Carpe Diem, Page 4

  I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. So, while I set the table, I told him The Brilliant Plan. He was just as impressed as I was.

  “We can always use another author in the family. Why don’t you go on up and tell your mom? She needs to hear this. It’ll perk her right up.” He looked at his watch. “Dinner will be ready in eight minutes and fifteen seconds.”

  As I headed up the stairs, the phone rang. Dad answered. “Oh, hello, Amber … . Late for what? … Tonight? … Unfortunately, Althea will have to reschedule. There will be no Hour of Reflection in the Spore household tonight … .”

  As I entered their bedroom, Mom quickly slipped a book under the mint-green duvet. But not before I saw the cover: a buxom maiden kissing a muscular farm lad who seemed to have misplaced his shirt.

  I sighed. My numerous attempts to steer Mom toward works more literary had failed. There sat Don Quixote, Tristram Shandy, and The Portrait of a Lady in a patient row—untouched—on her bedroom bookshelf. For a woman who was highbrow in every other area of her life—including a fondness for Puccini—she certainly sank low in the fiction department.

  Mom looked strangely fragile and vulnerable without makeup, wearing bifocals and a beige cotton nightgown. I’d never noticed the deep lines between her eyes, or how far the corners of her mouth drooped when she was fatigued. Moss-green walls combined with the mint duvet created the illusion she was drowning in a vat of split-pea soup.

  She struggled to sit up, adjusting the pillow behind her back.

  “Sorry about last night. I wasn’t—it must have been something I ate. But I’m feeling much better now.”

  Since when did beef Stroganoff upset anyone’s stomach?

  I noticed a bottle of pills on her nightstand.

  Great: Grandma Gerd is driving Mom to self-medicate.

  “Up for a rousing game of Boggle?” I shook the plastic box of dice enticingly. “Come on, you know you are. We have eight minutes until dinner. And you owe me a chance to even the score.”

  She managed a weak smile. “Maybe later.”

  I set the game down on her nightstand. Then, in as peppy a tone as I could muster: “I have some news that’ll cheer you up.”

  But The Brilliant Plan didn’t seem to make a difference. Her eyes still held an expression of foreboding. The lines were still there. Her mouth still drooped. Apparently, my odds of making or not making valedictorian were secondary to The Big Secret.

  She stared at me a moment, then asked, “Vassar, are you happy?” As soon as she said it, I could tell she wished she hadn’t.

  “Happy? What do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know …” She forced a light tone. “Has your life so far been a happy one?”

  I’d never really thought about it. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  She considered for a moment, then lightly shook her head.

  “Never mind. Is that stir-fry I smell?”

  “Want me to bring you some?”

  “No!” The very idea seemed to turn her stomach. “You eat with Dad. I’ll just have … toast and broth. Afterward we can start on your packing list. After all, it’s only twelve more days until … until …” Her voice cracked as she reached for a Kleenex.

  And I slipped out the door.

  CHAPTER SIX

  You Can’t Over-Prepare

  You can’t simply up and go to Southeast Asia. Especially into the Malaria Zone. Oh, no. You need shots, malaria pills, a passport, and a whole drugstore of “just in case” medicine.

  Luckily, over the years my forward-thinking parents had instructed our family physician to give me every vaccination on the market: “Never know what you can pick up these days on the streets of Seattle—or in homeroom,” said Mom. And all three of us had our passports—“In case we should ever need to leave the country at a moment’s notice,” said Dad. Not that we’d ever used them. So, the fact I only had thirteen days to prepare turned out to be less the logistical nightmare it should have been.

  However. Since I was leaving the weekend after school let out, I had no time to research Malaysia, Cambodia, and Laos. No time to plan. This made me itchy. But I figured Grandma Gerd had some sort of itinerary for the summer. And I’d just have to catch up on my research on the plane—after all, I had twenty some hours in the sky to read all my guidebooks and reference materials.

  In the thirteen days before my departure, my moods fluctuated. One minute my heart thump-thumped in anticipation of the exotic adventure before me, and the next minute I was slammed with a wave of intense homesickness—though I hadn’t so much as set one foot on the plane.

