Jungle Crossing Read online

  Jungle Crossing

  Sydney Salter

  * * *

  HARCOURT

  Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  Boston New York 2009

  * * *

  Copyright © 2009 by Sydney Salter

  Map illustration copyright © 2009 by Carol Chu

  All rights reserved. Requests for permission to make copies

  of any part of the work should be submitted online at

  www.harcourt.com/contact or mailed to the following address:

  Permissions Department, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,

  6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

  Harcourt is an imprint of

  Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  www.hmhbooks.com

  Text set in Bembo

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Salter, Sydney.

  Jungle crossing / by Sydney Salter.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Thirteen-year-old Kat wants to be at "mini-camp" with classmates

  rather than touring the jungles near Cancun, Mexico, on a family vacation, but

  a story told by one of her Mayan guides helps her understand that by always

  trying to please her friends, she is losing herself.

  ISBN 978-0-15-206434-1

  [1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Self-confidence—Fiction. 3. Mayas—

  Fiction. 4. Prejudices—Fiction. 5. Individuality—Fiction. 6. Vacations—Fiction.

  7. Cancún (Mexico)—Fiction. 8. Mexico—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.S15515Jun 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  2009007974

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  MP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  * * *

  TO MY PARENTS, DAVE AND RONDI,

  who took me on my first Mayan adventure,

  MY DAUGHTERS, EMMA AND SOPHIE,

  who inspired me to write,

  AND MY HUSBAND, MIKE,

  who has supported me every step of the way.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SALT LAKE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  Hi! I miss you guys and we haven't even left yet.

  Barb is already driving me nuts!

  Remember to tell me everything that happens at mini-camp.

  EVERYTHING!!!!

  Love, Kat

  PS. Pickle wart.

  ***

  I scanned the passengers for possible terrorists. Not the people with kids, or the blonde in the wedding veil, although it would make a great disguise. The guy in the seat across from us kept looking around the plane. Our eyes met. Wasn't he the guy they double-checked at security? I'd keep my eyes on him, just in case.

  The flight attendant closed the door by turning a thin handle that looked like it could come flying open in midair, sucking us all out of the plane. I gripped my armrest as I imagined myself falling to the ground, whirling, whirling, splat. Thirteen years of life over. Just like that. My friends probably wouldn't even come to my funeral. They'd be too busy having a blast at Fiona's mini-camp, doing each other's nails, reading celebrity magazines, and talking about boys.

  The engines made a loud grinding sound as the plane backed away from the gate. I looked out the window at the baggage carts racing across the tarmac, worried that my suitcase got left behind. Barb crossed her long, skinny legs and flipped through Lost Treasures of the Maya. The smell of her coconut sunscreen made me queasy. One little skin cancer warning from me, and she insists on wearing sunscreen on the plane. Maybe I shouldn't have shown her pictures from Dad's medical books. Nine is such an impressionable age.

  "Do you think we'll find hidden jewels? I could become a famous explorer and travel all over the world and I'd be rich and on TV!" She sighed, looking down at a photograph of an elaborate jade necklace.

  "Whatever." I closed my eyes. The cinnamon bun in my stomach churned as the plane approached the runway. Listening to the engines whir like a rickety old fan, I stared at the stain on the headrest in front of me. If Fiona were here, she'd say that the neon orange color on the headrests was oh-so '80s, in other words: old. Maybe technologically obsolete. The plane rolled onto the runway, vibrating like a wind-up toy as the engines sped up.

  I held my breath and mentally said goodbye to Fiona and the rest of the gang, one by one. Then I added a special love thought to Zach B., even though he barely knows I'm alive.

  "Why are you so sweaty?" Barb touched my forehead, then brushed back her dark curly bangs and touched her own forehead. "I'm not hot." She fanned me with her book. "Mexico is going to be way hotter. Dad said."

  "Just leave me alone." I breathed in for five seconds. Cinnamon-tasting acid burned the back of my throat. Pressure built painfully in my ears. I should've brought gum; I might end up with a raging ear infection.

  "You're not scared, are you? I'm not. You weren't scared when we flew to Grandma's last time. Or the time we went to Disneyland either. Dad said airplanes are safer than cars. And—"

  "I'm not afraid." I held my breath. I wasn't scared when I was her age either. But then I started junior high. Now I knew the truth: the world was a dangerous place, full of hurricanes, earthquakes, plane crashes, terrorist threats, bear attacks, contaminated food, bra sizes, mean PE teachers, cute boys who ignore you, and supposedly best friends who treat you like a tube of hairy lip-gloss.

  The plane lifted into the air, making me feel woozy. I started breathing again, and I looked out the window as we climbed through the clouds, to make sure we didn't hit another plane: thirty-five percent of airline accidents happen during takeoff. The plane tilted. We're going down! I squeezed my eyes shut, but then the plane leveled. Guess we were just turning. I looked down through the clouds and watched as we passed over the soccer stadium. Wait! That house with the pool—were those small dots in the middle Fiona's Five? Had mini-camp started early? Oh. Wait. That was the rec center.

  Barb shook my shoulder. "Are you still in a fight with Mom?"

  I glanced at my parents a couple of rows back. Mom had gotten really mad at me last night after I'd presented her with my list of "34 Reasons Not to Go to Mexico" conveniently written in the travel journal she'd given me. She went on and on about all the sacrifices they were making for this trip, but they wanted to give us the opportunity to see a different culture, and we needed to spend time together as a family, and she and Dad needed to relax, and time is passing so quickly. Blah. Blah. Blah. She just proved my point by hitting upon reasons 3, 6, and 29 through 32 of why we shouldn't be taking this trip:

  #3. You'll save a ton of money if I stay home

  #6. I'm too old for family vacations (especially if it means missing mini-camp!)

  #29. Barb will drive me crazy

  #30. Mom will drive me crazy

  #31. Dad will drive me crazy

  #32. Why not make it a second honeymoon to improve your marriage? (And leave me out of it!)

  When I showed her my list (and elaborated maybe a little too much on reason number 30), Mom ran into her bathroom and cried. So what? Missing Fiona's mini-camp was going to ruin eighth grade for me. But does Mom care? My head hurt when I thought about Fiona and everyone pigging out on pizza and root beer floats, swimming, watching tons of movies and staying up late, ranking all the guys in our class by looks, intelligence, and personality. And this year, Fiona's mom had hired some students from the beauty school to come over and do makeovers. And as much as my thirteen-year-old self needed to stop looking ten (boring straight blondish hair, barely visible bosom, four feet eleven and three-quarters), I wasn't just going to miss the makeover; I was going to miss all the little inside jokes that my friends would be talking about all year long. Like last year someone only had to sa
y "pickle wart" and we'd all start cracking up. Inside joke.

  But the biggest thing (and the thing that Mom totally didn't understand) was that Fiona invited only five friends to mini-camp. Being part of Fiona's Five meant instant popularity, always having someone on your side, never eating lunch alone, never hoping, hoping, hoping for IMs or phone calls. I'd be on the right side of all the gossip, invited to every sleepover, new movie, or shopping trip to the mall. But now she was thinking about inviting someone else!

  On the phone last night Fiona had said, "Sorry, Kitty Kat, but you should totally skip your oh-so boring family vacation and come to my mini-camp. I totally have to invite five people, you know. Maybe Lexi..." I hadn't really listened to Fiona's list of replacements, because I was too busy picturing myself alone at my locker, alone in the lunchroom, alone at the school dance, alone on the weekend ... Alone. Shut out. Reason number 33: eighth grade will be totally ruined.

  As the plane reached cruising altitude, my stomach finally settled down, so I tore open my bag of M&M's and sorted them by color, eating all the yellow ones first, saving the green ones for last. Inside joke. Barb leaned over me, poking my leg with her sharp elbows, to look out at the clouds as the pilot announced a bit of turbulence.

  "That cloud looks like a dragon," Barb said. "Oooh, and that one's a whale!"

