Fool's Gold Read online

  © 2005 by Melody Carlson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without written permission from NavPress, P.O. Box 35001, Colorado Springs, CO 80935. www.navpress.com

  THINK Books is an imprint of NavPress. THINK is a registered trademark of NavPress. Absence of ® in connection with marks of NavPress or other parties does not indicate an absence of registration of those marks.

  ISBN 1-57683-534-0

  Cover design by studiogearbox.com

  Cover image by photos.com

  Creative Team: Gabe Filkey s.c.m., Arvid Wallen, Erin Healy, Kathy Mosier, Glynese Northam

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in association with the literary agency of Sara A. Fortenberry.

  Carlson, Melody.

  Fool’s gold : color me consumed / Melody Carlson.

  p. cm. -- (TrueColors ; 6)

  Summary: A daughter of missionaries from Papua New Guinea spends the

  summer in Los Angeles with her cousin and ends up in debt after getting

  caught up in the consumerism of wealthy surfer life.

  ISBN 1-57683-534-0

  [1. Credit cards--Fiction. 2. Surfing--Fiction 3. Cousins--Fiction. 4.

  Missionaries--Fiction. 5. Christian life--Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.C216637Foo 2005

  [Fic] — dc22

  2005004168

  Printed in Canada

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 09 08 07 06 05

  * * *

  FOR A FREE CATALOG OF

  NAVPRESS BOOKS & BIBLE STUDIES,

  CALL 1-800-366-7788 (USA)

  OR 1-800-839-4769 (CANADA)

  * * *

  Other Books by Melody Carlson

  Burnt Orange (NavPress)

  Pitch Black (NavPress)

  Torch Red (NavPress)

  Deep Green (NavPress)

  Dark Blue (NavPress)

  DIARY OF A TEENAGE GIRL series (Multnomah)

  DEGREES OF GUILT series (Tyndale)

  Crystal Lies (WaterBrook)

  Finding Alice (WaterBrook)

  Three Days (Baker)

  Contents

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  reader’s guide

  TrueColors Book 7:

  Blade Silver

  Coming in October 2005

  about the author

  one

  MY COUSIN VANESSA THINKS SHOPPING IS A COMPETITIVE SPORT. HONestly, this girl could go for gold if the Olympic committee ever figured out how physically demanding clothes shopping really is. I am so puffed that I think I might die at the mall this afternoon. And I’m a missionary kid (otherwise known as an MK) who can go on a walkabout for kilometers without whinging — well, not much anyway.

  But Vanessa is a force to be reckoned with today with her Gucci shoes and plastic Prada purse (loaded with her daddy’s plastic cards) as well as her accumulation of brightly colored shopping bags, which she steadily collects until she passes some off to me to lug for her. I finally realize that this girl is not about to give up until she finds the perfect T-shirt. And she seems to have something quite specific in mind because I’ve shown her dozens that I thought were adequate. But she is driven. In fact, she reminds me of that ridiculous bunny rabbit that used to be on telly commercials — the one for the batteries that just keep going and going and going. Vanessa is even wearing pink. Finally I tell my cousin I am wrecked and think I’ll grab a lemon squash in the food area until she finishes up.

  “A lemon what?” she asks.

  “You know, a fizzy drink, lolly water, soda pop, whatever you Yanks call it. I just need a break is all.”

  “You’re not tired, are you?” Her wide blue eyes look incredulous, almost as if she thinks I have a few kangaroos loose in the top paddock. Although I’m thinking the same thing about her.

  I nod. “Yeah, I reckon I am. Do you mind terribly?”

  She smiles. “I just love it when you say ‘reckon’ and ‘terribly’ and ‘fizzy drink.’ You sound like such a little Aussie.”

  As usual, that embarrasses me. Besides, we don’t even live in Australia — my parents are missionaries on the island of Papua New Guinea just north of there. “I can’t help how I talk, Vanessa,” I explain for about the twentieth time. “That’s how everyone talks at my school. The accent tends to rub off when all your mates are from Down Under. Trust me, my mum is always correcting my English.”

  “Well, I think it’s adorable, Hannah. But I can’t believe you’re flaking out on me already. The only reason I brought you along today was because I thought you could use a little — well, you know — help.” The way she says the word help, you’d think she’s offering me a kidney transplant or something. Then she glances at my outfit, taking in my faded logo T-shirt, baggy cargo pants with a hole in one knee, and ancient rubber thongs that were once purple but now look more like the color of old beets. “I mean, those clothes are okay for the jungle or working in the yard. But you don’t really want to go around LA looking like, well, like a missionary kid.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s like what I am, Vanessa.” I try not to show my pride at picking up this Yankee slang word like. It’s like they use it as a verb and an adverb and just about any other sort of word. It’s like this and like that. And I’ve like been trying to insert it here and there just so I’ll fit in better.

  “I know you’re a missionary kid,” she continues, “but you don’t have to go around advertising it. I mean, unless you want people to feel sorry for you, and you plan to pass the cup around like your parents do when they go to churches to raise their mission money.”