  And then there were the conversations between Mom and Dad that came to a halt the second I entered the room. And the way they still couldn’t quite look me in the eye. Mom wasn’t writing in her Journal of Excellence. Her garden was left to fend for itself. Even her best friend, Lilith, couldn’t snap her out of it with long, gossipy phone chats, brunches on the waterfront, or her all-time favorite warm-weather perk: Puccini in the Park. It was as if she was in limbo—waiting for something. Something not good. Her normally optimistic outlook on life was replaced with shadowy uncertainty. She sighed. A lot.

  Dad worked, ran, and proofed his book. Although he kept up his routines, he was on autopilot … enveloped in a mental fog. At dinnertime, he couldn’t seem to finish his meals. He actually left half of his favorite entrée (broiled salmon with mango chutney and okra) on the plate.

  But Laurel, Denise, and Amber were enjoying themselves immensely. They strode down the school hallways, three abreast, with mysterious looks on their faces as if they were all part of a conspiracy (which I guess they were … ). And would break into laughter for no reason. When Wendy Stupacker passed by, they’d whisper under their breaths: “Checkmate, Stupacker!” (Amber). “De inimico non loquaris sed cogites!” (“Don’t wish ill for your enemy; plan it!”) (Denise). Laurel was too ladylike to utter threats. Instead, she’d narrow her eyes and purse her lips in an attempt to look menacing—and succeed only in looking constipated.

  They planned out their summer: AP classes, college seminars, and daily meetings at a local coffee shop to work on homework, email me, and edit my manuscript pages.

  I realized I’d give anything to switch places with them.

  Not that I’d ever admit it.

  They were counting on me.

  “Postcard labels?”

  “Check.”

  “PTP?”

  “Check.”

  “Ticket, passport, ATM card, extra cash?”

  “Check, check, check, and check.”

  “Laptop with accoutrements?”

  “Check.”

  “The Traveler’s Friend–brand travel accessories in their entirety?”

  “Check.”

  “All three Genteel Traveler’s Guides and three Savvy Sojourner’s Guidebooks?”

  “Check.”

  “Water purifier?”

  “Nice try, Dad. You know very well that’s covered under the subcategory of Traveler’s Friend–brand travel accessories.”

  “One hundred and fifty-three items. Looks like you’ve thought of everything,” said Dad, handing me the itemized Packing List and pink highlighter.

  “Numquam non paratus—never unprepared.”

  He gave me a wan smile. “I’ll go put on my back brace so I can load up the cars.” Then he headed up the stairs.

  With a grunt, I snapped the last of the locks on my ten pieces of black luggage, which filled the entire living room—the reason we had to take both Volvos. I carefully tucked the keys into the flesh-colored money belt hiding under my Traveler’s Friend Linen Blouse and zipped it shut. Denise, Laurel, and Amber all watched solemnly, sandwiched between my suitcases. This was a portentous occasion. The farthest Laurel and her mom had traveled was to the Grand Canyon. Amber’s family skied Vail in the winter and jet skied Newport Beach in the summer. Denise’s family had been as far north as Banff and as far south as Cancún. And no Spore had ever lef
t the state.

  Until now.

  Oomp pa pa! Oomp pa pa! I checked my PTP—Portable Travel Planner. A going-away gift from my parents. A matchbox-size Dayplanner Organizer/watch/mini-computer/cell phone/compass/atlas/encyclopedia all in one, conveniently located where my watch would be.

  “My PTP has just informed me that I have four hours before my plane takes off. So we’ll be departing for the airport in exactly thirty minutes.”

  “What song was that? Sounded like our school’s marching band,” said Amber, unwrapping some Red Vines.

  “John Philip Sousa. Dad programmed it.”

  Laurel daintily blew her nose, then tucked the Kleenex into her periwinkle skirt pocket. “Vassar, you won’t forget my spoons, will you?” She’d given me $100 to buy a silver-plated sugar spoon from each city I visited. It was a habit she’d picked up from her grandma—who happened to be one of the more traditional variety. “I want to add to my collection.” (“Collection” in her case meaning two: the Grand Canyon and Yosemite.)

