by Jillian Dodd
I open my browser, typing Costa Rica in the search box.
Costa Rica is a Central American country with coastlines on the Pacific and the Caribbean. Its capital is San José, and it is known for its volcanoes, beaches, and biodiversity. A fourth of its land is protected, which is home to the famous quetzal bird and the spider monkey. Costa Rica is also the location of nesting beaches for numerous sea turtle species.
I decide to advance my search, pulling out the itinerary, and a funny name catches my attention—manatee. I type in the word alongside Costa Rica.
Marine mammals found in tropical warm waters. Solitary animals which typically eat aquatic plants.
An image pops up, and it’s probably the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s a large, round bodied creature with little flippers on both sides of its body. It reminds me of a cow, and it even has little whiskers. I let out a small coo just thinking about being able to see one in person. The rest of the afternoon I spend on Polyvore designing the perfect outfits for each and every day of my trip.
I glance at the clock and notice it’s time to go meet my parents. I grab my adorable fringed Chloe mini bag and rush out of my apartment, hoping I won’t be too late.
Adam
Walking into my parents’ house, I hang my bag on the large coat rack in the entry and make my way to the kitchen.
“Sweetie,” my mum says, greeting me with a hug.
“Hey, Mum.” I hug her back then sit down on a barstool and watch as she shuffles around in the open kitchen, grabbing spices from the rack to season the large spread of vegetables laid out on the island.
“From Dad’s garden?” I ask, picking up a small carrot and examining it.
“Yes. Your father is out back, and he keeps bringing in more and more. I swear, his garden never stops growing. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it all,” she complains as she dices a carrot. “Why don’t you go out there and distract him.”
I stand up, almost hitting my head on the pot rack, and duck out back to find my father.
“Hey, Dad,” I call out. The crisp air instantly hits me, and I take in my father’s ever-growing garden as well as the beautiful flowers he has planted alongside the fence.
“It’s about time you got here, Adam,” he says, rising from the ground to pull me into a hug even though his hands are covered in dirt.
“So, what was so important that you had to tell me in person?” I question. More than likely, he and Mum are going off on another adventure. My dad is the world-renowned photographer, Oliver Lloyd, and my mum, Lara, is a professor of anthropology. Throughout my life, we’ve been off living somewhere else more than we’ve been at our home in Oxford.
Dad’s eyes light up with excitement as he brushes off his hands, grabs a basket full of vegetables, and says, “Let’s go inside.”
I follow him back into the kitchen and plop down on a barstool, waiting to hear the news.
“Go on, Oliver, tell him,” my mum encourages.
“I think I’ve got you an assignment.” His eyes sparkle while he waits for my reaction.
“Really? What will I be doing?” I question, excitement rolling through my body.
“It’s actually pretty interesting. It’s an eco-trip for a magazine.”
“No way!” I can barely believe this. It’s like a dream come true. Maybe it’s National Geographic or Conde Nast. “Which one?”
“Fashion Forward,” are the words that come tumbling out of his mouth. I glance at my mum, wondering if this is some kind of joke.
“Dad? I’m a wildlife photographer.” I look down at my baggy shorts and retro tee. “I don’t do fashion.”
“You really could use a haircut,” my mum teases.
My dad holds up his hands. “Just hear me out. I had a delightful conversation with the editor, Janet Hall. She just got back from a spiritually enlightening trip, and she has committed to making Fashion Forward a more eco-friendly magazine. They have a new target market, and she wants to make an impact on our future generation by educating them about the world. She wants you to go to Costa Rica.”
“So, what exactly is the piece about? Travel?” I ask, still confused.
“A combination of travel and sustainability. They chose a young fashion blogger to go on the trip. She’ll be writing an article for the magazine about her experience. You will join her on the trip and take the photos that will accompany her story. Look, don’t be prejudiced against the magazine because of its name. It’s got a strong readership and is distributed in both the US and the UK. Although the focus is not specifically on the environment and animals, those things will be a big part of the trip. This will help you get your name out there. It’s a great opportunity. You’ll get experience and show that you can work well with large publications and fulfill your contracts.”
I rub my hand across my eyebrow then back through my hair. Because Fashion Forward? That’s the magazine teen girls read on the Tube. No thank you.
My father is still trying to prove his point. “Doing well as a professional photographer is more than just being good at taking pictures. You can’t start out shooting for National Geographic. You have to work up to that.”
“I understand that. But this just isn’t the direction I want my career to take. I know it would be experience, but I don’t want to shoot for a company called Fashion Forward. I want to do work that matters. I want to be able to make a difference—allow people to see and experience things that they otherwise wouldn’t have been able to do.”
“This company is changing how they do things, and you should want to be a part of that. Did you know that the parent corporation of Fashion Forward also owns three successful international travel magazines? This will allow you to show what you can do and expand your portfolio. And who knows, maybe you’ll make a difference in ways you never expected.”
