“Then why aren’t you visiting him now? It’s summer, or hadn’t you noticed?”
“Man, someone’s mighty testy … .” He shoved his wallet into his back pocket.
It was like he was half-putting on the cowpoke accent, but half-not. He really did have a slight drawl even when he wasn’t “working it.” He was like some sort of weird Far East–Wild West hybrid.
But I’d much rather be with a weird hybrid than all alone.
The taxi pulled up to our guesthouse, the sign proclaiming: PRETTY TREE GUESTHOUSE. “Accordin’ to Gerd, it’s the best deal in Siem Reap for anyone travelin’ under twenty dollars a day,” said Hanks.
“I bet she didn’t make reservations.”
Pretty Tree Guesthouse was a large central bungalow encircled by six smaller bungalows, painted light green and peach, and each one with an upstairs room and a downstairs room, making twelve rooms in all. Hanks entered the largest bungalow, which was a combined check-in, lobby, lounge, and dining room. A drowsy clerk who had been reclining on a mat lethargically stood up, smoothing his rumpled black hair.
A few minutes later, Hanks had a key in hand. “Grab your gear and follow me, ward.”
He headed over to the picturesque Bungalow #4, surrounded by banyan trees and overlooking a small lily pond. The sounds of cicadas filled the night air. He led the way up the stairs to the top room, which sported the usual teak floors, white linen curtains, white linen sheets, and mosquito netting over each twin bed. But this one had a panoramic black-and-white photo of the ruins of Angkor on the wall and a lotus blossom floating in a stone bowl.
Hanks tossed his duffel onto the nearest bed.
“Ah. So this room is yours,” I said. “Thanks for letting me drag this stuff all the way upstairs.” I picked up my daypack and backpack and turned to go back down.
“Ours.”
“Hanks, I’m tired. Just tell me which room you want.”
“This is all they got. What we get for comin’ at the height of the tourist season without reservations. Least it’s a whole lot better than the last time I was here. So packed, I ended up sleepin’ in a hammock by the river.” He took out a plastic Ziploc bag that held toiletries. “So if I were you, I’d choose the room. The hammock gets really old after a while. Major rope keister. And all those mosquitoes. Take it from me, malaria’s no fun. Neither is dengue fever.”
Malaria!? Dengue fever!? Did I take my malaria pill today?
He headed into the bathroom, leaving me standing motionless in the doorway.
But even more scary: sleep in the same room as a boy? Alone? Me? Who’d never, ever even been on a date with a boy and now was expected to share the same bedroom with one? In beds a mere four feet apart and no partition?
What choice did I have? It was 10:30 p.m. already—in a Third World country, no less. This was all Grandma Gerd’s fault!
I walked into the room, dropped all my packs on the floor with a thud, and flopped onto the other bed.
And what about the whole sharing-the-bathroom/ getting-ready-for-bed thing?
What if he snored? What if I snored?
CHAPTER TWO
Bunkin’ with a Cowboy
From the bathroom came the sounds of brushing teeth, gargling, and showering—and humming. The tune sounded vaguely familiar. Oh. Right. “Home, Home on the Range.”
Hanks walked out of the bathroom wearing cut-off jeans and a white T-shirt—and still wearing his boots. Water dripped from his black hair, down his nougat skin.
Didn’t I read somewhere that cowboys slept with their boots on?
“It’s all yours, Spore.” He was now meticulously wiping off his black boots with a hand towel.
I took out my toiletries, then carefully relocked every lock on my backpack.
He laughed. “What? Don’t ya trust me?”
“After what’s happened to me, I trust nobody.”
I entered the bathroom, then stopped short. “Where’s the toilet?”
Hanks sauntered back in and pointed to a porcelain sink set into the floor. “Right where I left it.”
“That’s a toilet?”
“Squat toilet. You mean you’ve never used one?”
The smirk on his face was too much.
“Of course I have. Now may I have some privacy?”
“Be my guest.”
I made sure to lock the door behind him.
This was a toilet? The white porcelain formed a shallow oblong, thicker on the sides with a sort of grid etched in it. Strange. How could it be even remotely comfortable? Next to it sat a large red bucket of water with a plastic green bowl floating in it.
I wished I hadn’t skipped the section on hygiene in my guidebooks.
You must adapt, Vassar. I removed my Traveler’s Friend Hygienic Seat from its sanitation case, inflated it, and laid it on the opening. Then I pulled down my pants and sat way down—and almost slid in!
“Aaah!”
“Need some help?” He didn’t bother to hide the amusement in his voice.
I ignored him.
This was not conducive to peaceful urination. I tried again—how absurd I must look sitting on the ground with my knees up to my chin.
After I finished, I folded up my Hygienic Seat and stuck it back into the sanitation case. There was no flusher. My sea of yellow just pooled in the shallow toilet. How embarrassing. Oh, well.
“Did everything come out all right?” he called.
“It’s the most uncomfortable toilet I’ve ever sat on.”
What was that strange wheezing?
