Amber: WOW! STELLAR! WAY TO GO! LOOOOOOOVE IT !
Laurel: We’re all shouting, “Euge!” Can you hear us?
Denise: Overall, excellent execution. However, the whole hostage situation is clichéd and politically incorrect. Opium dens in this day and age? And we think your twist about the birth mother—albeit clever—is highly unbelievable. Would never happen. Ovaries are—for all intents and purposes—dead after forty. But you do write convincingly, and it kept us turning the pages, so to speak … .
Laurel: Well done! But perhaps you could make The Big Secret a bit more realistic. Make the aunt an undercover agent or a member of Interpol. Then again, I did like the whole Eurasian reveal and I believed everything as it was happening, even when it went against my common sense … .
Amber: KISS! KISS! KISS! Give us another one, would ya!?
Laurel: If she were real, I’d adopt Stick Girl in a second!
Denise: Oh, and the whole Miracle Bra thing—come on.
Amber: We all like Sarah MUCH better now that she’s been banged around a bit. And think she deserves Wayne after all.
Denise: By the way, what was the real Big Secret? Did your grandma tell you? Did you figure it out?
Laurel: You have quite the imagination! Making this all up out of your head—and on such short notice. P.S. Spoons?
Denise, Amber, Laurel: HOW DOES IT END??????????
Just wait till they found out it was all true.
But how could I email them the ending when I didn’t even know it myself?
CHAPTER TWO
The Collage
On my last night in Southeast Asia, Grandma Gerd barged through the door of our guesthouse room wearing her green rice bag skirt and carrying a large, flat package wrapped in brown paper. Her silver-grey hair was even more disheveled than ever and sprinkled with wood shavings. When she saw me, her eyes lit up.
“That’s my girl!”
Though it itched and definitely did not flatter, I was wearing the blue rice bag skirt with the pink lotus. As a sort of … tribute.
“Here. I wanted to give you this now so you can pack it.” She handed me the flat package.
I ripped off the brown paper to reveal:
A collage made entirely out of all the litter, mementos, clues, and Polaroids from the summer that pertained to me. Everything was layered on the canvas: the D-A-D-E-T-P-O letters, dried frangipani blossoms, Pepto-Bismol tablets, Crunky wrappers, airplane and bullet boat tickets, Fanta bottle caps, the Lotus cigarette pack, Stick Girl’s stick, the wrapper from my pee bottle, my orange earplugs, the Angkor Wat-ch, the sketch of the Ear Nibbler, a ball of sticky rice—and even one of Hanks’s chops! (How had she managed that?) And the Polaroids of: me with bug-bite solar system, me stuck in the bullet boat, my bare ankles, Grandma and me with pizza sauce on our faces, the Paint by Numbers Jesus, Hanks and me in the café, the apsara, my blouse with the putrid “platypus” stain, the Vang family, Bounmy lighting up, Hanks wearing his Godings—and the one of a younger Grandma in her pouffy A-line dress from her Everything Book.
“Pregnant with me,” I said, touching it.
“Pregnant with you.”
The disparate elements somehow congealed to form a colorful map of Southeast Asia. It sounds bizarre, but in Grandma Gerd terms: It was sensational. Absolutely sensational.
Whereas before I’d want to destroy any photo or memory of me that wasn’t perfect, I was now glad that all the parts of my journey were represented, both good and bad. Full Moon in Full Squat keister and all.
“I’m hanging this above my bed.” I leaned it against the wall and blew my nose.
“I thought my rubber ball collage was hanging above your bed,” said Grandma Gerd slyly.
“Okay, okay. I threw that away the day I got it. That was the old Vassar. But the new Frangipani will keep this forever.”
“Sure you will,” she said. But I could tell she was pleased.
“Is the point of the collage to remind me of how life doesn’t always make sense at the time but in retrospect, all the pieces come together to form a coherent pattern?”
“Yeah, that.” She laughed and gave me a hug. A cloud of sandalwood enveloped me. “So, Hanks is taking you on a date? Where?”