  Looked like big fluffy deathtraps to me. The plane bumped up and down. I tightened my seat belt until it hurt, wishing I had a shoulder belt too. I looked around to see if anyone else looked nervous. The guy sitting across from us bent down suspiciously to rifle through a grimy old backpack. He handed Barb a bag of Mini Oreos.

  "You like?" he asked.

  "Yes!" Barb ripped open the package.

  Probably poisoned. I gave her a warning look and nudged her arm. You'd think she'd pick up on the whole taking candy, cookies, whatever, from a stranger thing. I flipped open my journal and added one more item to my list: "#35. Dangerous strangers."

  "Oops. Sorry." Barb slapped her hand across her mouth. "Thank you for the cookies."

  The man smiled and nodded as Barb bit into the probably poisoned Oreos.

  Well, I tried.

  ***

  CANCÚN, MEXICO

  Hi! We made it to Cancún! No plane crash this time. HA HA.

  Wish you guys were here too.

  Next year let's do mini-camp in Mexico.

  Just kidding. HA HA.

  Love, Kat

  PS. I haVe an idea-think of me at exactly 4 PM every day and I'll think of you too!

  ***

  When I stepped off the plane in Cancún, the air was so hot and steamy that I almost couldn't breathe. Lush green jungle crowded the runway, adding an earthy smell to the lung-damaging jet fuel odors (I'd have to add that to my list). The sun beat down on us in a clear blue sky. All the blue and green looked kind of pretty, but I could practically feel the heat stroke coming on. Water. I needed bottled water. Regular Mexican water gives you dehydrating diarrhea.

  While we waited in line, I pulled out my journal, nodding at reason number 24 (heat stroke), and adding new reasons. Number 36: lung-damaging jet fuel fumes; number 37: you can't drink the water.

  Mom smiled, happy about me writing in my journal, until she saw the list. Her mouth crumpled into a frown, but then she cooed about the way Barb's damp hair curled up and charmingly framed her cherubic face. Mom actually used the word "cherubic." Good old reason number 30. Dad had a big smile on his face too—just one big cheesy family. We'd be the first ones targeted by bandits (number 8).

  Barb grabbed Mom's hand and hopped up and down. "I'm so excited!"

  My limp and stringy hair sagged in the humidity "oh-so tragically," as Fiona would say. I grimaced at my reflection in the window; green vines grew out of my head, making me look like one of the creepy Mayan goddesses in Barb's book. I saw no sign of any white sand beaches or blue Caribbean Sea, only ratty vines and shrubs, like weeds on steroids.

  People pushed against us as we got our luggage and waited in yet another line. Guys in white suits kept coming up and offering my parents "great deals" on resorts, as if we didn't already have a reservation. Bizarre! All the people breathing out germy breath, talking in loud foreign languages, and sweating stinky sweat added to the stifling heat. Barb stood in front of a big old-fashioned fan that sounded just like the plane's engines while customs agents searched through random suitcases. I did not want the whole world to look at my underwear. Or touch them. I'd have to do a wash right away. Fortunately, we made it through without being searched.

  For some unknown reason, Dad was excited about the rental car, and he kept nudging Mom. It was kind of sweet to see them act excited instead of grumbling about work. Or about me. But still, they were getting on my nerves.

  "A Grandpa Bug car!" Barb said. "It's so cute."

  Mom started laughing. "Just like when we first got married."

  "Yeah, real romantic," I said. "It looks a hundred years old. And I'm sure it doesn't have air bags." Frankly, I kind of expected something a littler nicer. What was the hotel going to look like? Their first crummy studio apartment in the worst part of town?

  Barb and I climbed into the back seat while Dad crammed our luggage into the tiny trunk. No seat belts. Dad's seat wobbled like a bobblehead as he sat down.

  "Excuse me, but there are no seat belts in this vehicle." Ignored. "Mom? Dad? Did you hear me? Did you not listen when I told you about the number of auto accidents in Mexico? How am I supposed to survive if this tin can of a car doesn't even have seat belts?"

  "Kat." Mom sighed. "Just relax."

  "How can I relax if I'm about to die and never see my friends again?"

