Carpe Diem Read Free Page B

racing upstairs to their bedroom and slamming the door.
    â€œExcuse me, Vassar.” Dad unsteadily got to his feet, then slowly climbed the stairs, keeping a tight grip on the banister.
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    The American Heritage Dictionary defines a nervous breakdown as A severe or incapacitating emotional disorder, especially when occurring suddenly and marked by depression . Mom had never broken down before, as far as I could remember.
She’d been firmly in one piece with never so much as a chip missing.
    Dad closed and locked the door to their bedroom, but I could still hear uncontrollable sobbing—this from a woman who’d never shed a tear in my presence. (Not even the faintest appearance of moisture when Dad had read The Yearling aloud.) I could barely make out Dad’s low, consoling murmuring.
    Then Mom’s voice escalated: “She’ll find out—you know she’ll find out! Gertrude will tell—”
    Dad’s gentle but firm voice interrupted: “No, she won’t. Even Gertrude wouldn’t stoop …” Then it became muffled and indistinguishable.
    After half an hour, Dad abruptly hurried out of the bedroom (carefully closing the door behind him) and drove off in the Volvo. He squealed into the driveway twenty minutes later and dashed into the house clutching a white paper bag in one hand and a traffic ticket in the other. Back into the bedroom, locking the door behind him. Fourteen minutes, thirty-six seconds later—the crying stopped.
    I was tempted to call or text-message Amber, Denise, and Laurel. But I dreaded imparting the information that the Spore household was not what it seemed. My friends had always looked up to my parents, wished they were their parents.
    â€œWith parents like yours, who needs willpower?” they’d say.
    (Wendy Stupacker hadn’t been as complimentary. She
said my parents were “weirdos” and that Mom was “overcompensating for hidden inadequacies” and that Dad was “uxorious.” But I knew she was just jealous because both her parents were major players in the finance industry and never had time for her.)
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    I sat motionless on the couch. What on earth could transform my normally cucumber-esque mother into a character from a Tennessee Williams play? And my normally law-abiding father into a lawbreaker?
    The Big Secret. That’s what.
    I felt as if I’d returned from school and accidentally walked into the wrong house.
    I felt out of context.
    I felt numb.

CHAPTER THREE
    The Advanced Latin Study Group Gals—Minus One
    A mber leaned forward, her husky voice an octave lower than normal: “Listen to this: Sam Westman from study hall said that Tony Keeler who lives next door to John Pepper said that John plans to restore a boat this summer and sail it to Crescent Island for camp-outs. AND that there’s a certain girl he’d like to have along—who just happens to be in the Advanced Latin Study Group.”
    She flipped her fire-engine-red pageboy expectantly and ate a thick steak fry off the tray that Laurel was balancing in her right hand—an effort for pint-sized Laurel since she barely reached Amber’s shoulders and had wrists like twigs.
    â€œHearsay,” said Denise, not looking up from her Latin textbook as she leaned against the rain-splattered window.
    We were riding the 7:04 a.m. ferry crossing the Puget Sound to the Seattle Academy of Academic Excellence. The sky was overcast with streaks of gray, tufts of white, and shards of sun. Drizzling. All our fellow students who lived in Port Ann made the hour ferry ride to and from
Seattle every day. We didn’t mind—it gave us two hours a day to do our advanced placement homework, practice our Latin, and eat fries. Once aboard, we’d rush to secure a booth in the concession area—the most desirable section on the boat. Or we’d hover until one became available.
    That’s what we were doing now: