Now, my parents love Jesus, and they are the salt of the earth, but if you came to our house on any given day, you’d definitely think they were your ministry. Or that Hoarders had missed a house, as Claire implied. I want to defend my parents, but truthfully, I don’t have a lot of ground to stand on here—it’s covered with fabric, furniture, and household supplies.
I stare at the vat of pickles on a nearby shelf perched over my bed. “Yes, definitely your house,” I agree as I take a more realistic, detached look at reality. “Let me see what it says.” I grab the brochure and see pictures of adorable, olive-skinned children without shoes, in tattered pants, and I hear the Spanish plea for “May I have some more, sir?” in my head. “It’s positively Dickensian.”
“I know, right? But with a Latino flair.” Claire wiggles her eyebrows. “And I’m sure some young, unattached polo players tango as well.” She sits up on my bed. “But we won’t tell your parents that part. I’m telling you, put in the time—you can do one week in Argentina—then we relax for the next week and soak in the sun and the sights.”
“You really do think outside the box.”
“Someone has to. The mission person signs off on your paperwork, and then we head to the spa and learn to tango. What could be more beautiful?”
“It sounds too simple. There has to be a catch. There’s always a catch. This is me we’re talking about.”
“Quit being so paranoid. Call the number and get it arranged. They call your pastor, your scholarship program, and we are in business and get the pampering vacation we deserve after surviving St. James College Prep. Plus it helps your parents know we’re not just going to Argentina to get into trouble or to see Max.”
“I have to Skype Max,” I say with a flutter in my stomach, finally allowing myself to believe I’ll be in Max Diaz’s homeland. It felt too huge to hope for. “I can’t believe I’ll be in his hometown! Buenos Aires, land of the tango, the South American Paris . . .”
“The fine South American leather collection!”
I start to get excited and can feel my heart getting all aflutter too. “This might really happen.”
“Max is going to freak. I’ll bet you he never thought this would happen, with your parents.” Claire blows on her fingernails, which she has just finished painting.
“Freak in a good way? Or in a bad, ‘I’m seriously stalking him’ way?”
“A good way!”
My immediate reaction is fear. “I’ll freak him out. He’ll think I want a proposal.”
“He knows you’re going to college in August at Pepperdine. He knows this is nothing more than a sweet, summer romance of the G-rated kind.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Okay, PG. You can kiss him, but nothing more, or your parents will have my head.”
“Deal,” I tell her with a handshake. “Max is my first love, my boyfriend.” I allow myself that thought. I know I’m young and all (eighteen in three months), but I’m a romantic, and even though Max had to go back home to Argentina, I never quite believed it would be the last of him. Maybe because my parents got married in college. I know it’s ridiculous, but what kind of romantic would I be if I didn’t allow myself to dream?
“Oh, it’s going to happen. It’s time you learned the power of positive thinking, Daisy. We are going to Buenos Aires, the most cosmopolitan city of South America, and even better? We’ll know someone there who can show us the ropes!”
I clutch the brochure to my heart. “It is. It is going to happen.”
I ignore that nagging kernel of truth in my soul. The one that tells me nothing ever goes as planned with Claire. The one that asks me, where is the history that dictates a successful future here? The one that tells me maybe planning a ministry with the express plan to get to an international spa is not what my scholarship provider hoped to accomplish by sending me on a mission.
But I ignore all those ugly truths because baby, I am going to Buenos Aires! Swimming pools, the tango, and the icing on the Latino cake: Max Diaz in his native surroundings.
2
My mom, as I expected, is much less enthusiastic about the idea. She’s folding fabric on the dinner table so that we can find a spot to eat. “How do you expect to have an effective ministry in a country you know nothing about, in a language you barely speak?”
“That’s what the exchange program is all about. Mom, you’re always telling me how those Bible translator friends of yours go into foreign countries where they don’t know a word of the tribe’s language. Surely this will be easier for me with my Spanish and Latin classes.”
She looks at the neat pile of patriotic fabric. “I don’t know. Claire and you in a foreign country?”
“You have to trust me at some point, Mom. I’ll be on my own in two months. You could make some blankets, and I could take them with me. That would be a nice entry into the mission.”
“Doesn’t this stuff have to be prearranged a long time in advance?”
“Yes, but Claire’s father offered to make a donation in exchange for expediency. He’s already booked our flights and he doesn’t want to rebook them.”
“He shouldn’t have done that without asking us first.”
“Mom!” I whine. I shake the letter in my hand. “It’s all right with the scholarship fund. If they can trust me, can’t you?”
My dad walks into the kitchen.
“Dad,” I say in my most adult voice.
He turns back around when he sees my mom and me looking at him. He waves a hand. “Not getting involved.”
“Dear!” my mom says in that voice that makes Dad do an about-face. “Your daughter wants to go to Argentina on a mission trip, not just stay in that nice hotel Claire’s parents booked.”
“Oh,” my dad says, rubbing his head. “Is that safe?”
“No!” my mom says.
“It’s safe, and then I’ll get to see the real Argentina, not just the tourist traps. Please, Dad! It’s the only way I’m going to complete the mission work in time for school and still get my graduation trip with Claire.”
