by then my summer was already planned. We got out of high school fairly late, and college starts early, so there wasn't a lot of time. Do you want to sign off on the paperwork?”

“Not if you don't meet the requirements. Are you asking me to lie for you?”

“No, of course not. But I'm anxious to help here, and I'm not sure what else to do. It's hardly my fault the team turned out to be male.”

“Life is never fair, Daisy. The sooner you learn that lesson, the easier your life will be.”

“Please, I need the credits for school!”

This is my punishment for wanting a luxurious vacation rather than simply taking the time to work at my church's food bank. I know it is. If I hadn't wanted it all and just accepted the scholarship and been content, none of this would have happened. I wouldn't have wasted a trip halfway around the world to be dumped by Max and put my scholarship at risk.