  Well, I don’t let it show, but that last comment stung a bit. Oh, I realize that it probably seems odd to someone like Vanessa that my parents go on furlough every six years to raise support funds. But it’s not as if we enjoy this six-month ordeal of tripping about the States begging for money so that my parents can return to the mission field for six more years of hard work and precious little appreciation while I get stuck back in a kids’ group home and the mission school. It’s not as if we’re over here having a great big party. It was a low blow for Vanessa to say that about my parents.

  But then I guess she can’t help it. She takes after her mum. And it was actually her mum’s suggestion that Vanessa take me shopping today. I reckon Aunt Lori’s embarrassed to have me seen at their house while my parents are traveling about the States. My dad told me that Aunt Lori was the original “material girl” and that Madonna only came up with that song after meeting her. Of course, he says this with no malice. But it’s not exactly a lie either. Well, except for the Madonna part, since I’m fairly sure Aunt Lori has never actually met the pop star. But certainly, no one can deny that Aunt Lori enjoys being rich.

  I’ve also heard that my dad’s brother, Uncle Ron, never would’ve gotten so wealthy without his wife’s constant “encouragement.” (My mum actually says “nagging” when she doesn’t know I’m listening.) Mum also said once that Aunt Lori used to be one of those women with “champagne taste on a beer budget.” But it looks like she can have all the champagne she wants now.

&nbs
p; To say I was pretty shocked when I saw how drastically things have changed for my relatives is quite an understatement. The last time we were in the States, back when Vanessa and I were about eleven, they still lived in a regular three-bedroom house in a regular neighborhood. Oh, her dad’s business was doing well and growing, no doubt about that. But they were by no means wealthy, and Vanessa was just a regular girl back then — not all that different from me. Other than the accent. And the two of us had such an ace time together just doing regular things like riding bikes and watching Disney videos and stuff.

  But now it seems that everything’s changed. Uncle Ron’s custodial business has been wildly successful, and as a result they now live in this enormous house in a very posh neighborhood and have an inground pool, which I’ve rather enjoyed this past week, as well as all sorts of other amenities. We’re talking lifestyles of the rich and famous here. Well, perhaps only rich, since Johnson’s Janitorial Services may be well-known but is probably not considered famous — at least not by Hollywood standards. And from what I can see, Hollywood standards seem to rule in my cousin’s household. Well, at least with Vanessa and Aunt Lori. Uncle Ron still appears to have both feet planted on terra firma.

  “Looks like you’ll be pretty comfortable this summer, Hannah,” my dad observed when we first arrived at their amazing home last week. “Talk about landing in the lap of luxury.”

  “Are you sure this is the right address?” My mum peered up at the mustard-colored stucco mansion in front of us.

  “This is it,” said Dad as he pulled up in our furlough car (an old blue Taurus station wagon with a dent in the right front fender). The circular driveway was lined with pruned shrubs and made entirely of bricks.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t park our car here,” said Mum. “It looks so out of place.”

  “Do you want me to park it out on the street, Brenda?” My dad’s voice was getting slightly irritated.

  Mum laughed nervously. “No, I guess not.”

  Then Dad reached over and patted her hand. “Don’t worry about it, honey. They’re still just Ron and Lori. And they still put their pants on one leg at a time.”

  “But their pants probably cost an arm and a leg now.”

  As it turns out, Mum was close. Because I kid you not, I actually witnessed Vanessa purchasing a pair of jeans that cost nearly $300 today — $300! I could not believe it. How can a pair of blue jeans be worth that much?

  “Why are they so expensive?” I whispered, not wanting to look like a complete bumpkin, as the sales clerk wrapped the precious blue jeans in lavender-colored tissue paper and then slipped them into a sleek bag with ribbon handles.

  “They’re Armani.” As if that explained everything. “And besides, they’re on sale.”

  Armani. That must be like Gucci and Prada, the other two designer names that I’ve learned this past week. Now I can only wonder what that pink plastic Prada purse must’ve set her back. And I happen to think it’s pretty ugly.

  So as I sit here in the food court, drinking my lemon squash (known as a Sprite here) and people watching, I begin to notice that (a) most of the shoppers are teenage girls or young women; (b) they wear clothes very similar to Vanessa’s; (c) for the most part, they carry bags from the same stores that Vanessa has been in; and (d) I most definitely do not fit in. In fact, I’m sure I look like someone not only from a different country but probably from an entirely different planet. The funny thing is that all my mates back in PNG dress like I’m dressed, and we were all under the impression that the “grunge look” was still in vogue. But I guess we are behind the times.

  After a while I notice this security guard watching me with what I’m sure is suspicion. My guess is that this cop figures I don’t belong here either, and he probably thinks I look dodgey, like I’m planning a great heist. So I just smile at him and wave. He quickly looks away, then says something into the walkie-talkie thing pinned to his chest.

  Finally Vanessa comes back, looking over the moon, and shows me her “prize.” She pulls out a pale blue T-shirt that is so thin you can actually see right through it and says, “I can’t believe I found it!”

  I touch the flimsy fabric. “But won’t your bra show through, Vanessa?”

  She laughs. “That’s the whole point.”

  “You want the guys to be perving at your bra?”