“Listen to your father, sweetie,” Mum says. “He went through this when he was first starting his own photography career. You should take his advice.”
“Why me?” I ask, wondering how Fashion Forward even found me.
“The editor posted on a photography group that I’m in about what she planned. I took the liberty of giving her a call and sending her your portfolio. She loved your work. And it’s only a week. If you’re open to it, you need to call her to finalize the details.”
“You really think this is a good idea?” I ask my parents. I trust them, and they always give me sound advice. So even though my gut is telling me working for a fashion magazine is a ridiculous idea, I know I should listen.
“Absolutely,” they say in unison.
“Alright, then.” I hold my hands up in defeat as Dad slides me a slip of paper with the editor’s name and phone number on it.
“Let’s see,” Mum says, “it’s past working hours here, but it’s earlier in New York. Give her a call now.”
I go into the living room, so at least I can have a little privacy, and make the call. I’m very quickly transferred from the editor’s assistant to the editor, herself.
“Janet, hello, this is Adam, Oliver Lloyd’s son. He spoke to me about the employment opportunity with your magazine.”
“Adam, I’m so pleased to hear from you.”
“I was hoping to find out a little more about the assignment,” I say, trying my best to sound professional.
“We will be teaming you up with a fashion blogger and YouTuber named Camille Caldwell. She has a large following and is based out of New York. You will go on an eco-trip that involves activities ranging from visiting a hot spring to hiking a volcano. While you will be photographing much of the landscape and scenery, I also want you to showcase Camille’s personal journey. Is this something you’d be interested in?” I think about it for a moment. The thought crosses my mind to just say no and hang up, but I know my dad is right. It is a great opportunity.
“Yes, it is.”
“Wonderful,” she says. “I will email you all the information. Oh, and you leave in a week.”<
br />
I hang up and wander back into the kitchen. My dad is sautéing vegetables on the stove while my mum puts bread into the oven.
“Well?” she questions.
“I’m going,” I say, plastering a smile onto my face. “I’ll be following around a blogger named Camille for a week. Apparently, she’s got quite the following in the States.”
“Why don’t you look her up?” Mum suggests, grabbing her laptop out of her bag and sliding it over to me.
I figure a little research can’t hurt, so I type her name into the search box then scroll through her video channel, stopping to listen to a few of her videos.
And I don’t like what I see.
“Oh, Dad. No. There is no way I can do this. Look at this girl,” I say, my voice almost squeaking. “Her most recent videos are The Perfect Summer Outfit, Five Tips For Applying Makeup Like a Pro, and Shopping Haul—Zara, Asos, & H&M. She is the exact opposite of everything I stand for. She’s shallow and conceited. And listen to her. All she seems to be able to talk about is makeup and clothing. Seriously, this cannot be happening to me.” I lie my head dramatically on the island.
“Let me take a look,” Mum says, drying her hands on a dishtowel and watching a video from over my shoulder. “Oh, Adam. She is adorable. Granted, her topics aren’t something that I’m into, but she has good energy, and I’m sure she is very relatable to young girls. She just lights up in her videos, so I’m sure you’ll get some great photos of her. Very spirited. I think I would like her.”
“Spirited? Just look at her. She will never last a week on an eco-trip. She probably has never even stepped barefoot in the grass, let alone gone hiking.”
My dad lets out a chuckle. “No assignment is ever easy, son. But it is an assignment, and at an up-and-coming magazine, no less. You shouldn’t miss out on an opportunity because you’re afraid of this girl.”
“I’m not afraid of her. I just hate everything she embodies, if that’s even possible.” What the heck am I saying? I don’t even know her. I probably shouldn’t judge her so harshly, but still. I can already tell this girl is drama with a capital D. “Well, I guess I’ll consider it a challenge then.”
“That’s the spirit,” Mum says.
“And you never know, this girl might just surprise you,” Dad adds.
I roll my eyes at them. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
Camille
“I’m going to Costa Rica,” I gush to my parents, who sit across the table from me at our favorite Italian restaurant in the Upper West Side. I’m more excited than I’ve ever been in my life and have been dying all day to tell them the news.
“What are you talking about, Camille?” my father asks, setting down the glass of champagne I’d instructed him to hold up so I could make a toast.
“I had a meeting with Fashion Forward earlier today. The Fashion Forward. They saw my blog, want me to be featured in their magazine, and are sending me to Costa Rica. All expenses paid.”
“Oh dear,” my mother says, placing two fingers against her temple and downing her champagne.
“I don’t know about this, Camille,” my father interjects, motioning toward my mother. “She’s already worried sick.”
“Mom, I will be fine. Don’t worry about me. It’s going to be so much fun.” I take Mom’s hand in mine, her jeweled rings cool against my skin.
“First,” my mother says holding up her finger, “you’re only eighteen. You can’t travel to Central America alone. I also don’t think you will like it. You’re my daughter. Camping for you is a four-star hotel.”
