Perfectly Ridiculous (4 page)

A guy in a uniform that looks like he should be guarding a queen somewhere opens the van's door. He rambles a welcome in Spanish and switches to English when he takes one look at my father.

“Welcome. Checking in with us today?”

“No, just dropping off our girl here. Don't need any help, thank you,” my dad says with a wave.

Translation:
I'm not tipping.
The message is received because the bellman scurries off.

“I'm checking in with you, Claire, because there's no need for anyone to know you're here alone,” Dad says. “Daisy, you come with me so it doesn't look improper.” He looks at Max. “You in a hurry, son? We can take a taxi over to the mission if you are.”

“I wouldn't hear of it,” Max says. “I'll just park over there near the exit, and you come out when you're ready.”

“So is it me?” I whisper to Claire. “Why does Max seem so secretive, and why doesn't he just leave if he doesn't want to introduce me to his mom?”

Claire looks back. “He's a freak and he's not worthy of you.”

“Why don't you tell me how you really feel?”

“Look, you always pick these hot-and-cold types, and they're freaks. You need someone who is constant. Even if he's constantly a jerk, at least you know who he is. The last thing anyone needs is a moody boyfriend. He's a mama's boy.” Claire hikes her handbag over her shoulder. “If you're not good enough for his mama, you're too good for him, in my opinion.”

I want to stay with Max if only to prove Claire isn't right about him, but with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I suddenly wonder. Maybe I'm not a good judge of character like I've always thought. Maybe my romantic pixie dust gets in the way of my vision of reality.

One look from Claire and I head into the hotel. I shoot Max a look of sorrow and he blows me a kiss.

What it means, I'll never know.

 4 

Walking into the magnificent hotel and its expansive foyer makes me realize how shallow I am. I've spent my entire school career being shown things Claire's gotten that are new and incredible, and they're always more than I hope to obtain in this lifetime. But I know they don't really satisfy. I read it in the Bible. I see it in Claire's eyes. And yet my mind always goes back to what I don't have. Sometimes I hate my humanity.

I think that was why I got interested in finance in the first place. Not necessarily because of what money could buy, but for the order and the freedom from chaos that seemed to be in every luxurious spot Claire ever took me. Cleanliness and expansiveness—it made me feel alive and want to dance. Rich people have places to store their toilet paper, and with their four-plus bathrooms, even the Costco megapack finds a home. Having always felt like the world was closing in on me, I admired this.

How I envied Claire for not having to announce to the world that her family used toilet paper. It was done quietly. Discreetly. There's something so elegant in that. And let's not even get started on the fact that rich people have guest bathrooms, which means no one is going in there to open the medicine cabinet and find your father's Preparation H tumbling down. Of course, maybe their guests don't open the medicine cabinet to begin with.

There's beauty in order. In having a place for everything. Oh, the freedom that comes from having extra.

Claire steps up to the desk.

“I wonder if they'll have the toilet paper in a little triangle,” I say. “You think?”

Claire sighs. “You're impressed by that? They do that at Motel 6.”

This takes the wind out of my sails. “Well, I would like it. Someone took the time to fold the little toilet paper ending. I think that's sweet.”

Claire scoffs at this and turns back to the desk manager. “Checking in. Claire Webber.” She hands over her credit card as if she's been doing this for years.

I realize she seems like a total brat, but my best friend really just overcompensates when she's scared. And isn't a best friend someone who loves you despite your faults? I mean, she put up with my bad clothes, my lack of makeup, and my hectic work schedule. Not only that, she'd spend the night at my house amid the rolls of excess toilet paper when she could have been home in crisp, clean,
Architectural Digest
–style beauty. Instead, she ate my mom's meatloaf and slept under towers of TP. Friendship is a beautiful thing.

The man hands Claire her card back, welcomes her with a list of services available at the hotel, and sends her on to the gold elevators. My father never says a word. I hate to see him struggle in this fancy hotel, but I know he does. It's written all over his face.

