Cameras flashed, and the crowd surged forward around her. I had to move fast, or they were going to cut me off.

"Get out of the way!" I shouted. "Can't any of you jackasses help her? What's wrong with you? She might be hurt!"

---

 

5. Blue Water
 

When I woke up, the sun was shining. In fact, it was pouring into my room as if it were midsummer rather than midwinter.

I blinked at the brightness, and moved my tongue around the inside of my mouth. It was dry, very dry. My tongue felt like a rough, old, dry scrap of burlap.

I didn't move for a while. I felt empty inside, thankfully. All the cheesecake had gone away. I wasn't hungry, or even all that thirsty, but I did have to pee.

If it wasn't for that, I would have stayed where I was. Staring at the ceiling was all the self-improvement I needed at the moment. And yet... Maybe nature makes us pee so we don't sleep our lives away, I reflected.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, sat up, and looked around the room.

The clock said one, which meant it was already afternoon. I'd slept for 13 hours! Maybe more... I didn't feel like doing the clock-math at the moment.

When my feet touched the floor, I looked down at myself. Were these really the pajamas I wore last night? I searched my memory, but couldn't even remember getting into bed. The pajamas were white with pictures of tiny red apples, like polka-dots. Did I even own a pair of pajamas like these? They were cute — a little *too* cute — and they did have a bright-white newness... Mom must have bought them recently and helped me into them last night, while I was too ill to notice and protest.

There was a big blank in my memory. I could remember saying something to Mom on the stairs... I remembered her talking about my going away... but nothing else.

I had been really sick last night.

But now... What was the deal with the sunlight? All my curtains were open. Why would Mom do that? We'd been keeping them closed so the press couldn't see in, and here Mom had thrown them as wide as they could go.

I suppose it wouldn't have been hard for her to open them without being seen from below...

And the sunshine was nice... it was just a bit much for someone still waking up.

I blinked and wished for sunglasses. All this brightness seemed like the wrong way to go. Considering how badly I felt last night, wouldn't Mom want me to sleep late? After all, I was on vacation, and it wasn't like we could go anywhere, or had anything to do.

I closed my eyes, but the intense brightness shone right through my eyelids.

It was nice and too much at the same time.

Okay, okay...

By now my brain was slowly kicking into gear, putting two and two together: Sunshine, open curtains... Mom must want me to get up, but didn't want to actually wake me.

And *that* probably meant that she and Dad had found a place for me to go, to get away from here.

I stood up, and felt very light, like a helium balloon. I liked the feeling. Until I began to feel light-headed. I took a few deep breaths...

... which only made things worse. I sat back down heavily on the bed.

I rubbed my nose and cleared my throat. As if that was her cue, Mom walked in.

"Hello, Sleeping Beauty," she said. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," I said. "I guess. I'm cheesecake-free, at any rate."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that!" she replied, with a huge smile. "Do you see what a beautiful day it is?"

"Yes," I replied, "blindingly beautiful."

"I just couldn't resist," she gushed. "I can't open the curtains downstairs, but I opened them in every room upstairs."

"Great, Mom," I murmured, still not fully awake. Still, even in my stupor, I could see that Mom was acting very suspiciously. "What's up?" I asked her. "You look awfully happy."

"I may be!" she said, in a mysterious tone. "I just may BE awfully happy. Do you feel up to breakfast?"

"I dunno. Maybe just my tea and some toast."

"I can bring it up to you. Why don't you take a bath? It'll help you feel better."

"Okay," I agreed, and was just asking myself which to do first, when Mom cut into my thoughts.

"You can have your breakfast in the tub. How's that sound?"

"Luxurious," I replied. What had gotten into Mom? She was more puzzling by the minute. "Um, Mom, I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but seriously: what's going on? I mean, like, who are you, and what have you done with my mother?"

She laughed lightly. "Listen, I'll start the bath and go down to make your breakfast. Then, when I bring it up, we can talk. Okay?"

"Okay."

