Perfectly Ridiculous Read Free Page B

never seems to be time for adventure. If not now, when?”
    â€œWhen you’re not my responsibility,” Dad says.
    â€œI don’t know,” Mom says. “Chasing a boy halfway around the world? Do you think that’s the sort of girl the future Pastor Max would want to marry?”
    I exhale loudly. “I’m not going to Argentina for Max.” He’s just part of the excursion package. “And I’m certainly not marrying anyone until I’m done with college.”
    â€œI said that once,” my mother says dreamily, staring at my father.
    â€œEw. Things are different now, Mom. I need college, and I especially need it for finance.”
    â€œWe were young once too,” Dad says.
    â€œNo, you never were. Mom was born eighty. And I don’t even know if I’ll see Max. Of course I’ll try, I’m not going to lie. He might never come back to the States again, and it’s not like I’ve lost any admiration for him. I just know where my priorities are. He knows his.”
    â€œThat’s what all young people say before their hormones do the talking for them.”
    â€œEw, Dad. Must you always take it to the hormonal level? Gross.”
    â€œWhat does Claire’s father say about this? Does he know that Claire will be on her own at the hotel while you’re working with this mission?”
    â€œObviously, he’s paying for it, so he must trust us.”
    â€œHe trusts you because he doesn’t know half of what his daughter does.”
    â€œWell, that’s true.”
    Dad sighs heavily. “I’m sure he thought we’d never let you go. That’s probably why he felt safe saying yes to Claire. I’d like to call him and see if he knows Claire will be alone at the hotel while you’re doing this ministry. They seem to rely on you to keep an eye on her.”
    My mom lifts the brochure from my hands. “Hands of Love!” she says.
    I nod. “That’s the name of the ministry.”
    â€œIt can’t be. Honey, look,” she says to my father, handing him the brochure.
    â€œMaybe it’s God’s will,” my father says. He looks at my mother as if something miraculous has taken place.
    â€œWhat are the chances?” Mom asks.
    â€œGod’s world is smaller than we imagine.”
    â€œWhat are you both talking about?” I ask. Implied: And will it benefit me?
    â€œThis ministry. Hands of Love.” My dad shakes the brochure. “It’s run by your mother’s college roommate. I’ll be, it’s a small world, isn’t it?”
    â€œIt’s not!” I shout, hoping against hope that what they said isn’t true. Because for all intents and purposes, I do want to see Max, and if I have another mom checking on me every five minutes, that’s not going to happen. “Maybe it’s just someone with the same name,” I suggest. “It’s probably a common name, right, Mom?”
    â€œNot all that common. It’s her. We talked about her being down there when you and Claire first came up with this trip. I thought we might look her up back then, remember, dear?”
    Dad nods.
    â€œHer name is Libby Bramer. I can’t imagine there are two of them in Buenos Aires. I wonder if she recognized your name, or haven’t you applied yet? Either way, I’ll feel so much better if Libby is running the ministry.”
    I plead the fifth here. “So she didn’t ever get married? Or that’s her married name?”
    â€œHmm,” my dad says. “I doubt she got married.”
    â€œHoney!” my mom says.
    â€œShe was . . . let me think about how to say this kindly . . . she was kind of a man-hater,” my father says.
    â€œThat’s your kindler, gentler answer?” Mom asks.
    â€œIn a word, yes. She paid a lot of attention to what others did back in the day. Liked to run the show, if you will. We tended