“I have no idea. And you know what? I don’t care. Because—I’m LIMMING.”
“Atta girl! At least my one good quality rubbed off on you. Maybe your planning quality will rub off on me—right.” She chuckled. “Well, I’m off to check in with Renjiro. I’m sure he’s freaking out about all the packages piling up at MCT. Especially the one containing an entire dismantled Hmong hut. The piece is turning out more art installation than collage. Might just take up half the lobby. Well, at least he’s getting his money’s worth.”
“But what about your focal point? Since you don’t have the Iridescent Ruffled Beetle—”
“Or the apsara.” She grinned. “You know, Frangi, you were right about that. Sometimes in my quest for creative fulfillment, certain values just—fffweet!—fly right out the window. If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be in a cell in Phnom Penh as we speak.”
“But what about your focal point?”
“You know, I’m not going to worry about it. I’m going to—”
“LIM!” we said in unison.
“I wish I could stay until you finish it.”
“Oh, it’ll take me months to complete. Don’t worry, I’ll take photos. But after that, I’m thinking of another trek—”
“Are you crazy?”
“—through the wilds of the Pacific Northwest.”
“You’re coming to Port Ann?” I asked, unable to contain my excitement. And I’d thought I wouldn’t be seeing her for months—or even years.
“Think your parents would mind a visitor?”
“There aren’t enough Tums and Valium in the world! But come, anyway.”
“Nothing could stop me.” Then, just as she was closing the door behind her, Grandma Gerd said, “Have fun tonight, Frangi. And tell Hanks he’s one lucky guy.”
Right. But first things first: I had a call to make.
CHAPTER THREE
Everything or Nothing?
“So we’ll be at the airport on saturday at 12:35 p.m.,” said Dad, his chipper voice crackling thanks to the bad phone connection.
“Don’t forget you’ll only need one Volvo this time,” I said.
He chuckled. “Then I take it you haven’t purchased many souvenirs?”
“Nope. I’ve adopted Grandma Gerd’s philosophy on those. Oh, and I’d give up all hope of my luggage arriving, if I were you.”
Then I said casually: “By the way, Mom, I don’t mind if you go back to life coaching.”
“What’s that?”
I’d definitely caught her off guard.
“I just couldn’t wait until I got home to tell you how proud I am of all you’ve done for Amber—especially helping her with her pushy parents. So proud that I can’t selfishly keep you all to myself. I want to share you with those less fortunate, goal-challenged souls who desperately need your expertise.”
Was I laying it on too thick?
“You honestly feel that way about it?” she asked, voice quavering.
Guess not.
“Yes, yes, I do,” I said firmly.
She cleared her throat. “Speaking of ‘pushy parents,’ I know it probably sounds completely outlandish, but it’s struck me that perhaps at times I’ve been—”
“Althea, this sounds like a conversation for our next Hour of Reflection,” said Dad hurriedly. “It would be much better in person—and much cheaper. It’s been twelve minutes and thirty seconds already. And you know how pricey overseas rates are. Besides, Vassar will be home in less than forty-eight hours.”
Just when it was getting juicy!
“You’re right, Leon, much better to discuss it in person.”
But before I got off the phone, I just had to test the waters:
“Would you two mind if I dec
ided to go by a different name?”
“And why would you want to do that? ‘Spore’ is a perfectly sturdy, robust suffix. And conveniently easy to spell,” Dad said.
“No, not Spore. My first name. Lately, I’ve become partial to—Frangipani.”
Simultaneous intake of breath.
Then silence.
“Hello?”
“What has Gertrude told you?” Dad asked warily.
I told them the story of how I learned my real middle name.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” I asked.
I could hear them murmuring in hushed tones. Then Dad said, “Yes, it’s true. And Gertrude is absolutely correct: It wasn’t fair of us to legally drop your middle name and not tell her.”
Mom’s unsteady voice added: “Did she … did she tell you anything else?”