She left to forestall any more questions. I rubbed my eyes and stood again. This time I wasn't dizzy, so I softly padded into the bathroom, where I studied myself carefully in the mirror. "Time to take inventory," I announced. My hair... it looked slept on. "Slept-on hair, check," I said. "Sleepy eyes, check." I opened my mouth, checked my teeth, and breathed into my palm. "Morning mouth, check." Then I felt my breasts. "One pair boobies, check." I slid my hands down behind me. "One pair buttocks, check." I pulled on my ears, scanned my face for pimples (none!) and got undressed. "Optional extra equipment, check."

The water was good and hot, and I could taste the bath salts. Nasty, but good for the skin. And the bath felt SO good. After ten minutes, Mom came in with a tray, which she set on the floor next to the tub, then went out to get a chair for herself.

The word breakfast made my digestive system cry out in alarm, but the reality of it was very soothing. Toast was exactly what my tummy could handle, and the tea restored me to life.

While Mom was away, getting her chair, I draped my washcloth over my private area because... well, because it's private! If I'd had the operation, I wouldn't have minded Mom seeing me naked, but as I was, it was a thing I wanted to keep to myself.

She settled her chair between the sink and the bathroom door, sat herself down, and looked me over. "You look a lot better than you did last night," she said.

"I *feel* a lot better, too."

"You look relaxed."

"So do you, Mom."

She smiled. "Stop saying what I'm saying," she joked.

I laughed and came back: "*You* stop saying what I'm saying."

Then she told me, "You know, I'm thinking that you got sick last night because of all the tension here."

"Really?"

"Yes, you kept holding your stomach, all the time we were at the courthouse."

"Oh, was that yesterday? It seems like weeks ago!"

"Mmm. It was yesterday."

I sat up, gobbled down half a piece of toast, and took tiny sips of tea. Tension? *Mom* was the tense one, not me.

"Anyway, Mom, that terrible food made me sick, not tension. I'm not tense."

"I think you are," she insisted. "Just think about all that's happened to you in the last four months: you decided to become a girl, you had a serious operation — AND the appendectomy — you moved twice... no, THREE times, started two new schools, plus all the crazy things that happened, to say nothing of the... ah... recent... business..."

"The kidnapping," I supplied.

"Yes. And now, the press is camped outside, night and day..."

I sighed. It would be nice to just shut it all off for a while. "I hope I *can* get away, like Ms. Gifford said."

"Good!" Mom said. "I was going to suggest exactly that."

"Well, yeah, I know," I said. "We talked about this last night."

"No," Mom said. "This is different. This is new."

I frowned. Was she making any sense?

"How would you like to go a South-Sea island?" she asked. "A place like Tahiti or Bora Bora?"

I scoffed, "Is Bora Bora even a real place?"

Then I took another look at her face. "Mom, are you kidding?"

She smiled.

"You're NOT kidding!? This is for real? A South-Sea island!?"

"No, I'm not kidding! Isn't it the wildest thing? Your father called this morning with an offer that came through Rhonda Means." [Rhonda Means is my father's boss.]. "If it wasn't for *that* — I mean, if it hadn't come through *her* — I don't think we'd consider it at all, but both your father and I think it's a great opportunity for you. That is, of course, if you're willing to go."

"So what exactly is the offer?"

"Well! It turns out that when Rhonda was your age, she went to a Catholic girls school, too, and this one, I forget its name — Saint Doma or Dooma or something —" she waved her hand dismissively "—anyway, some of the girls from that school are going on a team-building vacation for a week, going sailing in the South Seas. They'll fly to Hawaii, and from there to some little island, and get on a sailing ship. Does that sound like fun?"

I scratched my forehead. "What does it all have to do with me?" I asked.

"One of the girls got sick and can't go. When she saw you on TV, she thought you might want to get away... well, one thing led to another... Rhonda's a very active fund raiser for the school, and one of the organizers of the trip called her."

"Why?" I asked. This sounded kind of suspicious to me.

"The newspapers mentioned where your father works, so this man... person... organizer called Ms. Means and asked if she knew him.

"Anyway, the long and the short of it is, you're invited! What do you think about that?"