The gold elevator doors open and close. The bellman who wrestled my father for Claire's luggage pushes the button and says nothing until the doors open again. He extends his arm and motions for us to exit, then he follows us with Claire's bags. He leads us to a double door, unlocks it, and pushes it open into a cavernous room with faux marble columns and old European-style decorating. There's red and gold plush carpeting, deep French chairs covered in red tapestry, and a gold and crystal chandelier centered over the Queen Anne mahogany bed. Draperies of gold plunge into a puddle on the floor, and Claire and I run to the window.

“That's the famous Recoleta cemetery,” the bellman says. “One of the best views of the city. Eva Perón is buried there, and it's one of the main tourist attractions.”

“Who?” Claire asks.

“ ‘Don't cry for me, Argentina'!” I wail, and her theater background kicks in immediately.

“Oh, right.”

I'm stunned at the view, both in and out of the suite. It's like nothing I've ever seen, and it makes me want to dance to classical music. “This room is fit for seventeenth-century royalty.”

“No, no, no,” the bellman says. “This is for modern royalty. We have a full spa downstairs, two restaurants, and room service, of course, and all the modern-day conveniences for your television viewing and your computer. Your butler will be in to show you around and unpack your items within the half hour. In the meantime, is there anything I can get for you?”

“A butler?” Claire asks.

“Your parents from America? They have requested a butler for you while your friend stays elsewhere.”

“Oh. No, nothing more,” Claire says, and once the bellman leaves, we run and jump on the king-sized bed. Then we look at one another and shout in unison, “The bathroom!”

We rush to the marble-covered room and try to squeeze through the doorway at the same time. My mouth drops. The bathroom is about the size of my bedroom/garage. I lower myself onto the edge of the double-sized bathtub. I was jealous when Claire got a Mustang to drive. I was jealous when she got to go hang out at the country club when I went to work. I was jealous when she got new school clothes every year and my mother let down the hem on my homemade pants again. I've been jealous, but this . . . the beauty and simplicity of the room, the view of the famous Recoleta cemetery from the bathroom . . .

“I was born to be rich,” I say forlornly.

“You were born to share in it, that's for certain. You'll be back,” Claire says brightly.

My dad's in the doorway, and he appears decimated by my comment.

“It's beautiful here, Claire,” I say. “I hope you enjoy it, and be safe, all right?” I climb out of the giant bathtub and give her a hug.

“Claire, you have our cell phone number, and we've made sure it works here, so be certain to call us for anything you need. Even if you want company for dinner, is that clear?”

“Yes, Mr. Crispin.”

“Okay.” I try to keep the whine from my voice. “We'd better go.”

“Already?”

“My mom will be grilling Max. I suppose I have to go rescue him.”

We walk back into the massive suite.

“Are you really going to leave?”

“Trust me, I don't want to leave here.”

“So don't,” Claire says simply, and she turns so my father can't see her face. “You're always doing something for someone else. What is so wrong about taking a vacation? When is it your turn?”

“I'll get my turn after the mission trip.” I don't want to say to Claire that some people never get their turn. Certainly most people don't get their turn in this kind of place, but I can't help but want to go easy on her. She may seem spoiled, but the fact is, she's always left on her own. My own parents came along to make certain she'd be safe. Maybe my parents are overprotective, but Claire's seem to want to pay her to go away.

She nods her head, trying to keep her tears at bay.

“Claire, we'll be here tomorrow night for dinner if you don't have plans,” my dad says. “We'll take you somewhere nice. How does that sound?”

Claire can't speak, so she nods to my dad.

“Six sound okay? You'll be back from your sightseeing by then?”

She nods again.

“I'll leave a message at the front desk about what Mrs. Crispin and I are doing each day, and you're welcome to join us. I know we may not be the height of fun in your book, but you're always welcome.” My dad stretches out his arm toward me. “Come on, Daisy, we have a long drive to get to the mission station, and you'll want to see it before dark.”

