From Butt to Booty (35 page)

Lucas has started sitting next to me. He’s shaved his head for some unknown reason. When I heard I thought I’d miss his perfect hair, but he is still the most deliciousness boy in the world, even bald. He leans toward me. “How’s your dad?”

“He’s pretty much mended. Thanks for asking.”

He nods. “You done?”

I nod. “You?”

“Barely. Tim helped.” This last he drops to a whisper. “You going to prom?”

My heart races. My mouth gets dry. He’s not asking me, he already has a date, but my body can’t help but hope that was a nasty rumor. “I don’t think so.”

“You should come. Adam and Tim are getting tuxes later today. We’re all going together.”

Let’s see, two couples and me. Let me consider. Ha, ha, that’s so tempting. “I’ve already got plans with friends, kinda an anti-prom thing.”

“That’s cool.”

My name is called and I scoot out of my seat, walk to Slater and hand him my paper.

“I’m looking forward to seeing what you have to say about yourself, Ms. Garibaldi.” He checks off my name without looking up at me.

“Thanks.” It’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever heard come out of his mouth. I almost ask if he’s having chest pains or anything.

I got the job! I got the job! I love doctors! I love children! I got the job!

I’m a working girl again and I won’t screw this up. I won’t. I will duct tape my mouth. I will be demure, quiet, polite and competent. Besides, what could I possibly say to a sick kid that could get me fired?

I dump my bags, read the note Mom left. The parentals have gone to the grocery store for a short outing. Dad’s clearly got cabin fever. Next to the note is a thick cream-colored envelope, one of those nine-by-twelve envelopes used so people don’t have to fold pages or that college catalogs come in.

The return address grabs my attention. The Passport Program.

I slide into a chair. My stomach gets all clenched and excited. You know those moments when you think maybe something big is about to happen, but you’re not sure quite what? This is one of those moments.

I close my eyes and picture myself in Piccadilly Circus, sailing down the Danube, climbing the ruins in Peru. I look happy. Relaxed. My teeth sparkle like in the catalog, my skin is flawless, my clothes are European chic.

I take a great gulp of air and rip into the envelope. I pull out a heavy pocket folder with a glossy blue cover. A letter slides out. My eyes scan it so fast I have no idea what it says. I read it out loud: “ ‘Dear Ms. Garibaldi: Congratulations. You’ve been selected to
participate in the Passport Program for the upcoming fall term as a Traveler! The following spring, your family will host travelers from places you will visit on your trip.’ ”

I exhale and blink. I jump up and pace the kitchen, clutching the paperwork. “ ‘Because of your stellar academics, phenomenal teacher recommendations from Ms. DaVoe and Mr. Slater, and your personal essay, we are pleased to offer you the highest honor of Passport Reporter. If you accept this challenge, you will be the voice of the Passport Program on the Web and for our print publications. You will be expected to keep a weekly report updated via any electronic means. As a thank-you we will allocate a stipend to be paid as a scholarship for our program along with airfare.’ ”

I grope for the floor. A scholarship?

I get to travel the world and get paid to do it? “ ‘Your family will be expected to pay for your food, clothes and incidental expenses incurred on the trip. Please contact our offices right away to begin the paperwork. This package is only offered to a few select individuals, with all expenses paid by …’ ” I look over the list of Fortune 500 companies who support this exchange program. The motto is “One World, One Future.” Which is catchy, if overly cute.

Do I want to go? Do I want to leave this behind? Am I ready for change with a capital “C”? Holy-Mother-of-Answered-Prayers, I am so ready. All I have to do is grab my toothbrush.

Then I see the bold print:
Must have parental permission
. There’s always a catch. I haven’t even told them I applied. Because let’s face it, I didn’t expect to get accepted, so why share? I should have prepared them for this eventuality. I am so screwed.

I scuttle the papers upstairs and grab the phone. There’s only one person who might possibly know how to handle the parents. Mike.

“Oh, bestest brother in the whole world?” I ask.

Heather picks up an extension. “Hi, Gertie, what’s up?”

“Do you have another tweezer emergency?” Mike drawls.

“Cute,” I say, then spill my guts.

Mike and Heather help me decide to wait until this weekend to tell the parents, when they’re here for a family dinner and can back me up. Mike doesn’t think they’ll have any problems at all; Heather’s a little more reserved in her predictions. I don’t know how Mom and Dad will react. They worry I’m not grown-up enough; will they let me fly off into the wild blue?

Mom is cooking. She says she’s missed it. We’re all popping precautionary Pepto. She manages to make pasta that is one clump, burns the sauce and leaves the salad on the stove so the lettuce is all wilted and runny.

