Carpe Diem Read Free

two weeks to plan. That’s more than enough time.”
    â€œTechnically, it’s one week and six days,” he replied.
    Mom gave Dad a nudging look. She often has to do this because he’s a “conflict avoider.” If someone cuts in front of him in line at the DMV—he’ll pretend he didn’t notice. If a waitress accidentally adds an extra crème brûlée to his bill—he’ll pay it. Anything to sidestep confrontation. Reluctantly, Dad cleared his throat and said, “Although it’s a very kind offer, Gertrude, it’s … it’s absolutely out of the question.”
    â€œ Kopi dua —thanks.” We could hear the clinking of glasses and some static, then: “Well, Leonardo, you’re forcing me to bring it up. In mixed company, no less …”

    It?
    Mom clutched my arm, her clear-polished nails digging into my skin. “Vassar, would you fill up the car.” It was a command, not a request. Her dimples had completely disappeared.
    â€œDon’t go to Gus’s Gas—his tanks aren’t calibrated correctly,” said Dad automatically. “And take Franklin Avenue. It’s two minutes faster than Main.”
    Usually there’s nothing I like better than to drive the Volvo anywhere, now that I’ve got my driver’s license. But I wanted to witness Grandma Gerd’s failed attempts to coerce my parents.
    Grandma Gerd’s voice again broke the silence. “Hello? Anybody there? Leonardo, it’s time she knew the truth about—”
    But Mom and Dad simultaneously grabbed for the phone before she could finish.
    Truth about what? Well, I’d know soon enough. Mom and Dad never kept secrets from me.
    Â 
    As I carefully navigated the Volvo wagon out of our cul-de-sac toward the nearby gas station–convenience store–coffee shop (not Gus’s), I took offense at what Grandma Gerd seemed to be hinting about my life: that just because I hadn’t left the continent or backpacked through Europe, I wasn’t well-rounded. Could I help the fact that Dad is deathly afraid of flying? Or that Mom’s abhorrence of the outdoors (“too many variables”) prevented camping from
ever being on the agenda? So I hadn’t traveled. Who cared? How could that omission remotely affect my life? Or, more important: my academic record? After all, just how many museums, galleries, symphonies, and plays had I gone to? Just how many books had I read? If I wasn’t cultured, who on earth was?
    And her insinuation that I was somehow abnormal because I hadn’t yet been kissed infuriated me. None of my friends had boyfriends yet. The only girl at the Seattle Academy of Academic Excellence with any dating experience was Wendy Stupacker, who’d discovered boys in sixth grade—which certainly hadn’t helped her procrastination any. Photographic memory and photogenic looks—tough life.
    I returned as swiftly as the speed limit allowed. After parking with precision, I took care to slip through the front door noiselessly. Good. They were still on the phone, so wrapped up in their debate they didn’t hear the car. I tried to eavesdrop, but could only make out a random word here and there: “Bubble … birth … too young … rubber ball … dying … egg …”
    Then Mom hissed: “Gertrude! It’s blackmail, and you know it!”
    The words “dying” and “blackmail” especially intrigued me—that is, until Mom said, “Is she back yet?”
    â€œI’ll check,” said Dad—anything to get out of a Grandma Gerd–Althea Confab.
    I darted back into the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator just as Dad appeared in the doorway. Beads of sweat
dotted his freckled forehead, and inkblots of perspiration stained his gray polo shirt. “Vassar? Come in here, please.”
    â€œSure,” I said with faux nonchalance as I