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Authors: Autumn Cornwell

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BOOK: Carpe Diem
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Chasin' Snakes
R
oosters.
Cock-a-doodling.
Right inside my brain.
Where was I?
I pried open my eyes in time to see a blurry flash of flesh walk by.
What the heck? I put on my glasses.
Hanks. Wearing only a towel.
“Do you mind?” My voice sounded thick and lumpy.
“Mornin', sunshine. It's daylight in the swamp. What happened to your face?”
My face? I jumped out of bed and dashed into the bathroom. There, reflecting in the mirror, was a girl with FIVE big red bites on her face! I looked like I had the pox. And last night I'd even applied bug repellent in addition to the mosquito netting.
After my shower, I tried to disguise them with extra foundation and cover-up. The effect wasn't perfect, but was better than before.
“Hurry on up. I need to shave.” Hanks's voice wafted
through the wooden slats of the bathroom door.
“You? Shave?” I asked as I walked out.
“Sure,” he said in a hurt tone, rubbing his hand over his baby smooth skin.
I bet he didn't even take the plastic protector off the razor.
“Wait a minute—something's different,” I said, examining him. “Your sideburns! Where did they go?”
“They're chops,” he said brusquely, and closed the door behind him.
When he reemerged, he smelled of Old Spice and his chops were back in place. So he obviously took them off at night and reapplied them in the morning after his “shave.”
“Hey, do you know how long it would take an Asian to grow chops this good?”
“I didn't say anything.” But I hid a smile.
He went to work on his boots, buffing first the right, then the left. His long bangs, usually pushed back in the pompadour, hung in waves over his forehead, Elvis-style. He put on one boot and held up the other—tilting it this way and that, making sure he got every last speck of dirt.
“You know you're obsessed with your footwear.”
“And why not? These are mighty special,” he said, slipping the other one back on.
“They're just boots.”
“
Just
boots?
Just
boots!?”
He threw down the rag and strode into the bathroom. And emerged holding my bar of Dial soap.
“Come here.”
I backed away.
“Someone's mouth needs a good washin' out.” He shook the bar menacingly.
“Hey, wait a minute—stop—” I stumbled towards the bathroom.
“You can run, but you can't hide.”
Blocked!
For the next five minutes Hanks chased me around and around the room, his boots clacking up a storm on the teakwood floors. Who knows how long he'd have gone on if the German tourists below hadn't banged on the door and shouted, “
Was ist los?
What goes on in there?”
“Chasin' snakes,” said Hanks through the door. “They're mighty slippery.”
“Die Schlangen?!”
We could hear their rapidly departing footsteps.
Hanks turned up the ceiling fan as high as it would go and flopped on his bed. I flopped on mine. We were both dripping with sweat, and I was panting. Hanks's hair was damp, and his left chop was peeling off his face.
“You're melting,” he said.
I felt my face. All my foundation had dripped right off. My red bug bites were probably glowing like beacons. Oh, well. It was just Hanks.
“Now where were we? Oh, right.” He held up his foot. “These here are bench-made 1940s Godings with fancy red-and-white cut-outs, deep-scalloped kangaroo shafts, and square box toes. Got that?”
“I don't know; they look like
just
boots to me.” I couldn't help it.
Commence Round Two.
“Berhenti!”
I stopped short. Hanks ran into me, which sent me skidding across the slick teak floor facefirst into the wall.
The pain wasn't as disturbing as the giant purple bump that appeared on my forehead.
“Sorry about that,” said Hanks. “I didn't mean to—”
“Now everybody will
see
what a brute you really are.”
Once again, I reapplied my makeup and attempted to cover the bump with extra foundation.
“I'm going to check with the lobby if Grandma Gerd left any messages,” I said as I picked up my daypack. “And try to call her. And see if they have another room available.”
“Go right ahead,” said Hanks. “Can't have you sharing a room with a guy you find ‘strangely attractive.'”
I froze.
Mortification!
“That's private!”
“What would John Pepper say about his non-dating girlfriend?”
“How dare you read my—”
“Sorry, didn't mean to. But you left it lyin' there open on the table—”
“See why I need my own room?”
“Yep. So you won't act on this ‘strange attraction'—”
“It's fiction! It's a novel! It's not even real! Sarah and Wayne are
characters
—”
“Then what's all the fuss about if I read how ‘Sarah' has the hots for ‘Wayne'—”
“Oh, shut up!” I grabbed my hat and glasses. He just stood there, smirking at me. “As if Sarah could really have the ‘hots' for a wannabe cowboy with faux facial hair!”
I stormed out the door—straight into Grandma Gerd.
“Ahhh!”
“Hello, kiddo.” She wore her backpack—and the “fantastic” blouse—and had exchanged her silver nose stud for a jade hoop. Under her arm was a roll of rusty wire fencing. Found art?
“What—where did you just—”
“Caught the early flight. Had to get up at six a.m. The things I'll do for my granddaughter.”
I didn't trust myself to reply.
“What were you two doing in here? Sounded like a rumble.”
I followed her back into the room. “You planned this, didn't you? You missed the plane on purpose.” I tried to keep my voice steady.
“Why would I do that?”
“Probably because you thought it'd be highly amusing if I were forced to sleep—
room
—with a guy.”
My words fell on deaf ears.
“Howdy, Gerd,” said Hanks.
“Has your ward been behaving?”
“She's feisty, but fairly obligin'.”
“Good. I'll leave my stuff in here until we can see about another room.” She dropped her backpack to the floor and leaned the fencing against the wall.
“Got my daypack?” she asked me.
I handed it to her, eyes averted. Would she notice I'd read her Everything Book?
But she just set the daypack on top of her backpack and headed for the door. “Who's ready for some ruins?”
So she thought she could just pick up where we left off. After all she'd done.
“I'm checking my email,” I said stiffly.
So while Grandma Gerd and Hanks arranged for a taxi and Angkor Wat day passes, I used the computer in the guesthouse lobby to email my latest chapter, reassure my parents, and check if I had any messages.
I wish I hadn't.
 