“You gonna be okay?” I ask Claire.

“Don't.” She waves her hands in the air. “I just need to sleep. I'm all choked up, but I'll be fine. I'll book a spa treatment first thing in the morning and I'll be fine.”

“Call my parents if you need anything, all right?”

“I'll be fine. I've got my laptop, so I can Skype with Sarika or Angie if I get lonely. After I look up the time change.”

“Perfect.”

My dad opens the door to the hallway and we say goodbye. Claire shuts the door slowly.

“It's a beautiful room, huh, Dad?” I ask him.

“It's a lot of beautiful rooms. Claire's parents sure are generous with her.”

“Maybe, but I'm glad you're here with me,” I say honestly.

My dad pushes the elevator button and smiles. The way he does when I know he's really proud of me.

I can almost hear the funeral march as we silently ride the elevator, enter the gold foyer, and exit the doors to the car park, where Max's beat-up white van looks like a wart on the beautiful hand of the hotel. I wish I didn't notice such things. I stare into the hotel windows and see a woman with a froufrou dog and a mound of matching luggage, and I hate myself for having to leave Claire here alone.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm sorry you're not getting your vacation, Daisy. I wish now I'd saved more money for your education, but I think this experience will change you for the better.”

I hate to hear my dad sound like a failure. “You did save money for my education, remember? Your health intervened, and I praise God we had the money available for you. Dad, you work hard to make a living at something that makes people happy. Maybe not me, but it makes people happy.”

My dad laughs and puts his arm around my shoulder. “You!”

“Besides, if you paid, I wouldn't get to go to such a great school.”

“If you're trying to make me feel better, you can stop now.”

“I mean, a full, four-year scholarship and only two weeks of mission work in the summers? That's not such a bad deal.” But I worry that I'll probably still have to work another week at the food bank to get documentation.

“You've got a good attitude, Daisy. That will take you further than any education.”

I wish I had a better attitude. Just because my legs are walking toward the van doesn't mean my heart isn't back in that suite.

Max gets out of the van and helps me into it. Max. What am I to make of him? He pulls me back slightly and asks me quietly, “Can you have dinner with me?”

“When?”

“Tonight, before your work starts.”

“Wouldn't that be considered rude to show up and then leave?”

He shrugs. “Can't you make an excuse? Otherwise I won't see you at all.”

“Why not?”

“Tell them you've got jet lag, and I'll pick you up at six.”

“Lie?”

“Oh no, you'll have jet lag.”

“What are you two whispering about?” my father asks.

“Dinner,” I announce bluntly. “Max and I are going out to dinner tonight. After I get settled in and receive my initial instructions. I'll have all day tomorrow to prepare for Vacation Bible School.”

“Is it safe?”

“Dad, look at this place!” I noticed earlier that everything is so clean and cultured. The buildings are traditional and important-looking, as if there are heads of states and royalty residing within. “It's like a provincial village.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, and we're not at the camp yet,” my dad says. “Your mother's roommate was bare bones and all business. I can't imagine she's living in the lap of luxury.”

I hate feeling so torn. I want to be with Claire. I want to be with Max. I even want to be with my parents. The last thing I want to do is enter another foreign environment with people I don't know.

“Your dad is right,” Max admits to my chagrin. “Let's get on the road.” He comes around the van and jumps into the driver's seat. “I wouldn't take her out in Escobar. We'll eat somewhere nice in Las Canitas.” Max glances at me. “It's the fashionable spot for foodies. You'll love it.” He backs out. “It's got expensive little boutiques and the biggest polo field in the city. Where they have the big games in November and December.”

“Polo, Dad! They play polo there. I'll be safe.”

My dad grimaces at me.

“It's just dinner, Daddy. I'll be away at college in less than two months. Can't you just imagine I'm already there?”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? At least you speak the language in Malibu. You know the price of something. What if something happens? How do I reach you? I'll have no idea where you are and—and if you don't come back.”