Do I tell them? Or wait until I get back? Or keep the truth from them like they’ve kept it from me?
Grandma Gerd had left it entirely up to me whether to tell Mom and Dad everything or nothing.
“You’re right, Dad. This is one expensive call. And like you said, I’ll be seeing you in less than forty-eight hours.”
“But—”
“Wait—”
“I love you both—no matter what.”
And I hung up.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t going to plan everything out. I’d play it by ear and see what happened.
I would LIM.
CHAPTER FOUR
My Very First Last Date
The irony: I finally recover enough to go out on a real date with Hanks—and my flight leaves the next day.
Get yer keister movin’, Frangipani, he’ll be here any minute.
Using some recently purchased cosmetics (Most Lovely brand) from the kedai next door, I made up my eyes and also applied brownish-red lipstick. But I didn’t bother with foundation in this humidity—I’d learned my lesson.
Through the open window came the sounds of motorbikes, trishaws, and taxis intermingled with snatches of Malay and strains of whining music. A cacophony of honks. The smell of fried noodles wafted in, competing with the sweet fragrance of the frangipani on my dresser. The ceiling fan swished the warm air from one part of the room to the other.
I missed Southeast Asia already—and I hadn’t even left.
I stepped back and consulted the mirror. Not bad. I no longer looked like a mugging victim. All that remained of my war wounds were a couple fading scratches on my cheek and the small scar on my nose. And all those bug bites had completely faded. Mom and Dad wouldn’t even recognize me with my Most Lovely makeup, hair in a French roll, dark tan, and overall gauntness. If only I didn’t have to wear my spare glasses and the rice bag skirt, the effect would be a whole lot more exotic. Although the skirt hung in a stiff tube around my legs, maybe with my new white silk blouse it didn’t look half-bad—
“You look like a giant tube of toothpaste.”
Maybe not.
Hanks stood in the doorway dressed in a dark blue mod 1960s suit with a skinny burgundy tie and black wingtip shoes—and his cowboy hat.
“Anything to promote good oral hygiene. New suit?”
“One of Renjiro’s.”
“What’s going on there?” I pointed to his chops. They were a whole lot sparser than the usual ones.
“The old ones were startin’ to chafe, so I’m growin’ my own. They suck right now, but—”
“I like them. Very organic. And that suit—very slick. Like it, too.”
He threw his hat onto my bed, ran a hand over his shiny black pomp, straightened his tie, then sauntered over to me.
“And I like noses that click on girls named after flowers.” He gently wiggled my nose with his finger—click, click. And then we were kissing.
This time was much more romantic. No holding my breath—and no holding urine.
Old Spice.
Flip-flop flip-flop flip-flop flip-flop flip-flop flip-flop flip-flop flip-flop flip-flop!
Why, oh why, couldn’t he live in Washington? Or why couldn’t I live here? Figures when I find the perfect guy, he’s located halfway across the globe.
“What do your folks think about you havin’ visitors?” he asked after we finally broke apart.
“Grandma Gerd already asked me that.” I untangled my fingers from his hair and smoothed it back—but left a few decorative strands hanging over his left eye.
“I’m talkin’ about me. I’ll only be a couple states away. Wyoming. Dad’s lettin’ me go to Little Creek Community College after all. I guess Gerd and Renjiro brainwashed him into thinkin’ I’d single-handedly saved your life or somethin’. And deserved some sort of ‘positive reinforcement. ’ Whatever works.” He attempted to play it casual, but he was obviously excited.
Hanks would be merely a state or two away? I had to sit down. The room was spinning.
“Wow,” I said, once I could think clearly. “I can’t believe it!”
“I take it you’re not too disappointed—”
The kiss I gave almost toppled him.
“Hold yer horses,” he gasped. “Save some for later.”
Wait until Denise, Amber, and Laurel met my genuine Malaysian Cowboy in the flesh! Then: “Do you realize this is our first official date?”
“You mean your first official date ever. What would John Pepper say?”
“Shut up, cowboy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And give me a kiss.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
This one was the best yet. Spinning. More flips, more flops.
We pulled apart and just stood there staring at each other. Not quite believing that this was really happening to us. To us.
He smiled and grabbed my hand. His silver horseshoe ring felt cool on my skin.
“Ready, little lady?”
“Wait.” Without releasing him, I pulled him over to the dresser and picked up a frangipani blossom. I inhaled the creamy petals, then tucked it into my hair. Then I led him over to the bed, scooped up his cowboy hat, and plopped it back on his head.
“Ready.”
And still holding hands, Sarah and Wayne headed downstairs, past Azizah and her soaps, out the door, and into the street.
CHAPTER FIVE
Frangipani’s Revised Life Goals
Non scholae sed vitae discimus.
We do not learn for school, but for life.
—Seneca
1. LIM 24/7.
2. Travel light.
3. Legally make Frangipani my middle name (again) and go by that instead of Vassar.
4. Plans and goals = guides, not absolutes.
5. Live my life, not my parents’.
6. Learn for learning’s sake.
7. Consider ALL colleges, not just Vassar (with special attention to colleges in the vicinity of Wyoming).
8. Spend summers with Grandma Gerd.
9. Get soft contact lenses.
10. Send nicotine patches to Bounmy, Polo cologne to Vang, and somehow get a care package to Stick Girl.
11. Research Thailand.
12. Find more Godings.
13. Research God, spirituality, miracles, trick bras, etc.
14. Marry a 5’8”, chops-wearing Malaysian cowboy for love.
15. Complete my novel for AP and AAP English credit. (LIM, Frangi, LIM!)
16. Buy Laurel a spoon in the airport or she’ll kill me!
17. AND NEVER, EVER TAKE THE TOILET FOR GRANTED AGAIN.
Epilogue
“Let each of us examine his thoughts; He will find them wholly concerned with the past or the future. We almost never think of the present, and if we do think of it, it is only to see what light it throws on our plans for the future. The present is never without end. The past and the present are our means, the future alone our end. Thus we never actually live, but hope to live, and since we are always planning how to be happy, it is inevitable that we should never be so.”—Pascal’s Pensées
AUTUMN CORNWELL
’S LIST OF ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In the spirit of Vassar Spore, I’d like to list all those who helped catapult Carpe Diem into the world:
1. My parents, William and Patricia Erickson, for jumpstarting my love of Southeast Asian culture as an MK in New Papua, and my love of reading by refusing to own a TV—thus forcing my sister and me to check out stacks of library books every week out of sheer desperation.
2. My sister, Danica Childs, fan of textured, virtually unlikable heroines adventuring in exotic locales, who wanted me to write the book we’d always wanted to read.
3. My supportive in-laws and extended family, who never suggested alternate employment to the unpublished writer in their midst.
4. Friend and fellow writer Ruth Campbell, for her absolutely insane level of encouragement.
5. Artist Helen Homer, who taught me how to see the extraordinary in the ordinary—and who really did “sleep wrong!”
6. All the friends I made in my travels and treks through Malaysia, Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, Laos, and Burma—from tour guides to engineers to refugees to entire hill tribes. Especially those living in countries under oppression.
7. Author April Young Fritz who, through SCBWI, was the first person outside of family to read my manuscript and whose enthusiasm propelled me to send it to …
8. My enthusiastic agent Rosemary Stimola, who in her infinite wisdom sent it to …
9. My enthusiastic editor Liz Szabla, who embraced Vassar, Hanks, and Grandma Gerd wholeheartedly enough to put their adventures in print.
10. And finally, my husband J.C., to whom this book is dedicated: Best Friend, Sugar Daddy, Constructive Critic, Patron, Cheerleader, Soulmate, Big Cheese—who, in the spirit of Hanks, will no doubt say to “cut the sap and end this already.”
CARPE DIEM. Copyright © 2007 by Autumn Cornwell. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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