  “Well, it’s on my To Do List, and if it’s on my To Do List—”

  “It’s as good as done,” said Amber, Laurel, and Denise together.

  Laurel handed me a bundle of little white envelopes. “Open one a day for a quote that should in some way pertain to your trip.”

  “They’re in Latin,” said Amber.

  “To keep you mentally supple,” said Denise.

  I opened the first envelope, labeled “Day of Embarkation,” and read:

  “Da mihi sis crustum Etruscum cum omnibus in eo …”

  Amber and Laurel laughed uproariously.

  “I don’t get it—”

  “Substitute ‘pizza’ for ‘crustum,’ and you’ll die laughing,” said Denise drily.

  “‘I’ll have a pizza with everything on it.’ Ah, yes, that’ll sure come in handy in the jungle.”

  I read another one: “Are you in omnia paratus?” I smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am ‘ready for anything.’” I gestured at my mountain of luggage. “Everything I could possibly need is in here. Even a collapsible plastic shower.”

  Dad walked by wearing his black back brace. “Ladies, you have six minutes, forty seconds to say good-bye to Vassar.” He headed outside. I heard the beeps of the Volvo alarms.

  Denise got down to business:

  “So, the plan is that you’ll email us each chapter via hookup or Internet café—apparently there are tons of them all over Southeast Asia. Especially in places where the backpackers loiter. We’ll proofread them and let you know if something isn’t clear. By the end of the summer, you should have a completed first draft ready to turn in.”

  “That’ll give you two weeks to edit before turning it in to Principal Ledbetter,” said Amber.

  Good ol’ Principal Ledbetter. After much persuasion, she’d agreed to let me write the novel for AP/AAP English credit, but with one stipulation: “It must be turned in on the first day of school, to count. Is that clear, Vassar? There will be no extensions or exceptions.” It would be a tight squeeze—but well worth it.

  I sniffed. I’d succumbed to emotion more times in the last two weeks than the rest of my life combined. “You guys …”

  “Vassar, you’d do the same thing for us,” Laurel said, blowing her nose again. By now, her skirt pockets were bulging with used tissues.

  “And don’t waste time emailing us personal messages or travel details,” said Denise.

  “Or buying us souvenirs,” said Amber.

  “Except for my spoons,” said Laurel.

  “Spend your energy writing those chapters,” said Denise.

  Then Amber pulled a small box out of her backpack. “It’s from all of us. Bon voyage!”

  “Bona fortuna!” said Laurel.

  Good luck. I sure needed that.

  I opened it. A necklace with an inscribed silver medallion: Nulla dies sine linea.

  “‘Not a day without a line,’” translated Denise. “A simple yet constant reminder of what you’re there for.”

  “It’s real silver,” said Laurel.

  “Oh, you guys!” I snatched one of Laurel’s Kleenex.

  “Watch out—you’ll tarnish it,” said Amber.

  “If John Pepper asks about you, we’ll give him your email address,” said Laurel.

  “But only if he asks,” I said firmly.

  Amber nodded. “Yep. Hard to get. That’s the way to play it.”

  Denise rolled her eyes. “Such wisdom, O experienced one.”

  “Time’s up, ladies,” Dad called.

  We visibly deflated.

  I hung the necklace around my neck and hugged Laurel, Amber, and Denise good-bye.

  “Oh, wait. Can you give this to your mom?” Amber shoved a wrinkled piece of paper into my hand. “My Summer Goal List. I was supposed to turn it in at the last Hour of Reflection, but—”

  “Why is it so sticky?” I distastefully held it by a corner.

  She licked her fingers. “Honey-mustard dressing?”

  Then, as the three of them walked out the door, Denise added:

  “By the way, I’ve been pondering those words you overheard. You should focus on cracking the term ‘egg’—no pun intended. My sixth sense tells me it’s the key to the whole thing. Perhaps it concerns a poultry-related tragedy. Diseased hens laying tainted eggs—from hen to egg to dying. See the trajectory?”

