*1*
Journey's Beginning

“No. No, no, and no.”

Chelsea Scott was sitting in the middle of the room, her arms crossed, her brow puckered, and her chin tilted slightly upward defiantly.

“Oh, come on, Chels,” begged her sister. Her full name was Aurelia Catalina Scott, but everyone called her Catalina or Cat. Her three-year-old cousin, Mariane, was the only one who used her first name. She called her “Aury.”

Catalina had been trying to get her sister to take a bath for a long time now, and there was still no luck. Six-year-old Chelsea could be extremely stubborn, and she had made up her mind not to move for her sister or for anyone else.

“No,” Chelsea replied stubbornly. “I won’t. You can’t make me.”

Catalina cleared her throat. “Um, well now...”

Chelsea glared at her older sister with a superior air. “You can’t make me. You can’t! And I’m never, ever, ever going to take another bath - or another shower - or another - anything! - ever, ever, ever again!” she declared with six-year-old certainty.

Catalina knew what to do. She scooped her up, ignoring her sister’s vigorous protests, and hauled her up the stairs. “Now, missy,” she scolded as she peeled off her shirt, “you’re going to have to take a shower again sometime if you ever want any boys to notice you.”

Chelsea made a face. “Ew, gross! Who wants boys to notice them, after all?”

Catalina laughed. “You’ll think differently someday, kiddo. Okay, socks.” Chelsea’s feet were planted firmly on the ground, and she wasn't moving them, either. “Feet,” Catalina prompted, and grabbed her again by the sides, as if to lift her up once more. Reluctantly, Chelsea lifted up one foot, then the other, casting wounded glances at the top of her sister’s head.

“Ups-a-daisy!” Catalina said, plunking Chelsea into the tub. “You get washed up, and I’ll read, okay? Just like always.”

Chelsea sniffed, trying to sound hurt. (And, one might add, failing miserably, though Catalina never said a word.) “What are you going to read to me this time?”

“What do you want me to read?”

“Read something fun,” Chelsea said. “Don’t read all that mushy love crap you - ”

“Chelsea Anne Scott, I don’t ever want to hear that word come out of your mouth again, do you understand?”

“Mommy says it all the time, and Daddy says worse,” Chelsea retorted.

“Yes, well that’s Mom and Dad, and you aren’t going to talk like them. That’s terrible language, and I won’t have it coming from you.”

Chelsea pouted. “But - ”

“No ifs, ands, or buts,” Catalina snapped, shaken by the word, mild though it was, coming from her little sister’s mouth. What was society coming to? Sure, she said it often enough herself, but, from her kid sister, it sounded awful. “Just don’t say that word again. All right?”

“All right,” Chelsea mumbled.

“What was that?”

“I said, all right!” she yelled, louder this time.

Catalina finally let off the pressure. “So,” she said, as if nothing had happened, “what do you want me to read to you now?”

“I don’t know,” Chelsea said. She smacked the water, close to the edge so she’d be sure to get Catalina wet. She glared at her and stuck out her lower lip.

Catalina looked up sharply. “What is with you today, Chelsea?” she demanded. “What’s up?” She shook her head. “Why do I bother asking? It’s always the same solution - you need a nap.”

At the sound of the last word, Chelsea started shrieking. “No! No, I won’t take a nap! I won’t take a nap! Naps are for babies! I’m not a baby, I’m not! I’m not! I’m not! I’m not!”

Catalina grimaced. “You’re not doing a very good job of proving that to anybody,” she said as she handed Chelsea the soap and a washcloth. “Wash up, Chels. Party starts at six.”

That night, their father, an extremely wealthy man who worked for HyperTech, a well-known computer company, was having a party for some of the more prominent members of the company for making some new deal. Catalina barely paid any attention to her father’s work problems. All of the figures and the this offer and that offer and this person and that person was enough to make her head spin.

After the Great Bath Adventure, there was the even bigger expedition known as Getting Chelsea Dressed.

Chelsea was always eager to get into what she called “dress-up clothes,” but she wanted to dress like a fancy lady with high heels, makeup, and a good many things that were unsuitable for a girl of her age to have. Normally, Chelsea would not even attend the party; she’d be sent to a relative’s for the evening, but Mr. Scott had decided that it might look better if it seemed less formal, where families could come and not feel out of place. Needless to say, no one had decided to bring their children along to the party.

“I want some of that stuff you’re putting on now,” Chelsea whined as she watched Catalina apply a touch of lipstick, then lip gloss.

“Not tonight, Chelsea,” Catalina said wearily. Her sister was about to drive her crazy. “You can wear this on the weekends and after school.”

Chelsea stuck her tongue out. “I want to wear it now,” she insisted.

How did I get such a brat for a sister? Catalina wondered. “No, Chelsea, and that’s final. No lipstick. Besides, you get to wear your pretty dress-up dress tonight, remember?”

Chelsea pouted and complained, “It’s not the same.”

Catalina sighed. “Well, it’ll have to do, because you’re not getting another dress. Now, come on. The party’s going to start in half an hour, and Mom and Dad are going to be mad if we’re late.”

She headed downstairs with Chelsea in tow, still pouting about the dress. Catalina hissed to her before they made their entrance into the living room, where their parents were waiting, “Wipe that look off of your face right this instant. If you ruin this for Dad tonight, you’re really going to be in for it. So, unless you want a seriously long lecture tomorrow, I suggest you stop pouting like a brat and act nice.”

Which only made Chelsea scowl more.

Sighing again, Catalina knocked lightly and walked into the room. Mr. Scott rose and hugged Catalina warmly. With her parents, her father favored her more, while her mother seemed to take to Chelsea.

“Hello, sweetheart, how was your day?” asked Mr. Scott, as he sat down next to her, his arm still draped around her shoulders.

Catalina smiled. “It was fine.”

He smiled at her mischievously. Despite the fact that he was an all-important businessman, he still managed to be surprisingly lighthearted and playful, even adolescent at times.

“No new beaus, eh?” he said, nudging her in the ribs lightly. “Hm, have you been through ‘em all already this year?”

Catalina laughed. “Of course not, Dad! I haven’t had a boyfriend since Jake and I broke up two months ago.”

“Don’t you think it’s about time?” he said, his eyebrows rising. His expression was so comical that Catalina couldn’t help but collapse into helpless peals of laughter on the couch. She held her side in agony while tears streamed down her face.

“My, my, if I’d known I would make you laugh this hard...” He got up and crossed the room to pluck a Kleenex out of a box that was sitting in the bathroom nearby. “Now, you don’t want to ruin your makeup, you’ve done such a lovely job of applying it.”

Slowly, Catailna calmed herself, and she wiped her eyes carefully. Her mascara was slightly smeared, and her mother clicked her tongue in mock disapproval.

“Now, see what you’ve done, young lady,” she scolded, her expression reproving - all but her eyes, which twinkled with good cheer and laughter. “You’ve mussed up your makeup, and we’ll have to wait another hour while you fuss with this and redo that. Go on, then,” she said after Catalina looked slightly surprised. She grinned to let her daughter know she was only kidding. “The sooner you go, the sooner you can get back.”

Catalina grinned and hurried upstairs. In the bathroom, she carefully touched up her makeup, only slightly smeared by her tears. As she finished, she regarded her reflection critically in the mirror.

She had never considered herself “pretty.” She had dirty-blonde hair - “dishwater blonde,” her mother called it - and plain brown eyes. They were pretty, yes, in shape and color, but not stunning or eye-catching. She didn’t have the shocking blue eyes that drew boys’ attentions, nor did she have the pale blonde hair that glinted in the sunlight like gold. Her figure was slim, something she had never much cared about, but sometimes she almost thought herself too slender. She had long limbs, which she herself detested. She didn’t like being all arms and legs, and was worried that guys would think that she looked geeky walking around on these long, awkward legs and swinging her long arms around.

But, the truth was, neither thing was really true. She did not, as she believed, “stumble around gawkily on two stilts.” She was actually rather graceful. Her arms were long, but she did not swing them about any which way. They served, more often, to express her feelings more vigorously, and she naturally gestured a good deal when she talked.

“Hey, Kitty!” called Mr. Scott (Kitty being one of his nicknames for Catalina), “you comin’ down in the next century?”

