“I want you to understand that I run a tight ship. As I said earlier, if everything is to my satisfaction at the end of Vacation Bible School, I will sign off on your papers and the scholarship will be yours.”
I veer back slightly at her words. It never occurred to me that this was some kind of test. I imagined I’d come down here and get the work done and be on my way to Malibu.
“You’re surprised. You shouldn’t be. You wouldn’t believe how many kids come down here for some kind of spring break experience rather than to do the work God has called them to. I’m here to ensure that doesn’t happen. This work is my life calling. I can’t be babysitting short-time do-gooders if I’m going to be effective here for the long haul. The kids have to know they must show respect here. You’d be surprised how out of control things get when chaos reigns.”
“Well, isn’t that the definition of chaos? Ms. Bramer, I can assure you, I think my parents would tell you—”
She laughs. “Parents often miss their children’s flaws. Not having any of my own children, I rarely miss the flaws.”
My body involuntarily shudders. “I’m really tired from my traveling. I need to go back to bed if I have to rise at six.”
“If you need to use the outhouse tonight, I’ll leave a lantern here by the door. Don’t leave it outside or it will get stolen and you’ll have no way back. Everything here can be sold, so don’t leave anything out, and don’t venture off without a translator. You may think you know Spanish, but if you get into trouble, words will fail you.”
I slide into my sleeping bag again. “Okay, thanks. See you in the morning.”
There’s no more mention of the dog or the other missionary, and Libby slinks out backwards, turns off the light, and pulls the door shut with force. I’m left in the pitch-black darkness with no more colorful reminders of children’s paintings on the wall. I have that prickly feeling that bugs are in my hair, which I’m sure is only my imagination.
I’m not sure how long I’m asleep before I’m awakened by the door slamming against the wall. Groggily, I call out, “Who’s there?”
A male voice answers, and I tighten my bag around me. “J.C. Wiggs. Who’s there?” he answers in English.
“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.
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