Sea by Heidi Kling Read Free Book Online Page A

group of men stood holding signs with various names written on them. I scanned for ours. Not one read TEAM HOPE.
    Vera’s high forehead glistened with sweat as she poked at her BlackBerry with her pen. “We have a message. The driver went to the wrong airport.” She looked apologetically at Dad. “I’m not sure what happened.”
    Dad touched her elbow. “No problem. We’ll just take a cab.”
    Keeping Vera at ease was apparently a top priority.
    “Hey,” Dad said, “did everyone remember to take their malaria pills this morning?”
    Everyone nodded except for me. “Oh, sorry. I forgot. Is there a drinking fountain?” I asked.
    Tom burst out laughing. “Yeah, if you want to get malaria! Bottled water, sweetheart. Remembering that will save you a lot of time in the mandi.” He handed me a fresh bottle of water out of his backpack.
    “What’s a mon-dee ?” I asked.
    Vera’s eyes widened. “You didn’t tell her, Andy?”
    Tell me what?
    “She read the Indonesian handbook,” he said. “Didn’t you, Sienna?” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
    Uh.
    “I read some of it,” I exaggerated. I did flip through it, but I was looking mainly at the pictures. But I couldn’t exactly admit that now and look totally unreliable. “I don’t remember anything about a mandi.”
    Tom snickered. “Then clearly you didn’t read the handbook.”
    “You only had umpteen hours to read it.” Dad sighed. “Never mind. Let’s just get our bags and hail a cab. They’ll be expecting us at the pesantren. You can catch up on your reading there.”
    Feeling guilty, I looked down at my ratty orange Converse.
    “Hey, cheer up, kid,” Tom said. “Now you’ll get to find out about the mandi the fun way.”
    I slugged him on the shoulder. Whatever this mon-dee thing was, how bad could it be?

CRACKERS
    As we waited at the curb for an empty cab, motorcycles whizzed down the busy street in front of the airport, weaving through taxis and tiny square cars that were screeching along way too fast.
    “Look at that lady,” I said, pointing out a woman dressed in a traditional black robe and head covering. She rode a motor scooter sidesaddle. “Oh my God,” I cried, “is that a baby on that thing?”
    Sure enough, a toddler was balancing on the driver’s hip as she zoomed past us.
    “They all drive motors here,” Tom explained. “Women, men ... even babies.”
    I was shocked. “Do they crash a lot?”
    “They crash all the time,” Tom said. “See those helmets? They call them crackers because your head cracks open if you crash while wearing one.”
    “Don’t they work?”
    “They’re cheap plastic helmets. Not like the ones at home. In fact, a volunteer I knew crashed while riding here. Split in half when he hit the pavement.”
    “His head ?” I was appalled.
    “No, silly, the helmet,” Tom said.
    “So he lived?”
    Tom shrugged. “No. He died.”
    Fabulous. I looked to Dad for help.
    “Tom, that’s enough,” Dad said.
    “Yes, lovely, Tom. Thank you,” Vera chastised him.
    I was shocked out of my gourd. “This place is nuts,” I said.
    “Just stay off motors, kid, and you’ll be fine,” Tom said, picking something out of his teeth with his fingernail.
    “I would NEVER go near one of those crazy things. Why do they even sell helmets if they don’t work?”
    Vera stroked the skunk stripe in her moist hair. “Careful about making rash cultural judgments, Sienna. Remember, they might think our customs were odd if they came to America.”
    Like what? Helmets that worked?
    I stepped farther back from the curb as a female driver wearing a chic black pantsuit cruised by. The sun was bright, the tropical air too hot and too wet. I pulled my sunglasses out of my bag and slipped them on.
    Vera, now adorned in a dorky floppy white hat, squinted into the light. Horns blared, and I noticed the skyline was brown, like Los Angeles on a high-alert-no-playing-outside kind of day. It also smelled like