Heather brings a heart-healthy cheesecake from the new bakery in town for dessert. I’m not sure the twelve-inch cake is going to be enough to feed all of us.

It is times like these I wish my parents were animal people and we had a dog. I’ve never been able to feed brussels sprouts and pasty pasta to a four-legged creature. I’ve always been expected to eat enough to sustain life.

Heather thinks they should lead with their news. I’m fine with this. I can’t help but wonder if my news will cause Dad to have another cardiac episode.

“We’ve set the date,” Mike throws into the conversation. His sense of timing is all wrong.

“That was my line.” Heather pokes him and laughs.

“I couldn’t wait.” Mike looks sheepish and forks up a bite of cucumber.

“Oh, that’s wonderful news.” Mom claps her hands and does a little sitting dance. “When?”

“Memorial Day weekend next year. We want to make it a fun weekend, not just the wedding. A brunch, a laid-back barbeque, that kind of thing.”

“How fun.”

“Now your mother has something else to fuss over. Thank you.” Dad chuckles.

“Bill,” Mom scolds.

“I’m going to Timbuktu!” I shout. Yes, I shout, and yes, instead of saying Paris, Sydney, even Rome, I pick Timbuktu to break the news.

“What?” Dad’s brow furrows.

“Is there such a place, dear?” Mom asks, picking up another slice of bread like I just told them I was showering in the morning.

I roll my eyes, but seriously I’m too nervous to make any sort of cogent thought come out of my mouth.

Mike jumps in. “Gert’s been accepted into the Passport Program for secondary students. Isn’t that great?”

Heather imitates Mom and claps with a chair dance.

“What is that?” Mom asks Mike.

This is not the excitement I’m hoping for.

“Don’t worry, I checked it out through the college, it’s completely legit. Gert, why don’t you tell us about it.” Mike emphasizes his command with his formidable unibrow.

“I go to many different places, I take American classes online so I don’t get behind on school, even though while I’m in town I
go with the host student to school. I stay with families and do local stuff.” I glance at Dad, who is thoughtful and silent.

“Oh.” Mom puts down her fork. “I didn’t know you wanted to travel?”

“Yeah, well.” How to say high school sucks without making my parents put me on suicide watch? “I’m ready to change the scenery. You know, school is the same and I’m ready for different. I want to stretch my wings and spread my leg—wings.” Oh, hell, I almost butchered the metaphors and made myself into a hooker in one sentence. Priceless.

“I see. Is it expensive?” Mom’s tone is worried.

Heather wades in. “That’s the great part. Gert’s working all summer to pay for herself.”

I am? News to Gert.

“Gert, why don’t you tell your parents about the best part?”

“What?”

“The scholar—”

“Oh, yeah, if I write a weekly thingy for their website and stuff, I get a scholarship for the program.”

Dad holds up a hand. “Mike, you’ve checked this out? You knew about this?”

“I called him.” I swallow. “I didn’t know how to—” I break off.

“Did you tell us you’d applied?” Dad asks me.

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t tell anyone and then stuff happened and I forgot about it.”

“And you want to go?”

“I think so.” I pause. “No. I mean yes, I’m sure I want to go.”

“Well, that’s … wow. This is so unexpected.” Mom’s got tears in her eyes. “Our little girl’s going to travel the world and write about it.”

Dad reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Congratulations. Sounds like this is an opportunity you shouldn’t miss.”

“Really?” I wasn’t anticipating the caving or the enthusiasm.

He nods. “You’ve proven you’re responsible and can handle a crisis. I see no reason why we shouldn’t let you go.”

Mom sniffles. “My little girl.”

“It’s only for a term. And then you have to let other kids come here,” I say, wondering if this is the part they’ll object to.

“That’ll be fun.” Mom beams. “I can introduce them to the Bunko girls.”

That’ll be a highlight, I’m sure. “Right.”

“Who wants cheesecake?” Mom leaps to her feet, quite sprightly. “We have good news to celebrate!”

Dad laughs and shakes his head. I breathe.

With only finals and the last week of school left, it’s prom night. “When are the guys coming by?” Clarice asks as she dumps two duffel bags, her sleeping bag and a grocery bag of snacks on the living room floor. The parentals are thrilled I’ve invited my friends over for a slumber party, and as long as the police aren’t called for a noise disturbance, they’ve promised to give us plenty of space.

Adam and Tim are coming by to show off their outfits and get photos taken. Adam’s parents pretty much want to ignore his orientation, so he keeps a very low profile at home. They’re not what you’d call open-minded Catholics (the Pope is proud, I’m sure). In the meantime, they break Adam’s heart all the time. “Between nine and ten. They want to be suitably late.”