Catalina laughed. “Coming, Dad,” she called, grateful for his good cheer. After an afternoon of terror with Chelsea, she needed it.

Mr. Scott liked to call his favorite daughter lots of names; Kitty was one of his favorites. Since some people called her Cat, he’d started making up silly names, like Kitten and Kitty Cat - usually just Kitty. Sometimes he liked to call out “Heeere, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty,” as if he were talking to a real cat, just because it made her laugh.

Back downstairs, Catalina plopped into a comfortably padded leather chair. “Is this party going to have any real music?” she asked him, pouting good-naturedly at him. “If I have to listen to another Beethoven symphony, I’m going to go down to Erica’s where it’s fun!”

Mr. Scott laughed. “I don’t play that much Beethoven, honey,” he said. “It’s usually Bach.”

Catalina rolled her eyes. “Beethoven, Bach, same difference. They’re both some dead guys who wrote music.”

“Now, now,” scolded her mother mildly. “Think about what you say first.”

Catalina shrugged. “Yeah? I’m thinking...I’m thinking that...that this party is in serious need of some rock ‘n roll, and none of this put-you-to-sleep music.”

Mrs. Scott merely smiled. “You might come to appreciate that music someday, dear.”

“Mommy,” Chelsea cut in. She obviously felt she was not being paid her due amount of attention. “Mommy, when is everyone going to be here?”

“They should be getting here any minute, dear,” said Mrs. Scott, smiling at her litlte daughter. “You just come sit on Mommy’s lap and I’ll tell you a story.”

“Will it be about horses?” asked Chelsea, her eyes wide with interest. Chelsea loved horses, and she had once declared, when she was four, that she wanted to grow up and be a cowgirl so she could ride around on her horse all the time.

“But how would you dress like a fancy lady then?” asked Catalina, then sixteen. “You’d have to wear leather boots and jeans and worn shirts so your good clothes wouldn’t get dirty when you rode. Wouldn’t you rather be someone who could wear fancy clothes and ride?”

Chelsea had thought a moment. “Yes,” she said. “I think I’d like to be a rich lady, and I’d go ride around every day with a hot pink umbrella.” Hot pink was Chelsea’s favorite color.

“Yes, about horses,” Mrs. Scott said. “What would you like the horse to look like?”

“Make her hot pink,” Chelsea said, and everyone else in the room laughed.

“All right. Hot pink it is.” She began to tell Chelsea a story about a hot pink horse who loved strawberries, which gave the horse her odd coloring.

Halfway through, the doorbell rang and Mr. and Mrs. Terrick came in. There was a gust of cold air as they entered, the cold December air following them in.

“Oh, how are you doing, my dear?” cried Mrs. Terrick excitedly. She was a rather flighty young woman, with strawberry blonde curls and large, clear gray eyes. She fluttered about like a bird in spring, and she never seemed to care much for the more serious aspects of life.

“Quite well, thank you. And you?” Catalina knew her mother had never really approved of Mrs. Terrick’s manner, but she tolerated her because, though she would never admit it, she was rather amused by the woman in general.

Catalina smiled politely and shook hands as more and more people arrived, though she knew only about half of those that came. She hadn’t been able to talk her father out of the classical music, and now the sounds of it floated softly through the house, quite in contrast to the loud, noisy, exuberant greetings which were taking place in the entryway. However, Mr. Scott had decided to humor his daughter, and Beethoven began the night.

The house slowly began to fill up, and Catalina found some acquaintances to chat with, but no one whom she felt particularly close to showed up. She had really been hoping that Hayley Daniels, the daughter of one of her father’s favorite employees, would be there, but so far, there was no sign of her dark-headed friend.

Hayley seemed, to Catalina, her exact opposite. She had large blue eyes framed by thick lashes, and her hair was not some ugly dingy blonde, but a glorious dark brown, falling in waves down her back, where it stopped at her waist. Catalina’s hair was cut to just a few inches above her shoulders, layered, and turned under.

After the party (Hayley and her parents had shown up at last), Catalina collapsed onto her bed upstairs and immediately began to change into a T-shirt and boxers, which she slept in. Chelsea had gone to bed at about nine-thirty, after an hour or so of insisting crankily that she wasn’t tired.

