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Authors: Autumn Cornwell

BOOK: Carpe Diem
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Hanks cleared his throat and said to Grandma Gerd, “It's probably a good idea for us to head outta Siem Reap first thing in the a.m. In case one of the backpackers or tourists turns her in—or one of the security guards spots her around town.”
Grandma Gerd picked up her woven bag. “So we're moving on to Phnom Penh a whole week early? There goes seven more days of found art and material gathering in Angkor down the drain.”
And she slammed the door on her way out.
Hanks looked at me. “Where's she goin'?”
I sighed. “Probably to ‘get a glass of red.'”
I went to check my email on the guesthouse lobby computer.
First, my parents:
 
Dad:
Thought I'd drop you a quick line before we start dinner. (Which isn't half so enjoyable without you by my side grating the Parmesan or zesting the lemon.) Your mom is feeling far better these days. Still concerned about you, though. So keep those optimistic emails coming! Principal Ledbetter called today at 3:45 p.m. She was curious to find out how your novel's coming along. I told her you had it well in hand. You do, don't you?
Mom:
Now that you're in Cambodia, I want you to be extra diligent about your safety. Don't let Gertrude pressure you into doing anything even remotely risky. (Like staying at an unrated hotel.)
By the way, Amber's making good progress. She's finally narrowed down her Life Goals—unfortunately they're all “arts” related. (Open a gallery, join an Elizabethan mime troupe, design a line of knitwear, etc.) I've resisted the urge to sway her toward the more practical—after all, it's her life, her choice. Now if only she'd decide on a college major … .
 
And then my friends:
 
Amber:
I LOVE WAYNE!
Laurel:
We can't decide who our favorite character is: Aunt Aurora or Wayne.
Denise:
I must commend your regularity in emailing the chapters.
 
Why wasn't I—ahem,
Sarah
—their favorite character?
 
I wrote about Aunt Aurora blatantly stealing a priceless relic and her conscientious niece Sarah attempting to make restitution by putting it back. Her sacrificial love for her aunt at the risk of her own freedom. Almost going to prison for righting a wrong.
It was my best chapter to date.
This time they couldn't help but see Sarah's winning qualities.
Full Moon in Full Squat
H
anks didn't think we should risk flying to Phnom Penh—too many security guards and police. “Who knows—they might have a wanted poster of Relic Thief Vassar Spore hangin' over the check-in desk. And those connect-the-dots bug bites of yours are darn hard to miss … .”
So our mode of transportation was the Tonlé Sap Lake and River via bullet boat, an ancient hot-dog-shaped vessel so jam-packed with passengers that some had to sit on the roof. A virtual death trap with no escape if it should submerge. Not for the claustrophobic.
I wore the blue baseball cap with my hair tucked up into it and Hanks's mirrored aviator sunglasses. I was taking no chances. Fortunately, none of the backpackers on board looked familiar—nor did any of them give me a second glance.
I sat on the vinyl bench seat next to Hanks, who was reading a worn paperback entitled
Dustup at the Double D.
I attempted to write my latest chapter. Grandma Gerd sat in front of us pasting found art into her Everything Book
with a glue stick—ignoring me. I couldn't believe she was giving me the silent treatment for trying to put her
apsara
back. What, were we in third grade?
Out of the corner of my eye I watched Hanks subconsciously spin his horseshoe ring around and around his middle finger as he read. Around and around. I forced myself to look away.
Grandma Gerd abruptly turned and handed something to Hanks. “Would you give this to
her
? Not that she deserves it.”
Hanks handed me a Fanta bottle cap with the letter “D” etched in it. “What's all this about?”
I shrugged. I rolled the cap around in my fingers. D. A. D. Dad? Did the Big Secret hinge around my father? I'd have to wait to ask her since she was obviously not too communicative right now.
I went back to my chapter.
“And how are Sarah and Wayne doin'?”
“Just fine,” I said stiffly.
“You're really serious about this novel business.”
“It's my only chance at valedictorian, which means Vassar, which means a lot to Mom and Dad.”
“But not you?”
“Of course it does. But it means more to them. It's only natural. They've been looking forward to me attending Vassar for years. For
years.
”
In front of me, Grandma Gerd made a sound like a “harumph.”
“But it's your life, not theirs.”
What was the use arguing with someone who didn't know a Latin suffix from a prefix?
He offered me a Chupa sucker. I shook my head. He popped it into his mouth.
“I know how you feel. My parents pushed me for years. No grade was good enough, no score high enough. They kept comparin' me to my cousin, a nuclear physicist. But I'm no physicist. The fact I was good at sports didn't count. Finally I got fed up and told them I wasn't going to college. Period.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged, then laughed flatly. “Dad disowned me.”
“Really?” It was obviously a wound that still smarted.
“Yep. Wouldn't talk to me for months. Acted like I wasn't there. Wrote me out of his will. Keep in mind, I was ‘dishonoring' the entire family. To the Chinese, there's nothin' worse than that. Mom, my aunties, my grannies, even my cousin, all went to temple day after day to light joss sticks, hopin' our dead ancestors would change Dad's mind.”
“And did they?” How sad!
“No, but Renjiro tried. Turned out, when he was a kid, he had pushy parents who pushed him into engineerin' when he wanted to major in art. He convinced Dad to at least talk to me. I agreed to go to college—as long as it was Little Creek Community College in Wyoming. That almost killed him. But I told him he'd lose face worse if I didn't go to any college. No sale. But I'm still workin' on him.”
“What would you major in?”
“Major in? You mean study?” He shrugged. “Oh, I don't know … ranchin', agriculture, or maybe I'll take some veterinary prerequisites. I like horses.”
“Then what are you doing at MCT?”
“Doin' an internship there was part of our compromise. Somethin's gotta make Dad realize I'm not engineer material. So, Missus Vassar Spore, I know darn well what it's like to have pushy parents. Chinese, Japanese, Australian, American—all parents are pushy parents.”
“My parents aren't pushy. They're just super-supportive.”
Grandma Gerd snorted.
Hanks smiled. “Uh-huh.”
“No, really. Goals, plans, valedictorian, Vassar, Pulitzer—all my ideas.”
Hanks just kept smiling.
Were
Mom and Dad pushy?
Were
my goals actually
their
goals?
Hanks grabbed an empty water bottle from under his seat.
“Be right back,” he said, slipping past me and disappearing into the luggage hold. A few minutes later he returned with the bottle half-filled with something yellow. He surreptitiously tucked it back under the seat.
I couldn't believe it.
He grinned. “Hey, I'm recyclin'.”
“I don't think that's what they had in mind … .”
“I got an extra bottle. There's no one in there, so you'd have the ‘facilities' to yourself, if you know what I mean.”
“You have heard there's a bathroom onboard?”
“If you wanna call it that,” he said in an ominous tone.
“You wouldn't catch me ‘recycling'—even if I were a guy.”
But I realized—once again—I did have to use the bathroom.
Why must every waking minute of every day in Southeast Asia concern relieving oneself?
Never would I take a toilet seat and bowl for granted again. Never.
I wobbled down the aisle toward the back of the bullet boat. A young Cambodian girl came out of the bathroom as I approached and smothered a giggle. I soon learned why.
“Bathroom?” Ha! A medieval torture device was more like it. The room was the size of a phone booth and housed a waist-high wooden box with a circular opening.
How on earth do I get on top of that?
I managed to use what meager upper body strength I possessed to hoist my lower body up onto the grimy, peeling linoleum that covered the top of the box. Trying to touch as little as possible, I maneuvered my way into the requisite squat over the opening—which required me to hunch over since the ceiling was so low. Even average-size Cambodians with their smaller builds would find this torturous. No wonder the girl laughed at the thought of all five feet ten of me pretzeled in here—my chin touching my knees and my butt extended.
 