Amber:
BAD NEWS ALERT! Vassar, it sucks to have to tell you this, but it turns out that the girl from our Advanced Latin Study Group that John Pepper wanted to take sailing (to Crescent Island for camp-outs) was—Wendy Stupacker!
Laurel:
This has completely squelched his appeal in our eyes.
Denise:
Maybe his laser surgery was faulty after all and he thinks she's you.
Laurel:
Or maybe he just has the worst taste in the world.
Denise:
Or maybe his IQ is really 104 instead of 140. P.S. Keep those chapters coming—vent your anger and disappointment by writing.
The Churning of the Ocean of Milk
We advocate frequent rests throughout the day, with
plenty of bottled water. Don't overexert or you'll
succumb to heat exhaustion. Take care of yourself.
Yes, Angkor is a treasure—but so are you!
—The Savvy Sojourner's Cambodian Guidebook
 
I
slid into the back of the taxi next to Hanks. Grandma Gerd sat up front loading sepia film into her 1930s Brownie camera.
Our taxi lurched into the crowd of bikes, motorbikes, and pedestrians. We were on our way to Angkor Wat.
Hanks ran his hand through his pomp and replaced his cowboy hat. One of Grandma Gerd's Polaroid cameras hung around his neck. He shifted the Chupa to the other side of his mouth. “So, how's John Pepper doing today? Did he send you a love letter?”
I ignored him.
“Or was it one of those ‘Dear John'—”
“Would you shut up?”
Grandma Gerd looked back at Hanks and they exchanged “My, someone's testy today” looks.
I pulled out a guava I'd bought at a stall near the guesthouse, washed it with antibacterial soap, then ate it as I stared out the dirty window at the scenery.
But I sure wasn't in the mood for sightseeing. When I tried to focus on Angkor, images of John and Wendy wearing white nubby sweaters with ocean spray glistening in their hair floated before my eyes.
Wendy Stupacker. Of all the girls at the Seattle Academy of Academic Excellence, he picks
her.
Denise was right: There is no God.
I opened my
Savvy Sojourner's Cambodian Guidebook
and forced myself to read:
Mysterious Cambodia! Land of intrigue, blood-soaked earth, imperial kings, and revolutions. Angkor—magical, enchanting, most splendid Angkor—renders banal the pyramids and the Taj Mahal. A mere four miles outside the sleepy town of Siem Reap, Angkor is a wonderland of relics. There a stone tower peeking through the jade foliage! Here a spectacular temple! And there—is it merely a wall? No, it's a row of elephants! And this, is it a balustrade? No, no—it's a naga with scales and fins! Nothing is what it seems. Angkor with its endless ancient cities, temples, and palaces is simply one of the WONDERS OF THE WORLD!
I closed it, a touch heady from all the hyperbole. How could it possibly live up to all that?
Easily.
 