"I'm... I'm touched," I said. To think that a girl who didn't even know me would want me to have her vacation... "Can I really go?"

"Yes!"

"What do I have to do?"

"Just be ready when they come to pick you up!"

"When?"

"They're going to come by at six to pick you up."

"At six? Tonight? That's only four hours away!"

"It's five hours away," Mom replied calmly. "Don't worry! I already packed your bag. I did it while you were sleeping. They gave me a list of things to bring, so it's not as though you would have packed anything different..."

"It's so sudden..."

"Yes, it is, but we agreed last night that you need to get away today. The reporters won't be able to follow you, and once you're gone, maybe they'll all leave. By the time you come back, hopefully something else will be the top story, and we can all get back to our humdrum, ordinary lives again."

I hesitated. I was sure there were dozens of reasons that I shouldn't go, but my brain jammed... I couldn't think of what those reasons were.

The main problem was that it was happening so darn quickly... I wanted some time to think!

"You should go, honey! Just think: sunshine, fresh air, warm sand, blue water..."

"Okay, okay," I said, "I'm sold!"

Then after a moment: "Wait a minute... blue water?" That didn't sound right.
 

I looked at the What To Bring list, and checked the bag Mom had packed. I found the sunblock that she forgot, and a big blue jar of skin cream.

Then I took a smaller, carry-on bag and added a few things, like sunglasses and a set of lighter clothes that I'd need when we landed.

There was still enough room in the bag to slip in a notebook, two pens, and two magazines: Redbook and Cosmo.
 

Once I was ready, I called my father to say goodbye. While I was on the phone with him, I saw my mother across the room, fiddling with my carry-on. I couldn't see what she was up to, so I made a mental note to check the bag before I left the house.

"Try and have a good time," Dad said. "Leave the craziness here: don't bring it with you in your head. Try to forget your regular life and enjoy the new experiences."

I bit my tongue. It was always cute when Dad got philosophical, but rather than tease him, I said, "Thanks, Dad. I'll try."

"Have fun," he said. "That's the only requirement. Okay?"
 

Mom and I had an early dinner together. She was so excited, you'd think she was the one who was going! Flitting around like a crazy bird, she fussed over everything.

After dinner, the two of us sat in chairs by the window. I know it was silly, since the drapes were closed. We couldn't look out (on account of the press), but what else could we do?

"I'm so excited!" Mom gushed. "I've got gooseflesh! I'm SO nervous! Aren't *you* nervous, Marcie?"

"No," I said, "I think you're using up all the nervousness for both of us."

She laughed and ran over to hug me. She was beginning to worry me: she was too wound up! Mom was so over-the-top that it made me calm and cautious. I felt like I had to keep my eye on her.

"Are you sure you're going to be alright while I'm gone?" I asked her. The woman was positively giddy.

She laughed as if I'd said the funniest thing in the world. "Yes, MOM!" she cried, and let off a stream of giggles. I shook my head.

Then it hit me. "Hey!" I said. "You're not glad that I'm leaving, are you? Is that why you're acting all silly and happy?"

Her eyes got as big as they could go. "Oh, no, honey! I'm going to MISS you! It's just that I'm so GLAD for you—"

"Okay, okay," I said, dismissively. "It's alright. I don't mind."

She scoffed. "Honestly, Marcie! Your own mother! I have never—"

Whatever she was about to say next was canceled by the bell. I mean, the doorbell rang and interrupted her. Mom dashed to answer it, and I heard a strange, creaky, young girl's voice ask, "Does Marcie Donner live here?"

Mom invited her in, and I walked over to meet her. The girl was short — about five-two — had long, straight brown hair, and brown eyes. She was thin, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. And, she had a very friendly smile.

"Hello," she said to me in her funny little voice. In a sudden flash, I knew what her voice reminded me of. Do you remember the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz? "All in good time, my little pretty!" Well, imagine what her voice would have sounded like when she was a teen, and that was the sound of my visitor's voice.