  Mom sucked in a deep breath.

  "We could play the silent game," Barb said.

  "That's a great idea, sweetie." Mom leaned back and closed her eyes.

  "We've got about a forty-minute drive to the hotel," Dad said. "Let's see if you can make it."

  I took out my journal and added reason number 38: being asked to play ridiculous, childish games. Barb squeezed her lips shut and blinked at me rapidly; I wanted to smack her.

  Mom leaned over and kissed Dad's cheek. "This is so romantic."

  Barb clamped one hand over her mouth and motioned at Mom with the other. I turned my head and looked out the dirty window at the green rushing past. Where was the beach? We were drivi ng into the middle of nowhere. A few crumbled buildings dotted the side of the road, but the rest was all poisonous, creature-filled jungle. I kind of wondered if we'd landed in the wrong city.

  "Anyone hungry?" Dad asked.

  "Yes," we all said.

  I was starving: a bag of M&M's and three bags of airplane snack mix was all I'd eaten since breakfast. Dad pulled up to a shack on the side of the road. A woman and a little boy lounged in a hammock, laundry hung from a clothesline, and a sign painted in a first-grader's handwriting said GOOD EAT. And I thought Barb's lemonade stand had looked unsanitary! Were these people actually trying to make money? Selling food? Here? A big truck rumbled past, shaking the entire car with a whoosh of air.

  "Dad, is this a restaurant?" Barb asked.

  "It's fast food Mexican-style," Dad said.

  Nothing looked fast about it, except the cars zipping past us, dangerously close.

  "I don't know, honey." Mom frowned. "We can eat at the hotel right after checking in. Why don't we wait?"

  "Nonsense. I want the authentic stuff," Dad said. "Paul and I always ate at these roadside stands. Great stuff. One time..."

  I couldn't believe it. We're about to be crushed by a speeding semi, and here he goes again, rambling about his road trip through Mexico with his archaeologist friend, Paul. He acts like it happened last year or something—but it was, like, last millennium.

  "Yeah, Dad. Um." I sucked in my breath as another truck flew past.

  "One of the best tacos I ever ate was at a stand just like this—near Paul's dig site."

  Mom shook her head and sighed.

 
The woman and boy swung in their hammock as if we weren't parked right there in front of them. Neither of them even looked at us. The clothes hanging on the line looked really old—like the kind of stuff we throw into the trash instead of giving to charity. A rickety-looking table held bowls of food, but where was the kitchen? I tried to peer into the dark door of the shack. Was that a real house? Or did they just work here? The taco carts at home looked so shiny and clean compared to this place—and I still wouldn't eat at them.

  "I'm not touching any of it," I said. "If I survive the ride to the hotel, I don't want to die from some freaky food-borne illness."

  "Let's just take a look," Dad said.

  We all got out of the car. I figured I'd be safer standing away from the crazy drivers on the road. The woman swung her legs out of the hammock, looking tired and not all that excited about having a customer.

  "Un taquito con frijoles," Dad said.

  Flies buzzed all over the food. I could practically see the germs clustered on their twitchy little feet. With a crusty wooden spoon, the woman scraped the scummy layer off a bowl of black beans before dumping a glob onto a paper plate. She placed a handful of greasy rolled tortillas next to the beans and added a spoonful of thin red salsa. As Dad handed her a few bills of Mexican money, I crinkled my nose at the strange spicy meat smell. What was it made of? I glanced around for a menu, like a real restaurant—even a fast-food place—would have. Nothing. I caught the thin boy watching me, and I turned away fast as a car full of normal-looking people drove past. In a normal-looking car. On their way to a real restaurant probably.

  "Gracias," Dad said, taking the plate from the woman. She nodded.

  The food looked completely contaminated, but my stomach still rumbled as Dad dunked his taquito in salsa and gulped it in one bite. He held out his plate for me to try some. No way. I was waiting for normal food like I ate at home. Thousands of miles away.

  "Mmm. Now, that is authentic," Dad said, crunching into another taquito. He ate three more.

  CHAPTER TWO