The majestic stone ruins of Angkor Wat rising out of the lush green jungle left me speechless. Immense pinecone-shaped towers silhouetted against the sky. Emerald rice paddies glistened beyond. I felt like a captive in
The Arabian Nights
and expected to see a prince with pointed slippers (like the ones Grandma Gerd had sent me) soaring overhead on a flying carpet. The ancient Cambodian temple was surrounded by a moat, which we crossed on a huge causeway made of sandstone blocks.
The spectacle distracted me from John Pepper. And it almost distracted me from the heat. Almost, but not quite. For if the heat in Malaysia was a warm, wet towel wrapped around you, here it was five sopping-wet sleeping bags suffocating you.
Oppressive.
“Non calor sed umor est qui nobis incommodat,”
I muttered in Latin.
“What did you say?” asked Grandma Gerd.
“It's not the heat, it's the humidity.”
Hanks wiped his face and neck with a red bandanna, then tucked it into his back jeans pocket. “Conserve your energy, little lady. Take it slow.”
He was right. We'd barely spent an hour exploring Angkor Wat before I wanted to curl up into a ball under
the nearest tree. With the combined humidity and heat, my energy was so depleted, my lips could barely form words. My big white hat and sunglasses weren't shielding me enough from the sun. A line of Japanese tourists passed us: All the women carried umbrellas, and some even wore long white gloves. Now they were onto something!
And Angkor was not solely Angkor Wat, but seventy-seven square miles of ruined temples and palaces scattered throughout the countryside. If I was going to survive, I'd have to pace myself.
Monks dressed in saffron and novices dressed in orange strolled by. (
“Notice the novices, boys who live the monk lifestyle for a short period of time … .”
)
Suddenly, we were surrounded by rambunctious, dark-haired, dark-eyed Cambodian kids touting souvenirs.
“Hey, Mista, you buy hat? See, gold towers. Handsome, handsome. Four dolla'.”
“No, no buy from her, buy from ME!” An older girl pushed a younger girl out of the way and shoved her hat toward Hanks.
“Bracelets cheap cheap! Two dolla'!”
No one seemed to sell in the Cambodian currency,
riel
.
“Do you have any spoons?” I asked, guiltily remembering my promise to Laurel.
“Spoon? Lady hungry? Tasty tasty food this way … .”
Spoons turned out to be a highly unpopular souvenir in Southeast Asia.
“Cowbell one dolla', cowbell one dolla', cowbell one
dolla',” intoned a tiny, bored boy shaking a crudely carved wooden cowbell. On his head was a peaked hat made entirely of green leaves.
Grandma bought the cowbell. And his peaked leaf hat.
“Souvenirs?” I asked.
She seemed surprised. “No, for the collage. I don't believe in souvenirs. That's what memories are for.”
A boy missing his front teeth climbed up Hanks's leg like a bear cub on a Sequoia tree. He refused to let go until Hanks bought an Angkor Wat-
ch
—a black wristwatch with the towers of Angkor Wat painted in gold on the face.
“Buy Angkor Wat-
ch
for lady friend, she like very much,” said the boy, grinning at me as he clung to Hanks's leg.
Hanks laughed and asked, “So,
lady friend,
would you like an Angkor Wat-
ch
?”
“Tell them I'm
not
your lady friend.”
“We slept together, didn't we?”
The kids all giggled.
“You're so immature.”
“Well, didn't we?”
“We just happen to share the same accommodations—”
“She your wife? Buy Angkor Wat-
ch
for wife?”
“Hurry up, you two,” called Grandma Gerd. “There's something I want you to see.”
After we finally extracted ourselves from the children, we followed her down a narrow passageway to a series of bas-reliefs—stories told through stone carvings.
Grandma Gerd stopped short and flung out an arm. “My absolute favorite bas-relief in all of Angkor:
The Churning of the Ocean of Milk!”
I gazed at the meticulously carved stone drama before me. Male figures, some facing left and some facing right, gripped a large snake under their arms. They seemed to be in a standoff. Below them was an ocean of marine life: schools of fish, eels, alligators—even a fish cut in half. Numerous nymphs danced in the sky.
“Is it fantastic or what?” Grandma Gerd asked, snapping photograph after photograph with her Brownie while Hanks took Polaroids.
“What does it mean?” I asked as I fanned my moist face with my white hat.
“It's called
The Churning of the Ocean of Milk.
What more do you need to know?”
“Well, it's a good thing I happen to have my
Savvy Sojourner's Cambodian Guidebook
handy.” I flipped to the correct page, then read aloud:
“‘
The Churning of the Ocean of Milk
depicts devils and gods playing tug of war using a serpent, and in so doing, churning up the sea in order to extract the elixir of immortality—'”
The guidebook fell onto the stone floor. I clutched my stomach.
“Go on,” said Hanks, peering closely at the serpent's head.
“Oooh!”
I dropped to my knees, groaning. My stomach was churning! Churning like the Ocean of Milk!
Grandma Gerd turned to see me in a fetal position at her feet and said impatiently, “Must we? I've never liked charades.”
Hanks peered at me: “Worm? Snake? Pastry?”
“Guava!” I groaned. Why did I risk eating fruit without peeling it?
Hanks cocked his head. “Guava? I don't see it …”
I scrambled to my feet. “I've got to go!”
Grandma Gerd frowned. “But we just got here. You haven't even taken the time to really absorb—”
“The bathrooms are way over there, by the temple,” said Hanks, finally grasping the situation. He gestured off in the distance toward a Buddhist temple where monks were going about their daily business.
I leaped down the steps and sped across the grass, through the group of umbrella-wielding Japanese tourists.
Hold it,Vassar! Almost there, almost there! Hold it!
Wheezing, I careened around the corner of the wooden makeshift lavatories. Slamming the door shut, I made it over to the squat toilet—remembering to squat instead of sit—
Just. In. Time.
I felt relieved. Literally and metaphorically.
That is, until I realized there wasn't any toilet paper …
And I didn't have any Kleenex left.
That's it, Vassar, you are never, ever eating anything ever again.
My eye fell on the plastic bucket of water with its floating plastic bowl. The extremely detailed paragraph in my guidebook describing the way the locals used the bathroom appeared before my eyes.
You have no other choice.
I prepared to do the unthinkable (use water and my left hand) when—
Ding!
 