“Mom, Costa Rica is beautiful, and I won’t be alone. I’ll have a tour guide and a photographer with me.”
“Who I assume you don’t know,” Mom counters. I notice Dad isn’t saying much. Mom’s the kind of person who has to talk through what she’s thinking before she makes a final decision. My dad takes in all the facts before he does. “Surely you can do a nice article for them closer to home. Somewhere nice and safe.”
“Not only am I going to be featured in their magazine, this is going to make my blog and YouTube channel explode. I thought you would be excited for me. This is an incredible opportunity,” I argue.
“Yes, well, I suppose it is,” she says, hopefully warming to the thought. “Fashion Forward is a reputable company. Congratulations, sweetie. It’s a great honor to be asked.”
“Tell me the details,” Dad says, while Mom pulls out her phone and taps buttons. “What would you be doing for them?”
“It’s a week-long trip, and I’ll be doing all sorts of things. And can you believe they are sending a photographer to take pictures of me?” I grin at my parents. My mom gives me a quick smile, but she’s focused on her phone, which is a little irritating.
“Did they give you a contract?” Dad asks. “It’s important that they spell out exactly how the trip’s expenses will be addressed, any compensation you would receive, and, of utmost importance, your safety. We really can’t approve of this trip until we know more details.”
“We can’t approve of this trip at all,” Mom interjects, her eyes bulging. “I’ve just been looking up information about Costa Rica. And this is actual information from our government. It says that crime is increasing in Costa Rica. That while petty theft and pickpocketing is the most common, armed robberies are occurring in broad daylight. And listen to this, a tour bus was broken into and tourists’ luggage was stolen while they were white water rafting. I’m sorry, Camille, but there’s no way you are going on this trip.”
I panic. They can’t tell me not to go. How could they not be thrilled for me? I don’t understand.
My father rests his hand on top of my mom’s. “There’s pickpocketing in any and every city, including our own New York City.” He turns to me. “Camille, that means you must always be aware of your belongings and your surroundings. You have to promise to not put yourself in any precarious situations.”
The fact that he’s making me promise is a good sign. I mean, I’m eighteen. I just finished my freshman year at college. I live on my own. It’s not that I need their permission to go or anything, but I want it. I’m very close to my parents, and I want them to be proud of me. To be just as excited as I am.
“I promise,” I say sincerely. “I am a little nervous about doing this, but it’s just such an incredible opportunity. Can you believe your daughter is going to be published in an international magazine? Did you ever think something like this would happen?”
“Absolutely,” my dad says, picking his champagne glass back up. “Here’s to our baby getting her first assignment and going on her first real adventure. Your mother and I are very proud.” I’m touched when I notice a tear shimmering in his eye.
“Thank you,” I tell them. “You have no idea how much your support means to me.” I raise my glass of sparkling cider and toast them.
Mom says, “Now that we’ve decided you’re going, give us the details. Where were you when you got the call? What did they say?”
I proudly give them all the details I can remember.
DAY ONE
Camille
I drag my bag into the airport, trying hard not to trip when my wedges hit the carpet. I scurry up to the counter, throwing my backpack onto the ground and fishing through it until I find my wallet.
“Hi. Camille Caldwell,” I say to the woman behind the counter.
“Where are you flying to, Camille?” she asks professionally as I hand her my passport.
“San José,” I excitedly reply and try my best to get my bag up onto the scale. It weighs in at a whopping forty-nine point five pounds. I let out a sigh of relief, thankful I made it under the fifty pound limit. “How long is the flight?”
“You’re on a direct flight. So five and a half hours.”
“Thanks.” I smile at her as she clicks away on the keyboard, her eyes rarely leaving the screen. “It’s actually pretty cool, I get to go for work.” I’m so proud. I want to tell the world about my trip. But my
dad went over the contract with me and warned me about the confidentiality agreement the magazine made me sign. I can tell people I’m working for them, but I’m not allowed to say much about the upcoming article.
“How nice,” she says, giving me a curt smile.
“Yeah. I’m so excited. I’m doing a piece for a magazine, you may have heard of it, Fashion Forward.” A grin spreads across my face. “It’s all just so surreal. I can’t believe I’m finally leaving today.”
“Here’s your boarding pass,” she says, sliding my passport across the counter along with it. “Have a good trip, and congratulations.”
I get absorbed in a good romance book, and before I know it, we’re touching down in San José.
I make my way toward baggage claim, buzzing with excitement—possibly due to a few too many coffees on the plane. As I exit the terminal door, I see people waiting for their baggage at the carousels. My eyes land on a small white piece of paper with Caldwell written on it. I look up from the sign, taking in the casual attire of the man who is picking me up. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a crisp blue polo which stands out brightly against his tanned skin and dark hair. His look is much different from the black-suited drivers in New York.
