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head.
    â€œNever mind. Is that stir-fry I smell?”
    â€œWant me to bring you some?”
    â€œNo!” The very idea seemed to turn her stomach. “You eat with Dad. I’ll just have … toast and broth. Afterward we can start on your packing list. After all, it’s only twelve more days until … until …” Her voice cracked as she reached for a Kleenex.
    And I slipped out the door.

CHAPTER SIX
    You Can’t Over-Prepare
    Y ou can’t simply up and go to Southeast Asia. Especially into the Malaria Zone. Oh, no. You need shots, malaria pills, a passport, and a whole drugstore of “just in case” medicine.
    Luckily, over the years my forward-thinking parents had instructed our family physician to give me every vaccination on the market: “Never know what you can pick up these days on the streets of Seattle—or in homeroom,” said Mom. And all three of us had our passports—“In case we should ever need to leave the country at a moment’s notice,” said Dad. Not that we’d ever used them. So, the fact I only had thirteen days to prepare turned out to be less the logistical nightmare it should have been.
    However. Since I was leaving the weekend after school let out, I had no time to research Malaysia, Cambodia, and Laos. No time to plan . This made me itchy. But I figured Grandma Gerd had some sort of itinerary for the summer. And I’d just have to catch up on my research on the plane—after all, I had twenty some hours in the sky to read all my guidebooks and reference materials.

    In the thirteen days before my departure, my moods fluctuated. One minute my heart thump-thumped in anticipation of the exotic adventure before me, and the next minute I was slammed with a wave of intense homesickness—though I hadn’t so much as set one foot on the plane.
    And then there were the conversations between Mom and Dad that came to a halt the second I entered the room. And the way they still couldn’t quite look me in the eye. Mom wasn’t writing in her Journal of Excellence. Her garden was left to fend for itself. Even her best friend, Lilith, couldn’t snap her out of it with long, gossipy phone chats, brunches on the waterfront, or her all-time favorite warm-weather perk: Puccini in the Park. It was as if she was in limbo—waiting for something. Something not good. Her normally optimistic outlook on life was replaced with shadowy uncertainty. She sighed. A lot.
    Dad worked, ran, and proofed his book. Although he kept up his routines, he was on autopilot … enveloped in a mental fog. At dinnertime, he couldn’t seem to finish his meals. He actually left half of his favorite entrée (broiled salmon with mango chutney and okra) on the plate.
    But Laurel, Denise, and Amber were enjoying themselves immensely. They strode down the school hallways, three abreast, with mysterious looks on their faces as if they were all part of a conspiracy (which I guess they were … ). And would break into laughter for no reason. When Wendy Stupacker passed by, they’d whisper under their breaths: “Checkmate, Stupacker!” (Amber). “De inimico
non loquaris sed cogites!” (“Don’t wish ill for your enemy; plan it !”) (Denise). Laurel was too ladylike to utter threats. Instead, she’d narrow her eyes and purse her lips in an attempt to look menacing—and succeed only in looking constipated.
    They planned out their summer: AP classes, college seminars, and daily meetings at a local coffee shop to work on homework, email me, and edit my manuscript pages.
    I realized I’d give anything to switch places with them.
    Not that I’d ever admit it.
    They were counting on me.
    Â 
    â€œPostcard labels?”
    â€œCheck.”
    â€œPTP?”
    â€œCheck.”
    â€œTicket, passport, ATM card, extra cash?”
    â€œCheck, check, check, and check.”
    â€œLaptop with