Free Perfectly Ridiculous by Kristin Billerbeck Page B

good night’s sleep and be in the main house promptly at seven for breakfast. Daisy, gather your things and meet me in the house.”
    â€œRight away, ma’am.”
    With all the grace of a typhoon, Libby exits the classroom, and the space feels calmer.
    â€œI’ve seen Libby’s type before,” J.C. says. “Just do as she says and stay out of her way. If you stay under the radar, she’ll sign off on your mission. Don’t take anything she says personally, or she’s won.”
    I nod. “What choice do we have? I won’t have time to fulfill another mission requirement before school starts.”
    â€œThat’s just the kind of power her sort thrives on,” J.C. said. “Don’t be afraid of her. She can sense fear.”
    â€œWhy do I feel like I’m embarking on a combat mission?”
    â€œBecause you are, Daisy.” J.C. salutes me and I crumble into a giggle. “Private J.C. Wiggs reporting for duty, sir!”
    I salute back. “We’re going to make the best of this.”
    â€œDarn straight we are.”
    I leave the classroom with a smile and just a tad more dignity.

 6 
    â€œDaisy, isn’t that bed made yet?” Libby shouts at me, and my body instinctively straightens.
    â€œIt’s made,” I say, because let’s face it, she scares me. She’d scare a pit bull. And though my body was weak from travel fatigue at six o’clock, I instinctively popped up out of my cot and rolled my sleeping bag like I was in boot camp. It makes me wish I possessed more of Claire’s boldness in life.
    I climb down the ladder from the loft that served as my bedroom for the night. My stomach clenches at the sight of Libby, who I’m sure is a lovely person and accomplishes much in the third world, but that doesn’t make her my BFF.
    Inside her house, the walls are whitewashed and the few furnishings are sparse, don’t match, and are all arranged in a particular order that brings a rustic, homey quality to the room. On either side of the rectangular room there is a loft in each corner, both of which are no more than wooden landings with room enough for beds. There is no privacy in the house, and I wonder what it’s like to have people come in and out for ministry—it reminds me of Little House on the Prairie . The lofts are reached by rickety, bamboo-like ladders. I’m certain it’s not bamboo, but it hardly matters, and like J.C. says, I want to stay under the radar, so I don’t ask. Something tells me Libby doesn’t want to offer decorating advice anyway.
    My particular loft will sleep two, though there’s only one cot, and the other loft is Libby’s bedroom and has an old cotton mattress of sorts, piled with blankets. I “made my bed” by rolling it back into a ball and hiding it under my cot.
    Libby calls down to me from her cot again. “Daisy, I’ve got water on the stove, so would you add the oatmeal to it once it comes to a full boil? Add a little sugar too, or it never seems to get sweet enough, and you kids use a week’s supply.”
    I pad over to the stove on the cool cement floor and see that the water is already boiling. The cardboard tube of oats is right beside the stove. It’s got the Quaker on it and everything, but reads avena tradicional instead of whatever it reads in America. I open the container and realize I have no idea how much to add, but the idea of being snapped at for being useless keeps me quiet. I assume Libby will find the fact that I can’t make oatmeal another character flaw on my parents’ part, so I just pour in the oats and pray for the best.
    â€œDaisy!” Libby shouts.
    I look up and her ghostly face peers down at me. There’s something distant in the way she looks right through me. There’s rejection, certainly, but there’s something missing inside of Libby Bramer, and it feels impossible to really