Except that this girl had nothing wicked about her: she was sweet and funny and cute, and I liked her right away. She looked a little nerdy, but she was *very* self-assured.

She introduced herself in a single breath: "My name is Hedwig Wetherwax. I know it's an odd name, so please call me Wiggy. Everybody does, and I know it's a funny nickname, but it's a lot better than Hedwig."

"Wiggy?" I repeated. It was about the only word I caught from her rapid-fire delivery. The way she talked, piling words pell mell on top of each other, made it hard to take in what she said. She talked faster than I could hear! I mean, faster than I could listen.

"That's me!" she agreed. "You must be Marcie." She pumped my hand the way you'd jack up a tire.

She was, in a word, quirky, but I liked her right off.

Wiggy took another breath and fired off another salvo: "I must tell you that I'm not typical of the girls who'll be on this trip. I don't know how much you've been told—"

"Almost nothing," I said, managing to fire a few words into the stream.

"Ah," she said, stopping for a moment. "Well!" Now that I'd interrupted her momentum, she was at a loss. She turned her shoulders to the left and right a couple of times. She smiled, thought for a moment, found her place, and began again.

"They're cheerleaders," she said, as if that explained everything. "I can give you the lowdown in the car."
 

I gave Mom one last hug. She glanced at Wiggy and smiled at me. "She's nice," I whispered. "I like her."

"Good," Mom replied, her eyes twinkling.

"Don't laugh at her," I whispered. "At least she's not a cheerleader!"

Mom hugged me again. Wiggy boldly pulled open the front door.

At first, the sight was overwhelming: our walk was crowded with cameras and lights and sprinkled with microphones.

My first thought was of the Oscars and the red carpet. My second thought was about how I was dressed.

Wiggy stood directly in front of me, so no one could see me — at least, they couldn't see my face.

She looked down at the expectant crowd, put her hands on her skinny hips, and in a loud, high, squeaky voice, that little girl bellowed, "ALL RIGHT! BACK IT UP! That's right! I'm talking to YOU! Back it up there! People coming through!"

And oddly enough, wildly enough, they backed up! The reporters cleared the walk, so we could leave.

"It's like Moses and the Red Sea," I told Mom.

"I wonder whether *I* can do that?" Mom mused.

Wiggy turned, picked up my carry-on bag, and stepped outside. She walked directly into the bright lights, the flashing lights, the shouts and questions, as if was something she did it every day of the week.

I followed with my heavy bag, more than a little disoriented. It seemed like Wiggy was in charge — and not just of me, but of everything.

"Where are you going, girls?" was the question that echoed and re-echoed in the many voices around us. "When are you coming back?"

"Coming through!" Wiggy squeaked. "No comment! Nothing-to-say-at-this-time! Coming through!"

I looked up at the reporters. Their heads were jerking back and forth between Wiggy and me. They weren't sure where to look or who to talk to. Who was this pipsqueak, who had suddenly taken charge?

When we got to the top of the stairs, I could see a sleek black car waiting for us. It would have been easier if he'd pulled into the driveway, I thought, the way the police did. But, oh, well! In a few minutes we'd be away from here.

Wiggy paused at the top of the steps, and turned, one hand holding my bag, the other on her hip.

"We're leaving!" she announced, but I never found out what more she intended to say. She lost her footing and tumbled down the stairs. It was more of a bumpety-bump-bump than a roll, and it hurt just to see it. My carry-on bag rolled down after her, and landed on her stomach when she stopped at the bottom.

"Ooof!" she grunted when it hit her.

Cameras flashed, and the crowd surged forward around her. I had to move fast, or they were going to cut me off.

"Get out of the way!" I shouted. "Can't any of you jackasses help her? What's wrong with you? She might be hurt!"

I fought my way through, pushing some of the cameras roughly out of the way, and hitting people right and left with my suitcase.

By the time I got to the bottom of the stairs, Wiggy was on her feet and straightening her glasses nervously.

"I'm okay," she said in a small voice.

"Let's get in the car and get the hell out of here," I told her, and that's exactly what we did.

© 2008 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]