Perfectly Ridiculous Read Free

Not your mansion in the hills.”
    â€œLike they’d complain! Maybe they’d learn that they want to go to college and sponsor a church back home or the like.” Claire lies down on my bed. She’s wearing a black maxi dress to her ankles with big, clunky red shoes, costume jewelry up her arm—nearly to her shoulder—and a long, genuine strand of pearls. In other words, a typical afternoon outfit for Claire.
    Claire’s father is a well-known attorney. My dad’s an actor. A self-employed actor, which means he does a lot of singing telegrams dressed as fowl, crustaceans, and Star Trek characters. You wouldn’t think there was a huge market for that kind of thing, but apparently the engineers of Silicon Valley like to say it in song. It helps that my father speaks Romulan.
    Mom makes Dad’s costumes and now has her own line of upscale novelty aprons and oven mitts. This year it officially became a business —and it cracks me up that my mother would never pay for store-bought jeans, but she has the gall to sell overpriced kitchenware in that same mall I felt banned from.
    Now, my parents love Jesus, and they are the salt of the earth, but if you came to our house on any given day, you’d definitely think they were your ministry. Or that Hoarders had missed a house, as Claire implied. I want to defend my parents, but truthfully, I don’t have a lot of ground to stand on here—it’s covered with fabric, furniture, and household supplies.
    I stare at the vat of pickles on a nearby shelf perched over my bed. “Yes, definitely your house,” I agree as I take a more realistic, detached look at reality. “Let me see what it says.” I grab the brochure and see pictures of adorable, olive-skinned children without shoes, in tattered pants, and I hear the Spanish plea for “May I have some more, sir?” in my head. “It’s positively Dickensian.”
    â€œI know, right? But with a Latino flair.” Claire wiggles her eyebrows. “And I’m sure some young, unattached polo players tango as well.” She sits up on my bed. “But we won’t tell your parents that part. I’m telling you, put in the time—you can do one week in Argentina—then we relax for the next week and soak in the sun and the sights.”
    â€œYou really do think outside the box.”
    â€œSomeone has to. The mission person signs off on your paperwork, and then we head to the spa and learn to tango. What could be more beautiful?”
    â€œIt sounds too simple. There has to be a catch. There’s always a catch. This is me we’re talking about.”
    â€œQuit being so paranoid. Call the number and get it arranged. They call your pastor, your scholarship program, and we are in business and get the pampering vacation we deserve after surviving St. James College Prep. Plus it helps your parents know we’re not just going to Argentina to get into trouble or to see Max.”
    â€œI have to Skype Max,” I say with a flutter in my stomach, finally allowing myself to believe I’ll be in Max Diaz’s homeland. It felt too huge to hope for. “I can’t believe I’ll be in his hometown! Buenos Aires, land of the tango, the South American Paris . . .”
    â€œThe fine South American leather collection!”
    I start to get excited and can feel my heart getting all aflutter too. “This might really happen.”
    â€œMax is going to freak. I’ll bet you he never thought this would happen, with your parents.” Claire blows on her fingernails, which she has just finished painting.
    â€œFreak in a good way? Or in a bad, ‘I’m seriously stalking him’ way?”
    â€œA good way!”
    My immediate reaction is fear. “I’ll freak him out. He’ll think I want a proposal.”
    â€œHe knows you’re going to college in August at Pepperdine. He knows this is