“But two young girls alone in a foreign country outside of the hotel? It’s a recipe for trouble. You see that all the time on the news. And those are only the ones we hear about,” Mom says.
“I want to have a great adventure. Gil told me that once the work starts, there never seems to be time for adventure. If not now, when?”
“When you’re not my responsibility,” Dad says.
“I don’t know,” Mom says. “Chasing a boy halfway around the world? Do you think that’s the sort of girl the future Pastor Max would want to marry?”
I exhale loudly. “I’m not going to Argentina for Max.” He’s just part of the excursion package. “And I’m certainly not marrying anyone until I’m done with college.”
“I said that once,” my mother says dreamily, staring at my father.
“Ew. Things are different now, Mom. I need college, and I especially need it for finance.”
“We were young once too,” Dad says.
“No, you never were. Mom was born eighty. And I don’t even know if I’ll see Max. Of course I’ll try, I’m not going to lie. He might never come back to the States again, and it’s not like I’ve lost any admiration for him. I just know where my priorities are. He knows his.”
“That’s what all young people say before their hormones do the talking for them.”
“Ew, Dad. Must you always take it to the hormonal level? Gross.”
“What does Claire’s father say about this? Does he know that Claire will be on her own at the hotel while you’re working with this mission?”
“Obviously, he’s paying for it, so he must trust us.”
“He trusts you because he doesn’t know half of what his daughter does.”
“Well, that’s true.”
Dad sighs heavily. “I’m sure he thought we’d never let you go. That’s probably why he felt safe saying yes to Claire. I’d like to call him and see if he kn
ows Claire will be alone at the hotel while you’re doing this ministry. They seem to rely on you to keep an eye on her.”
My mom lifts the brochure from my hands. “Hands of Love!” she says.
I nod. “That’s the name of the ministry.”
“It can’t be. Honey, look,” she says to my father, handing him the brochure.
“Maybe it’s God’s will,” my father says. He looks at my mother as if something miraculous has taken place.
“What are the chances?” Mom asks.
“God’s world is smaller than we imagine.”
“What are you both talking about?” I ask. Implied: And will it benefit me?
“This ministry. Hands of Love.” My dad shakes the brochure. “It’s run by your mother’s college roommate. I’ll be, it’s a small world, isn’t it?”
“It’s not!” I shout, hoping against hope that what they said isn’t true. Because for all intents and purposes, I do want to see Max, and if I have another mom checking on me every five minutes, that’s not going to happen. “Maybe it’s just someone with the same name,” I suggest. “It’s probably a common name, right, Mom?”
“Not all that common. It’s her. We talked about her being down there when you and Claire first came up with this trip. I thought we might look her up back then, remember, dear?”
Dad nods.
“Her name is Libby Bramer. I can’t imagine there are two of them in Buenos Aires. I wonder if she recognized your name, or haven’t you applied yet? Either way, I’ll feel so much better if Libby is running the ministry.”
I plead the fifth here. “So she didn’t ever get married? Or that’s her married name?”
“Hmm,” my dad says. “I doubt she got married.”
“Honey!” my mom says.
“She was . . . let me think about how to say this kindly . . . she was kind of a man-hater,” my father says.
“That’s your kindler, gentler answer?” Mom asks.
“In a word, yes. She paid a lot of attention to what others did back in the day. Liked to run the show, if you will. We tended to avoid her if at all possible.”
Great.
“You tended to avoid her,” Mom says. “She’s lovely, Daisy. She’s very independent, and you would like that.”
“I’m sure I will. Besides, how much trouble could I get into with a man-hating missionary who knows my parents?”
“Daisy! Libby is not a man-hater! Besides, even if she was, that was a long time ago. People change, and I’m sure she’s matured,” Mom says. My father is behind her shaking his head, but he begins nodding when she turns to face him.
“Libby doesn’t give me all that much peace of mind, actually. And your father did say we could use his airline miles,” Dad says to Mom. “That’s one way we could make this happen.”
“That’s not necessary. Claire’s dad is buying the tickets with his miles. It’s all set up. My passport should be here any day.”
“For us,” Mom says to me. “I think your father is talking about us. We’re not sending our daughter to a foreign country alone to work in missions. Not without us.”
My lungs empty. “You don’t trust me at all. I’ll be living on my own in two months. How can you not trust me? What difference does it make now?”
“Two months, a few thousand miles, and a foreign language. Quite a bit of difference. I don’t want to hear you’ve been picked up in some foreign gutter,” Mom says. “We trust you, Daisy. It’s your ability to adjust to a different world we don’t trust. You’ve lived a very sheltered life.”
“Because you’ve created that sheltered life!”
“Quit acting so innocent. You and Claire have something up your sleeve. I’m sure it has something to do with Max,” Dad says. “This conversation is over. If you choose to do your mission work in Argentina, we’re going with you. It’s that simple. Or you have another option: you can continue to work at the food bank this summer and declare hardship as your reason for not completing the stipulations.”