“Hey,” said a voice outside her door. “Cat, can I come in?”

“Hold on a sec,” Catalina said. She quickly pulled her T-shirt completely down, then said, “Okay, come on in.”

“Hi,” said Mr. Scott, as he smiled down at his daughter. “Tired?”

She flopped onto her bed dramatically. “No kidding,” she said. “I thought I was going to fall asleep right there when Mrs. Dennenweiler said goodbye to us - it must have taken her at least fifteen minutes just to get her group together, and then another fifteen to say goodbye a million and one times.”

Mr. Scott laughed. Then he turned serious again. “You know, I’ve been thinking about taking some vacation time for a while. What would you think to a vacation to some exotic place? You name it.”

“France.”

Mr. Scott laughed. “Wouldn’t you rather go somewhere where you could get a tan? What about Jamaica or Hawaii?”

“Bora Bora!” she cried, laughing.

Mr. Scott laughed right along with his daughter. When she was younger, she’d never believed that Bora Bora was a real place, and it was not until she was about ten that she had finally found out the truth.

“But seriously, what about a relaxing vacation somewhere?”

Catalina grinned happily, her brown eyes alight. “That sounds great! I’ve always wanted to go to Jamaica.”

Her father smiled. “Great. Your mother says she thinks she’s got some time off from the office.” Catalina’s mother was a secretary for a doctor in town. “School gets out in a couple of weeks. Do you want to take anybody with you?”

“Erica,” Catalina said immediatley. Erica Larsley was her best friend, and the two never went anywhere without the other, if it could be helped.

Erica was short, only about five foot, with light auburn hair that glowed golden in the sunlight. Her eyes, a shining mix of aqua and gray, were curious and mischievous, and she had a sense of adventure that Catalina loved.

“Sure,” Mr. Scott said. “We’ll have to talk to the Larsleys, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Chelsea wants to bring along Danielle Shickel - you know, her new friend from school.”

Catalina moaned. Danielle was nice, no denying it, but she was always so active and energetic, and she was constantly into something she shouldn’t be. Her last visit, she’d run about the house, getting into Mrs. Scott’s makeup and opening up some of the presents Catalina had bought for Erica’s eighteenth birthday. They’d kept the ones she’d opened and gone out to buy new ones. The thing the two girls had always loved most was sharing the same birthday, December 11th. Now, her birthday was just a few days away, and Catalina was excited. She knew her father would see that she had an amazing birthday.

“So, it’s Jamaica, then?” he said. Catalina nodded.

“Did you talk to Chelsea yet?” she asked. “I know she’ll want to put her two cents’ worth into it.”

Mr. Scott laughed at the expression, sounding so strange coming from his “modern” daughter. “She says she just wants to go somewhere with horses.”

Catalina cocked her head. “But Jamaica isn’t known for horses,” she said.

Mr. Scott grinned. “Yes, I know. I told her that. Then I said that they’d have lots of hot pink beads to braid her hair with.”

Catalina grinned back. “So of course she’s going now.”

“Ah, mais oui, mademoiselle,” her father answered.

Catalina responded with some French of her own. Besides taking it in school, her father was fluent in it, since he traveled there often and had himself learned it as a boy. “Bonne nuit, monsieur.” More often than not, when they spoke in French, they addressed each other politely, making as if they were not father and daughter, but mere acquaintances, passing the time. “Bonne nuit” is French for “good night.”

“Bonne nuit, ma cherie,” he replied softly. Translated, it means “Good night, my dear.” Since it rhymed, it was a chant he would use when he tucked her in when she was younger. Now, he said it when he came to say good night to her - she no longer needed tucking in, of course, at nearly eighteen years of age.

“Tomorrow,” he promised, “we’ll hold a family meeting, and we can discuss the trip in further detail, all right?”

“All right.”

“Good night, Puss,” he said one last time.

“Good night,” Catalina replied. As her father turned to go, she thought of something. “And, Dad?”

“Hm?” He turned around, a dark silhouette in the doorway.

“Don’t call me Puss.”