Seven

“Oh, how wonderful!” Mom claps her hands in delight. She points up. “Would you look at that! Do you think that’s the biggest chandelier in Mexico?”

“We should ask,” Dad says as he scribbles something in his planner. Ask about chandelier, or maybe slip something in Lisa’s drink tonight. Who knows?

Noah bounces up and down. “Where’s the pool? Where’s the pool?” he screeches, his voice getting higher and higher every time.

“Room 514 everyone! Remember it; it’s going to be our home for the next seven days!” Mom exclaims as we cram into the elevator with all of our luggage.

Noah giggles as he presses all the buttons. Mom doesn’t even do anything about this—it’s to be expected. So after we stop at the second floor, the third floor, and the fourth floor, we finally make it to the fifth floor with a crisp ding!

Noah takes off down the hall, still screaming, “Where’s the pool?” He trips about every ten feet, but he gets right back up and keeps going.

Dad goes the opposite direction Noah went, saying, “Five-fourteen, this way!” No doubt he wrote 514 somewhere in his planner on the way up.

I glance back at Noah, shrug, then follow my parents to our room.

I’ve stayed in many hotel rooms in my life but they all pale in comparison to room 514. Cream colored walls with beautiful masterpieces hanging at perfect right angles, plush carpet that feels like heaven, the softest duvet I’ve ever felt, two minifridges, plasma screen TV, surround sound, remote activated curtains. I’ve never seen anything like it and I almost don’t want to ruin its perfect-ness by living in it for a week.

Noah runs past me and slides onto the bed on his stomach. He was going a little too fast, and the duvet is a little too soft, so he slides right off and lands on the floor with an “oomph!” But that doesn’t stop him. He jumps back up, toothy grin plastered on his face, eyes wide with excitement.

“Noah. Chill,” I say and shift my gaze to the view out the window. It overlooks the ocean, so blue and pure I could look at it for hours, and of course, the pool, so huge I don’t know why they even need the ocean. Noah follows my gaze and runs toward the window, pressing he face against the glass and fogging it up with his breath.

“Pool!”

Mom chuckles at him, like he’s cute, and plops down on the bed.

“Mom! Did you see the pool?”

“Yes, honey, it’s very nice,” she says, her voice muffled by the pillow.

“Can we go down there, Mom? Can we?” he asks, face still pressed against the window.

“Maybe later, honey. Let’s just rest right now, okay?”

“No!” Noah sounds devastated. “I want to go now!”

Mom obviously doesn’t care because she waves it off, saying, “Dave?”

Dad sets down his planner and looks at me. “Vi, why don’t you take Noah to see the pool for a while?”

Before I can protest, Noah screams, “Yeah! Come on, Violet! The pool!”

“No,” I say flatly. I'm tired and I don't want to deal with Noah's incessant, excessive self, especially around water and people.

“Violet,” Mom warns in her I-am-your-mother-and-you-will-do-as-I-say voice.

I sigh, which everyone knows means I’ve caved. So while Noah changes in the tiny closet with the ironing board, I decide which swimsuit I want to wear. I go with a plain black one to start with. I bought seven new swimsuits, one for each day in Mexico, since all I’ll be doing is swimming or tanning because I refuse to go on little family escapades which always either put me to sleep, give me a headache, or almost kill me. Vacations are not for learning. Vacations are for having fun.