“This has nothing to do with Max,” I argue. “I mean, sure, I want to see him, but my decision is separate from that. I’ll admit, Claire and I planned our destination because we wanted to do something more exotic than the standard Hawaii, but I assure you, my decision has nothing to do with that now. But we thought with Max there, we’d have some connection to the country if we got into trouble. It’s actually very responsible.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mom, you’ve never been out of the country. Don’t you regret that? Do you want me to have the same regrets? Never having the chance to travel?” I flutter my lashes to reiterate my innocent desires.
“I don’t care for travel. It’s always so hard to get sewing supplies and figure out what your father will eat. I just never cared for all of the unknowns, but if this means that much to you, maybe it’s time I made an exception. I wonder how long it will take us to get our passports.”
“No, not you, Mom. Me. I totally understand that you don’t want to travel, I get it. It’s a total hassle. I’m only saying that I want to travel. I want to see the world and find out what makes people tick, and I can’t do that here.”
“Daisy, people from all over the world live right here in Silicon Valley. You can absolutely do that here. What about the food bank? You’ve given so much time to them already. You don’t think Pastor will be offended that you’re spending your ministry time in another country?”
“Pastor would want to see me try new things. How do I know that the food bank is where I want to spend my time when there might be a better use of my skills elsewhere?”
“I think he might say you could use your skills elsewhere here, but maybe that’s me,” Dad says.
My desperation is growing as I feel that much closer to actually getting out of this country and seeing the world. Without my parents. For once I’d be free of the chains that bind me to my lack of options and responsibilities. “I want to stretch my wings! I’m tired of doing exactly as I’m told. Maybe I’m meant for more than this provincial life!” I say, quoting my favorite Disney princess.
“Maybe you’re not,” Mom says. “Look, if you want to go to Buenos Aires, Dad and I are willing to entertain the notion, but only if we come with you. There’s a news story on every night that tells of some young girls disappearing.”
“That’s why you shouldn’t watch the news. It makes you feel like the world is made up of nothing but sociopaths and junkies.”
“Do you want me to ask Grandpa for his miles or don’t you? You’ve been given your choice.”
I sigh. “Fine.”
“Great!” Mom claps her hands together. “I’ll call Libby and get the mission set up and ensure all the paperwork is done from her side. That way we’ll know when we need to travel. What day do you have to be at school, Daisy?”
“August twenty-third.” I sigh. “I’m going to email Claire.” Who, I might add, is going to kill me. Our freewheeling, luxury spa vacation has just turned into a working nightmare in a flea-ridden barrio with chaperones. Not just chaperones, but my parents, which will be like inviting Mother Teresa to the spa: guilt-inducing and not all that fun.
I’m beginning to think life is all about lowering my expectations.
My Life: Stop—July 6
Fun travel factoid: Argentina comes from the Latin Argentum, translated “land of silver.” Or, in my case, “land of silver bars.” Because let’s face it, my parents will never let me out.
I thought this airplane ride would be my flight into freedom—off we go into the wild blue yonder and all that—but as I watch my mom and dad joke with the flight attendants, it’s more like a jail bus. The next stop is hard labor camp, complete with the chain around my leg.
Why is it that adults want you to learn everything through pain and suffering? Is it me? Whatever happened to the world of Barney and learning through fun, purple dinosaurs?
I’ve read all of my magazines, a few of Claire’s (the secular ones my mom says a
re of the devil), and started a book. But I can’t concentrate. In less than an hour, I will be on foreign ground. Land of Max Diaz, polo, and empire penguins. My version of milk and honey. A place where no one knows I wore homemade clothes or was perfectly dateless. This might be the beginning of the whole new me, and I might come home with a new confidence. My perspective could change and my future could open up. Even my parents being along can’t stop my excitement from forming now. My world is about to expand. Mas grande.
The plane comes to a smooth landing, almost as though we’ve gracefully entered the country on ballet toes. “We’re here!”
Claire grabs my hands. “We made it!” Her smile is contagious, and we both start to giggle as if we pulled off some great crime.
“Let’s go,” my father orders. “We have to grab our bags and get to the hotel, and to Libby’s by dark. Move!”
The airport is cavernous, loud, and crowded, but nothing can hide my fervor as I read every luxurious advertisement and try to translate it with my poor Spanish skills. “Hola!” I say to everyone as we pass by. “Hola! Como está?” I say to complete strangers as we rush by them in my father’s hurry to get to the baggage claim before anyone else.
When we arrive at the luggage carousel, it’s spinning with no sign of our bags—or anyone’s, for that matter. “It looks like we beat the luggage. Why don’t you get the bags, girls, and meet us outside while we flag a cab?”
“Pierce,” my mom says. “We have time. Do you really want to leave the girls here alone already? Besides, isn’t there customs?”
My dad visibly calms. “Right. We can wait, I suppose.”
I stop and spin in the center of the domed, hangar-like building. “Wow,” I say, staring up at the roof. “I feel different here. Like I’ve suddenly grown up. I can’t wait to have my first Argentine steak. That will make it official.”
Claire grabs my hand again. “Would you come on? This isn’t a musical. You’re going to get robbed if you keep looking like the typical tourist.”
Perfectly Ridiculous Page 2