  “I’ll make sure to wear a very cool bra with it, Hannah. Don’t get all freaked. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

  I try not to look too stunned, but then I see the price tag and nearly fall off my chair. “You paid $190 for this?”

  She smiles with what I would describe as a placating smile (the kind you reserve for small children or dimwits), and then she gently slips the shirt back into the bag. “It’s a Prada. The latest design and the only one left in the store. My friend Elisa is going to be totally jealous.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she wanted one just like it, and now I’ve gotten the last one.”

  “I’d think your mate would be totally relieved. You just saved her nearly $200 on a shirt that can’t possibly be worth five bucks.”

  Vanessa laughs. “You just don’t get it, Hannah. But wait until you see this top on me with my new jeans. Then you might start to understand fashion.”

  Just then her cell phone rings, doing its little tinkling musical thing, and suddenly Vanessa is chatting away with one of her mates — Elisa Rodriguez, it turns out — going on and on about how she “searched absolutely everywhere” until she finally found the “perfect Prada T-shirt” and how “hot” she’s going to look in it at the party tomorrow night. Yeah, yeah.

  I walk over to the bin and dump my paper cup, pausing to look at that cop who is still eyeing me. Once again, I smile and wave at him, and to my surprise, he actually smiles back this time. I want to walk over, say hello, and ask him what he thinks about all these silly girls spending thousands — no, make that millions and probably billions — of dollars on strange names like Prada and Gucci and Armani. Does he, like me, think it is perfectly ridiculous? Probably not since this overpriced, designer-driven mall is paying his salary. Alright, sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. Why don’t I get it? Will I ever really fit in here?

  So as I sit here half-listening to Vanessa earbashing Elisa, I start to daydream. I remember this old fairy tale called The Emperor’s New Clothes that I had enjoyed as a child. Only, in my mind, I now change it to The Empress’ New Clothes, starring Vanessa Johnson. In my version, my cousin insists that she will wear only the best and most expensive garments in the design industry. “That does not cost enough!” she screams at one of the lesser designers. Finally a designer comes up and says that his outfit will cost one million dollars and will be the most expensive clothing ever made. (Okay, maybe one million is too cheap.) So Empress Vanessa waits for a week and the designer returns with his amazing outfit. But when he opens the gold-plated box with layers of tissue, it is empty. “Where are my clothes?” demands Vanessa. He smiles and says, “Right here, Empress. But you must understand that I have used the finest fibers known to mankind. The threads are so delicate that only those who truly know and appreciate exquisite design can see them.” Then, of course, Vanessa nods, pretending she can see the nonexistent clothing. “Go ahead,” she tells him. “Help me put them on.” And after Vanessa dons her million-dollar outfit, she parades all over Beverly Hills in nothing but her underwear, and everyone who sees her simply laughs and —

  “Hannah?”

  I look up to see Vanessa standing over me, looking impatient and perhaps a bit weary, although fully clothed. “What?” I ask sleepily. “I said, are you ready to go home?”

  The next thing I know, we are driving down the road, and despite all my criticisms of my cousin’s lavish lifestyle and expensive taste, I find that I’m enjoying her Yank tank, which is actually this gorgeous silver convertible. It’s a Ford Thunderbird that she says is “retro,” whatever that’s supposed to mean. But I
reckon it’s the most luxurious car I’ve ever been in. I’m leaning back into the soft leather seat as the breeze tosses my hair, and for a brief moment I imagine what it might feel like to be rich and carefree like my cousin.

  But then I look down and notice the hole in the knee of my worn-out cargo pants, and I realize that I am still just Hannah Johnson, the MK misfit from the other side of the world. And, I admit, I think I am feeling just the slightest bit jealous.

  two

  VANESSA MAY HAVE HER FAULTS, BUT STINGINESS IS NOT ONE OF THEM. On our shopping trip she tried to get me to buy things with her dad’s credit card. And I was actually tempted by a pair of jeans, until I saw the price tag. Then I knew I couldn’t in good conscience spend my hardworking uncle’s cash so frivolously. And so I declined. But when we get back to Vanessa’s house, I almost wish I’d bought them.

  “So what did you get, Hannah?” asks Aunt Lori as soon as we’re inside. I’m helping Vanessa carry her bags, and I reckon my aunt assumes that some of these purchases are mine.

  “I didn’t see anything I couldn’t live without.” I set the bags on the end of the enormous granite brek-kie bar.

  “I couldn’t talk her into anything,” says Vanessa as she piles her purse and bags alongside the others.

  Aunt Lori frowns. “What are we going to do with you, Hannah?”

  I look out the big bay window, longing to escape this conversation by plunging myself into the cool depths of that beautiful pool. Instead, I turn to my aunt and say, “I don’t know, what would you like to do with me?”

  This makes her laugh. Then she reaches over and playfully tugs a strand of my long hair. “Well, if you weren’t so tall and thin, I’d make you borrow some clothes from Vanessa or even me.” Then she seems to study me. “You’re an attractive girl, Hannah, but you really need some fashion direction. If you want to survive a summer with Vanessa and her friends, that is.” She glances over at Vanessa, who is frowning. “Don’t you think?”