Uncharted(2)

Even at seventeen, I know that won’t be enough for me. To never taste adventure on my tongue… never color outside the lines of a socially-acceptable suburban life… never amount to anything except the status quo everyone else in my tiny hometown always seems so content to charge toward with blinders on, like racehorses on a track.

If I stay, I’ll never acknowledge the dull ache inside my chest that screams out in the small hours of the night that there must be something more, something different, something that will make my stomach fly up into my throat and my fingertips lose circulation because they’re squeezed so tight into fists of anticipation.

So, I’m leaning into the winds of change. I’m walking away from that life, and I’m not looking back at the things I’m leaving behind.

A tiny town, with sun-dappled streets.

A farmhouse full of memories.

A promise ring from Clint on my bedside table.

And, most of all, Mom’s face, etched with incalculable worry on the curb of the Departures drop-off zone.

Reaching out, I grab her hand and squeeze. I strive for a light tone, knowing if I let a single tear trickle out, I’ll set off a show of waterworks to rival Niagara Falls.

“You’re not losing me, Mom. It’s a nannying job in the South Pacific, not a colonization mission to Mars.”

“I’d feel safer with you on Mars. Astronauts are very honorable. We barely know anything about this family you’ll be working for. They could be drug lords for all we know.”

I snort. “Dramatic, much?”

“Violet, I’m serious.”

“So am I! You have to relax. Mrs. McNally never would’ve suggested I work for crazy people.”

“Well. Maybe Mrs. McNally didn’t tell you the full story,” Mom says in a decidedly un-neighborly tone.

My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline.

“Don’t give me that look, Violet. She could have an ulterior motive, you don’t know!”

“The woman runs the church bake sale every year. She’s not a criminal mastermind.”

“…or so she wants you to believe.”

“Moooooom.” I groan. “Come on. The Flints are a normal family.”

“Normal families don’t spend their summers island-hopping around the South Pacific, or hire an au pair for their five-year-old.”

“Did you swallow a bitter pill with your coffee this morning?”

“I’m just saying.” She tosses her chestnut hair, one shade lighter than mine and twice as glossy. “What’s the point of having children at all if you’re just going to hire full-time help to raise them for you?”

“Mom, don’t you think you’re being a bit judg—”

“And, anyway, I can’t fathom why they have to go all that way for a little sunshine. Florida has perfectly lovely beaches.”

“As we’ve discussed several times already,” I say slowly, summoning composure. “Mr. Flint is a resort developer. His company is scouting potential building locations on a few different islands. There’s a whole team going — a handful of execs from The Flint Group, plus a photographer, the architect, a few marketing people…” I shrug. “Rather than leave his wife and daughter home for three months, Seth decided to bring them along. In my book, that makes him a pretty decent dad.”

Mom’s mouth presses into a firm line as she tries to formulate a counter-argument to change my mind. Even now, standing on the curb outside Boston Logan International Airport with my bags packed and my ticket in hand, she’s still half-sure she might somehow convince me to stay. I pull a deep breath in through my nose and remind myself that this overbearing, overprotective show she’s putting on comes from a place of love. She’s not deliberately trying to annoy me.

I don’t think so, anyway.

“Listen, I’m going to miss my flight.” I sling my duffle strap a little higher over my shoulder. “I have to get going.”

“Call me during your layover.”

“I will if I have time.”

Her worried look returns. “You’re sure they’re sending someone to meet you at LAX?”

“Yes, outside the baggage claim area. Mrs. Flint’s personal assistant emailed this morning to confirm.”

“I still don’t like the idea of you on one of those tiny chartered jets across the Pacific. Why can’t this family fly commercial like the rest of America?”

“It’s the Flint company jet, mother. I think, once you invest in one of those, you’re pretty much obligated to use it.” A wicked grin spreads across my face. “Plus, think of all the free inflight champagne they’ll be serving!”

She glares at me. “Violet, so help me—”

“Joking!” I interject hurriedly. “Just joking. I’m going to be babysitting, not joining the mile high club.” I pause. “You know I’ve never been one for organized group activities.”

“How did I ever raise such a smartass?”

“In your exact image,” I point out.

Even as Mom nods in agreement, her bottom lip begins to tremble. I think she’s going to dissolve into a puddle of tears but instead, she reaches out and hauls me into a crushing embrace. For such a petite woman, her hug is impressively rib-cracking.