Read Online Carpe Diem by Autumn Cornwell - Free Book Online Page A

leather sandals.
    Toe rings.
    She returned her Polaroid camera to her oversize, woven-fabric-made-from-a-loom bag, then attempted to tousle my hair. But since it was wet and stuck to my head, the most she could do was squish it. “Hello, kiddo. So, whatcha think of Malaysia?”
    â€œGrandma Gerd?” Not quite what I pictured, but I’d recognize that bombastic voice anywhere.
    â€œThey said you were gifted.” She smiled and blinked rapidly several times. Then she turned away and pulled a large red bandanna out of her pants’ pocket and blew her nose. Thoroughly.
    After shoving her bandanna back in her pocket, she peered at my chin. “That’s a really big dimple you have there.”
    I covered my chin with my hand. I’m sensitive about it, even if Dad calls it “cute” and Mom says it gives my face a “piquant quality.” If I had to have a dimple, why couldn’t it be a cheek dimple like Mom’s?
    She leaned closer: “And that really is a fantastic stain.”
    Was the musty odor emanating from her sandalwood or patchouli? I never could tell the difference when I’d pass by the grungy musicians loitering in Pike Place Market.

    I smoothed my hair back into place, pried myself off the couch, and rolled my head to relieve the crick in my neck. She shook the Polaroid and watched my bewildered pasty face come into focus—along with the now infamous bilious stain. Her fingers were covered with silver rings and her wrists clinked with silver bracelets.
    She turned and I noticed:
    A silver nose stud.
    Denise, Amber, and Laurel would never believe that this apparition was my grandma—much less the person who was blackmailing my parents.
    â€œWhat are those?” she asked in an odd voice as she pointed to my beige walking shoes.
    â€œWhat?” I said, distracted by her nasal adornment. “Oh. They’re Spring-Zs. Instead of normal heels, they have special extra-large coiled springs that provide cushioning and support. Mom says they’re ideal for excess walking and varicose vein prevention.”
    She contorted her mouth, trying to hide a smile. What was so funny?
    â€œSo, did you have to wait long?”
    I made a show of consulting my PTP. “Four hours and eleven minutes.”
    â€œWhew, that’s a relief. Hungry?”
    I was surprised how painfully hungry I was. “Yes.”
    â€œThen follow me!”
    â€œWhat? We’re going out? Now? At ten p.m.?”

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    I followed Grandma Gerd down the uneven cement pavement past endless colonial architecture; many buildings had been painstakingly restored and painted bright colors. The upstairs were used as residences. Laundry hung over the balconies, the louvered windows and shutters closed for privacy. The downstairs were used as shops—everything from tailors to fortune-tellers.
    I was not only in a foreign country, but in a completely different world. Every sight, sound, and smell was unfamiliar. I felt muffled. Was it culture shock? Or just jet lag? And nothing had prepared me for all the stares. At 5 feet 10, Grandma Gerd and I towered over every Malaysian—woman or man—who jostled past us.
    We finally arrived at what Grandma Gerd called the “food stalls” for my first official meal in Malaysia. Kedais selling wooden sticks of chicken satay with peanut sauce. Pickled cucumber. Juice made out of papaya, pineapple, orange, and the aptly named star fruit. The hawkers poured the juice into plastic bags with straws for customers to take away.
    There was quite a crowd eating late—even kids.
    â€œMalaysia wakes up once the sun goes down. This place really gets hopping at two a.m.”
    I sure hoped she didn’t expect me to witness it firsthand.
    I followed Grandma Gerd over to a stall selling bowls of steaming curry mee (noodles) and she bought two bowls. I was about to say I’d prefer the Peking duck sold at a