Perfectly Ridiculous by Kristin Billerbeck

chase in her Mustang is reasonable. Believing every guy currently residing in Argentina is hot for me—not so much.
    Even though this is not quite a travel journal and more a place where I spill my pathetic life secrets, I’ve come to understand that flying across the world has not changed who I am. In fact, it’s only made me feel more invisible, as if I can be cast off by Libby Bramer as easily as an old winter coat.
    But that’s my choice, I figure. I’m not going to let a woman like her make me feel bad. She’s miserable by nature. I can’t fix that, and truthfully, I don’t even want to try. I just want to do what J.C. says and get out of here as soon as possible with my paperwork signed.
    I think I need to reframe my life. Maybe I only see the negative because I focus on it, and seeing that personality in an adult like Libby makes me want to never say anything remotely depressing again! How can anything look good to someone who sees everything through dark-colored glasses?
    Maybe if I had more Pollyanna attributes, the world would look prettier. It’s worth a try. Right, God? God, are you up there? Since I’m in the southern hemisphere, can you hear me better or worse? The Bible says I do not have because I do not ask. Well, I’m asking, Lord. I want to finish this mission trip well and get my full scholarship, so if you could see it in your heart to put a bug in Claire’s ear that this would mean the world to me, I’d be so grateful!
    In the late afternoon, we had taken our orders and eaten the slop I made for lunch. It was officially known as chili, but with the absence of meat and beans, it came off as more of a spicy, runny soup. Yum!
    I dry the last bowl and place it on the open shelf just as there’s a knock at the door. I’m afraid to answer it for fear it’s a guy and I’m in the house alone, which will definitely make me a harlot in Libby’s eyes. “Heaven knows the guys of Argentina can’t stand the temptation that is Daisy Crispin,” I say before chastising myself. My positive-speech promise isn’t going well.
    The person knocks again. Harder this time.
    â€œWho is it?”
    â€œIt’s Claire! Open up!” She pounds on the door and I lift the latch.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œI got your message. I’m here to work.”
    I’m about to blubber, but I don’t say a thing. I just grab her up in a bear hug and jump up and down. “I love you, I love you, I love you! God totally answers prayer!”
    â€œStop. Or I’m going to leave.”
    â€œYou left the hotel for me?”
    â€œSure I did. You’d do the same for me. Besides, it’s really no fun being pampered when you’re all by yourself.”
    â€œI’d like to give it a try. I sure hope I’d come rescue you in the same situation.”
    â€œYou would.” Claire has her bobbed hair pinned back with a sparkling barrette, and her makeup is perfect. “But don’t hug me like that again. It freaks me out. I like my personal space, you know?”
    â€œFine. So did you get the part about sleeping in the car?”
    â€œI thought you were kidding.”
    â€œI might be, but I’m not sure. Libby is . . . well, she’s different,” I say. “That dress is cute. Where’d you get it?”
    â€œIn town, at this little boutique.”
    â€œIt’s cute,” I say again, wistfully.
    â€œI bought it when I was out with your parents last night for dinner.”
    I’ll admit, it’s hard to see how easily life comes together for Claire. I know her parents are a mess, but she always looks like she’s straight out of a teen style magazine.
    â€œDid you check out of the hotel?” I ask, because she’s got only a small leather satchel, no doubt also from one of Recoleta’s boutiques. She brought enough luggage to secure passage on a cruise to