First World Problems

Chapter 10

Chapter 1o

 

The next morning, after a night of restless sleep, I scrubbed at my face with a waxy white hunk of something Lena had called soap and splashed my face with room-temperature, dusty-looking water. With my hands planted on either side of the sink, I blew out a long breath and looked in the mirror. The hygiene options were gross here, but I at least felt a little more human. Thank God toothpaste and a toothbrush were among the things I’d packed.

I wandered back out into the eating area, and thank God, there were three bowls on the table, one filled with bananas and oranges, the other with yogurt, and the other with something that looked like granola. I leaned in, decided the stuff I didn’t recognize was probably just seeds and dry fruit, and put a spoonful on my plate. Just one more thing on the mental list of stuff to add to my argument for why I definitely could not stay here. I’d already had one horrible bout with weird food. How could I stay in a place where I couldn’t even identify what I was eating?

I slowly chewed on the banana, realizing that it tasted richer and less starchy than anything I’d had at home. Still, I focused on how I could tell Dad how horrible it all was—the cloudy water, the lack of any plumbing, the reptile-eating—and he would agree that not even he would visit Guyana, and that he’d talk Anne into canceling the agreement and I could come back. Or maybe even go to Paris, like I was supposed to.

My butt had that weird near-atrophy feeling that happens when you sit in one place for too long, and my knees felt creaky. Service in Guyana was turning me into an old woman already. I might as well ask Dad to send a crate of IcyHot while I waited for my flight back home. I stood up, stretched, and slid my palms down to my backside, rubbing the fuzzy feeling right out of it.

And, exactly that moment, Callum walked back in.

He wore heavy brown lace-up boots and cargo shorts; a thin, dark t-shirt; and a backpack with extra straps fastened at his chest and around his waist. Just like his arms, his calf muscles came as a surprise. Unlike all the chicken-legged guys at school, he definitely had some substance there. My lungs filled with a slow, deep breath.

“What?” Callum snapped, looking up at me while he tugged at the bottom strap around his waist. My eye flicked to the exposed skin above his waist band. Damn his perfect abs.

Okay, even if overall this guy had a body and decent height, he had horrible hair, average looks at best, no nice guy smell, and a seriously gross attitude. A guy who stank of dirt with a tinge of lemon wasn’t worth any abs.

“You just look…I don’t know.” I couldn’t believe I’d put myself in a situation of having to cover for my own gawking. “My dad wore an outfit like that once, when we went to Yosemite.”

Ages and ages ago, Dad had gone nuts buying hiking gear for our trip to Yosemite and the Grand Canyon. I had spent most of the first day whining and Vincent swiping at bugs and scowling, so Dad cut the trip short. I remembered the housekeeper pitching my three-hundred-dollar boots into a box for charity and shaking her head.

“Yeah, well, obviously your dad knows what he’s doing.” I was actually kind of impressed with the way Callum puffed out his chest and raised his eyebrow at me, daring me to argue with him. “And if you want to make a phone call today, you’re going to want to dress for the hike appropriately.”

This shit again? “I seriously doubt the jungle animals care about modesty, Callum.” Today I’d worn a pair of my shorter shorts and a white layering tank over a sports bra.

Callum motioned to my canvas flats. “A spider would shimmy into those and nip ya before you could flick it away.”

Even though Callum had mentioned bugs, snakes, and caiman—which were apparently humongous lizards—somehow I’d had it in my head that we’d be walking down a trail through the woods and ending at a little hill. We’d climb the hill and get a signal. I’d talk to Dad and he’d book me a flight home. Easy.