“You’re supposed to squat over it, not sit on it. Didn’t you notice the grid marks? The porcelain bit is for yer feet, not yer seat.”
“There’s absolutely no way that—”
“Next time, relax into a squat and let yer keister hang to your heels … . It all comes out easy as pie.”
Was this just one big practical joke?
“And did ya pour a bowl of water in there to flush it down?”
“Of course I did.”
Then, as quietly as I could, I poured a bowlful of water into the toilet.
I could still hear him chuckling.
Embarrassed, I changed into a T-shirt and shorts. There was no way I was wearing my pajamas in front of him.
My nighttime routine took a good hour, so by the time I finished, Hanks was already asleep. He was in bed, and the lights were off. His boots stood at attention at the foot of his bed.
Good. I could crawl into bed without his prying eyes.
The crisp white sheets felt cool to my skin, a nice contrast to the heat of the room. I pulled the mosquito netting down around me. Above my head, two geckos (chincha in Cambodia) ran across the ceiling, dodging the creaking fan. Soon I could hear their clicking sounds from the corner. Chincha—their name sounded like the noise they made. Should I wear my eye mask and earplugs? Or would it behoove me to be extra alert?
“So, why did your parents name you Vassar?” Hanks’s voice was even more gravelly when he was sleepy.
Great. Small talk before bed. But I removed my retainer. “I’m named after a quality women’s college.”
“Lemme guess, your brothers are Princeton, Harvard, and Yale?”
“Very funny. I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”
“Do you like being an only child?”
His question triggered a memory from ten years earlier. Dad had been coaching me how to set the table in two minutes flat. When I asked him why I didn’t have any brothers and sisters, he said, “We prefer having just one little girl, Vassar. Because you know what the perfect geometric shape is?” He positioned the three knives.
“The triangle?”
“Exactly. You, Mom, and I—we three create the perfect family shape. After all, we don’t want to be”—he added another knife—“square, now do we?” And we both had a hearty chuckle.
“Hey. I said: ‘Do you like being an only child?’” Hanks sat up on one elbow. Without my glasses he
was just a shadowy form through the gauze of the netting.
“I like it. What about you? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Mom said that once she had a son, her work was done. You know, the whole Chinese thing.”
Okay.
“Do you haveag …” Stop! He’ll think you’re interested!
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, spit it out. What were you going to ask?”
“I forgot.”
“If I had a girlfriend?”
Mortification!
“Isn’t that right?” I could tell he was smirking.
“No! I was just wondering if you had a g-alloping horse. I was wondering if you had a horse you could ride for practice and … and all that.” Swift, Vassar. Real smooth.
“Don’t gotta horse. And don’t gotta girl. My last one dumped me four months ago. Said my chops itched. What about you? Do you have a dude?”
“No, I don’t have a dude. I have a boyfriend. His name’s John Pepper.” I wouldn’t let him get the better of me.
“Really now.”
Was that amusement in his voice? “John and I happen to be very serious.”
“Meaning you two might just think about goin’ out on a date one of these days?”
“Excuse me?”
“Gerd mentioned you’d never even been on a date. So in the States they put the cart before the horse, do they?”
“Good night.”
He laughed.
I reached for my earplugs and eye mask.
“Just how many boyfriends have you had, Vassar?”
I didn’t answer.
“Vassar?” His voice was softer, huskier.
I feigned a gentle snore. He laughed again, then turned over. Soon the sounds of deep breathing came from his bed.
And now I was wide awake. I needed a distraction.
I opened my new red notebook where I’d written down the words—longhand.
Bubble. Birth. Too young. Rubber ball. Dying. Egg.
“Watcha doin’?” asked Hanks.
Why couldn’t this guy just sleep?
I was about to tell him to mind his own business—then paused. Maybe Hanks knew something. After all, even though he was annoying, he wasn’t stupid. I gave him the full story of the blackmail as succinctly as I could.
“Hmm … Were your parents hippies?”
I laughed.
“Too bad. It coulda been something about drugs. Like they got caught with marijuana sewn into their bell-bottoms and did prison time.”
The mental picture of Dad and Mom in bell-bottoms was so absurd, I laughed even harder.
“Or maybe they’re wanted for tax evasion.”
I bristled. “My parents are the most honest, upstanding people alive.”
“Whoa, there. Just makin’ suggestions.”
“Actually, you can help by telling me everything you know about Grandma Gerd. Every single detail. For example, how and when did you meet her? At MCT? Did you ever take one of her ESL classes? Have you ever heard her say anything odd or mysterious? Would your dad be familiar with her story? What about Renjiro? Have you ever discussed—”
Gentle snores filled the room once again.
Thanks for nothing.
Well, I guess I could work on my chapter.
Sarah was shocked to find herself sharing a room with Wayne. Highly inappropriate. Even if she did find him strangely attractive—
I stopped and put the notebook on my bedside table. I’d wait until I had a good night’s sleep, because right now I obviously wasn’t thinking too clearly.
CHAPTER THREE
Chasin’ Snakes
Roosters.
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 day
pack. “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.