You've squatted before, Sarah coached herself. Stop rocking back and forth. Relax—don't hit your head.
I'd just about relaxed when someone knocked on the door.
“Occupied!” I shouted, and tensed up again.
Contorted like a human crab, I willed myself to “un-tense.” Finally, just as my legs were so cramped, I almost blacked out, I produced a stream that turned into a torrent. Blessed relief! I refused to be hurried by repeated knockings on the door. Once the job was completed, I attempted to unfold myself. I moved this, moved that, un-tensed this, un-tensed that, stretched, shifted—until I realized: I was stuck,
stuck in a squat toilet on a bullet boat in Cambodia.
How many minutes had I been in here already? At least fifteen.
 
Don't panic, Sarah! You obviously got up here, so you can obviously get down. What goes up must come down.
 
One would think.
Part of my problem was the fact that in this position, I was unable to pull up my pants. My bare butt was vulnerable—in close proximity to the nastiest and possibly deadliest of germs. And I refused to sit naked on the linoleum—I'd rather die!
Bang bang bang!
They were getting impatient out there. I couldn't blame them. Urgent Khmer phrases came through the door. I tried to inch my pants up slowly, painstakingly, but only got them as high as mid-thigh.
I started to cry.
Don't be such a baby!
Bang bang bang!
“I'm stuck! I'm stuck!” I whimpered.
Murmuring voices. Then silence. Then:
Bang, bang, bang!
“I said I'M STUCK!!!!”
“Hey, toilet hog!” came Hanks's voice through the door. “This ain't your own personal boudoir, you know.”
Rescue!
“Hanks, I'm stuck!”
“Stuck? How could you—”
“Don't ask stupid questions—just get me out of here!”
“But the door's locked—”
“I don't care if it's locked. I'm going to pass out if you don't get me off this thing!”
“Hold on, little lady—Cowboy Hanks to the rescue!”
Rattling of the door. Shoves. Murmurs. Then:
BAM! BAM! CRASH! A cowboy boot—make that a
Goding
—exploded through the flimsy wooden door. Then the door burst open, missing my face by a half inch! And there I was, squatting, face-to-face with Hanks—and a crowd of Cambodians and backpackers all staring at me incredulously.
Mortification!
I didn't know which was worse: Hanks seeing me sans pants or the entire boat population witnessing my ineptness.
“I bet the bottle sounds pretty darn good right about now,” said Hanks, holding out his hand to help me down. He gallantly averted his eyes as I toppled on top of him in
my half-naked paralysis.
Well,
I thought,
at least he's being a gentleman about this. Most guys would take advantage—
“Mighty fine mole you got there on yer keister,” he said in an extra-drawly drawl.
Fsssht!!
Before I could pull up my pants, the Polaroid camera spit out a photo.
“This one names itself:
Full Moon in Full Squat.
”
Cretin.
From the crowd, a female backpacker with a sunburned nose scrutinized my face. “Hey, aren't you that girl from Ta Prohm? Who was arrested for stealing—”
I subdued the panic welling up in me and forced myself to gaze at her with complete disdain. “I've never stolen a thing in my life. Besides, even if it
were
true, this would be way outside their jurisdiction: We're halfway to Phnom Penh.” Close call!
“Nice save,” Hanks murmured in my ear—but the girl still eyed me suspiciously.
And as if all that wasn't bad enough, Hanks had to carry me back to my seat because my legs were numb.
And Grandma Gerd wouldn't stop laughing.
 
The rest of the boat trip I feigned sleep to both ignore the giggles of the Cambodians, the whispers of the backpackers, the chuckles of Grandma Gerd—and to avoid smug Hanks, whom I loathed. Absolutely loathed.
Flip-flop.

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