  “Thanks, Denise. I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

  Then they were out the door.

  I polished my medallion.

  I missed them already.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  No Matter What

  When we checked in with Singapore airlines at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, Dad had to pay a fee for my extra pounds of luggage. While he was taking care of it, Mom tugged my arm—the familiar cue that she wanted to whisper in my ear—and I bent my head down to her level. She gave me the usual Spore Family Pep Talk Suitable for Any Auspicious Occasion and ended with:

  “Oh, and Grandma Gerd may tell you some strange stories, but don’t believe a word of them. Especially if she’s been drinking—”

  Before she could finish, Dad reappeared with my claim tickets. She coughed, then said, “And that’s why hydration is absolutely vital in humid climates.”

  If Dad was suspicious, he didn’t let on.

  “A couple hundred dollars is a small price to pay to ensure you’ll be prepared for every emergency,” Dad said as—zip zip!—I tucked the claim tickets into the money belt under my blouse.

  Then Dad handed me a rectangular wrapped gift. “For the plane.”

  As I unwrapped it, Dad whispered to me, “Please send only positive emails and postcards. I don’t think Althea could handle even the faintest hint that you’re not happy. Of course, if there’s an emergency—God forbid—that’s another story.”

  During the last two weeks, Mom and Dad had experienced a complete role reversal. He was now taking charge, and she was happy to let him. It unsettled me.

  “The Efficient Teen—Special Annotated Edition. Thanks, Dad.” Actually, the book could prove a liability since I was supposed to stay awake as long as possible on the flight to prevent jet lag.

  All too soon we were at Gate 24. I secured the locks on my carry-on bag and my laptop case-slash-briefcase combo, then double-checked that my money belt was zipped.

  Mom tucked something into my hand. “International calling card. Because your PTP cell phone may not work over there. Call us if anything—anything—happens. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Nervous?” asked Dad, his pale blue eyes starting to water.

  I kissed his freckled cheek. “I’m prepared. As you’ve always said, preparation eliminates anxiety. Why would I be nervous?” But inside, my stomach whirled like his motorized tie rack.

  Dad popped a couple Tums. Mom gulped down one of her new pills when she thought I wasn’t looking.

  “Singapore Airlines Flight 273 to Singapore now
boarding … .”

  Group hug. I kissed the top of Mom’s blond bob and Dad’s red fuzz—then broke away quickly. Time to get it over with. Couldn’t let Mom see me get emotional.

  I handed the flight attendant my boarding pass and refused to look back as I walked down the gangplank to the plane. Their sad, pensive faces were too much to take.

  Their voices echoed after me:

  “Remember to do those isometric exercises in your seat!”

  “Apply sunscreen at least fifteen minutes before sun exposure!”

  “Take your vitamin C packets hourly!”

  “Don’t forget you’re a Spore!”

  They were just being parent-y. Showing me they were “fine.”

  “Mask!”

  Ah, yes. The white surgical face mask to cover my nose and mouth. “You can’t take chances with your health, especially on planes, those virtual war zones of airborne germs,” Mom had said. And had instructed me to wear it the entire time on the plane. “You’ll have the last laugh when you arrive in Singapore flu-free.”

  Oh, there’d be laughs, all right—mocking laughs from the flight attendants and fellow passengers. The face mask was buried deep in my carry-on. And there it would stay. What Mom didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

  Just as I walked through the airplane door, Mom’s last words pierced the air:

  “We love you—no matter what!”

  I sat next to a goateed businessman wearing a brick-red tie and a blue button-down shirt with MCT embroidered on the pocket. He was drinking a beer and reading a newspaper—which he folded up the second I fastened my safety belt.

  “Hi! First time to Singapore? My seventeenth. Ah, yes, the privilege (or is it a curse? Ha-ha!) of the field service engineer in the global semiconductor industry. Heard of semiconductors? No? Well, you should. There’s a semiconductor in that laptop of yours. See this?” He pointed to his tie tack, which was a shiny metal-and-copper square. “This little beauty here is what makes all your electrical components work … .”