I hoped Hanks wouldn't notice.
“What happened to your socks?”
Why, oh why, couldn't I ever get a break?
Fssst!
He snapped a Polaroid of my bare ankles.
“I think I'll call this one
Sacrificial Socks.
”
I walked faster, ignoring him.
He caught up with me. “Maybe this will make you feel better … .” He put something around my wrist. The Angkor Wat-
ch
. “ …
lady friend
.”
 
We finished the day atop Phnom Bakheng, a set of ruins facing Angkor Wat, to watch the sunset (after I made sure my Imodium kicked in). My guidebooks had blathered on and on about how intense and extra colorful sunsets were in Southeast Asia. I'd been skeptical. But they weren't exaggerating. This one was beyond merely colorful—the colors
were so vibrant, so intense, so pure. Like Kool-Aid. I attempted to capture the vision for my novel.
 
Recipe for a Glorious Cambodian Sunset: Simply open one box of cranberry-flavored Jell-O and smear the granules across the dusky sky.
 
Pretty good, but slightly … smug.
I tried again.
 
Intense pastel reds, blues, yellows, and pinks dissolved into the horizon like Easter egg–dye tablets.
 
Nearby, Grandma Gerd was snapping photos with her Brownie. But where was Hanks? I scanned the crowd of sunset watchers and finally spotted his cowboy hat. He was taking Polaroids of the distant Angkor Wat towers backed by rice paddies and fringed by palm trees. The streaks of pink, blue, orange, and purple began to fade. A female backpacker with curly gold hair and a Celtic ankle tattoo approached Hanks. She said something, he said something, she laughed, he laughed, she touched his arm, he—
Why did he let her take his picture?
Who cares? It's just Hanks. Annoying, drawling, wannabe-cowboy Hanks.
But I couldn't pry my eyes off them, silhouetted against the molten sky as the golden sun submerged into the silver of the paddies.
BOOK: Carpe Diem
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