At the present time they are arguing, something they do almost as frequently as kissing, both equally annoying. You see, I'm the end result of some romance novel gone wrong, the offspring of a couple globe-trotting explorers who never once considered raising me in what my grandma called a stable lifestyle. That might be plain unlucky on my part, but I guess I'm used to it. The problem is that occasionally, I, sixteen-year-old Jenna Masters, am forced to be the voice of reason in this family.

Like right now, for example.

One glance at our Brazilian river guides and I could practically touch their anxiety. They were staring at my parents like they confounded every reasonable law known to the people of the Amazon. Which, of course, they did. But that was neither here nor there. We needed to get our party of five on the river if we were going to make first camp before dark. Night fell quickly in the South American jungle, which I admit is not an average thing for a teenager to know, but my life has rarely been shopping malls and high school proms. No matter how hard me or my grandma wished otherwise.

Still, I had a bigger problem than wayward parents gone loco. Gathering clouds hid most of the equatorial sun and its blazing heat, something I was beyond grateful for, yet a single beam of golden light escaped the darkening clouds and shot directly onto a large crate of ladies cosmetics that Mom insisted on bringing.

The effect was somewhat eerie. The box seemed to glow and the painted logo went 3D, standing out in freaky clarity and pushing our superstitious guides over the edge of reason. If I didn't do something, we'd never finish loading our river taxi and get moving.   

With a heavy sigh I climbed down off my perch of supply crates and tightly rolled hammocks and headed over to play referee.

I pointed to the long-haired lady's face that glowed in living color across the offending crate. "They don't like the drawing, Mom. They probably think its bad luck and don't want it onboard the Ellioso."

"I'm not caving to ridiculous superstition." Mom meant business because her arms were crossed and her size seven hikers were tapping in irritation against the well-trodden dock.

"You've been arguing with them for twenty minutes," I needlessly pointed out. "Leave the box of foo-foo stuff. Women of the jungle don't care about creams and laces. The important cargo is the doctor and his medical volunteer."

A very tall and very cute volunteer and for the first time ever I actually looked forward to chugging upstream to nowhere.

"Jenna Evangaline Masters," my mother said with a sharpness that signaled a full-blown lecture in the making. "You've enjoyed a privileged life. Those women work from dawn to dusk and deserve something special in their harsh lives."

Well that hit a little hard.

"You've seen their faces the first time they smell a rose-scented lotion," she continued with a determined finger jabbing my direction. "We take it for granted, but to them it's something precious. I'm not leaving it behind."

Her stubborn tone was all too familiar. Mom intended to win this fight. 

"It's only a small riverboat, Beth," my dad still argued. "Space is limited. They need medicines more than feel-good products."  

That was certainly true, but I had to admit that Mom scored a point. I eyed the bulky crate sitting by itself on the wooden dock. The poor thing wasn't even allowed to stack with the other necessities, an outcast in their Wild Botany Tour.

I couldn't say if my world was privileged or not, but my girlie heart did love a nice smelling lotion. And come to think of it, foo-foo ranked high on the importance meter when the only available bathwater on this trip came from the murky Amazon River. Double that since Scott Henley, a totally hot eighteen-year-old medical volunteer, would be slinging his hammock within smelling distance of mine.

Yep, I was rounding into mom's camp on this one.

"How about we take the contents out and leave the crate on the dock?" I asked Dad, hoping he'd put his camera down long enough to translate. His Portuguese was way better than mine, even after five trips into Brazil.

 "Esvazie a caixa em uma outra caixa?" Dad asked and I prayed the guides would agree with the logic. 

       Captain Jorge, a hardened man with leather for skin, started shaking his head and rapidly sounding off in denial. My hopes plummeted as I picked up words that meant either cursed or doomed. Neither one sounded too logical.

What was the Portuguese word for crazy? Iouco. Honestly, there's not a single horror flick I know of that used rose-scented lotion as the conduit for a curse.

Things were rapidly deteriorating. The no-nonsense doctor had a disgusted looking frown, tall and shaggy-haired Scott Henley looked lost, and Captain Jorge stared at the painted box like it housed a demon of the underworld.

And heaven help us, Mom and Dad were back to arguing again. We weren't going to get anywhere at this rate.

Out of desperation I did the only logical thing left to do. I marched over to a bundle of farm implements waiting to be loaded, grabbed a sturdy hoe and zeroed in on the crate.

Fueled by determination I jammed that hoe under the lid and pried the cursed box wide open. Such daring action drew everyone's attention and when the wooden lid flipped over onto the dock with a meaty thud one of the river guides, I think it was Paulo, actually gasped and crossed himself against the evil lurking in the box.

I nearly snorted. 

Instead I pushed aside some of the shredded cardboard filler and pulled out one of the fragrant bottles of lotion, then made a big deal out of unscrewing the top and taking a huge sniff. I closed my eyes and released a heartfelt sigh of appreciation. It truly did smell nice.

When I opened them again Captain Jorge was staring at me like I'd lost my mind, which I probably had. Why else would I be fighting so hard to get us moving for the Jurua Tributary? It flowed absolutely in the middle of nowhere, but for once I didn't mind going. Well, that might be stretching it, but still, things were looking up with the appearance of Scott Henley. So I sniffed again and took three steps closer to the captain, holding the bottle out for him to smell.

He nearly fell over backward to lean away from the cursed lotion. I did snort this time and grabbed his hand, smacking the fearsome bottle into his palm. Then I tried to find the words to say that his wife will love him for it.

"A esposa amará," I said in halting Portuguese.

It must have come out right because his eyebrows shot up and he glanced at the bottle with a wary curiosity. Slowly he took the lotion to his nose for a quick sniff. 

      His eyes widened and he blinked in surprise. Pleasure softened his gruff features and I smiled at him. "Good, huh?" 

"Sim," he agreed, nodding his head and sniffing again.

High on success, I pulled a couple more bottles out of the crate and handed them to the other two crewmen, one who was to act as our interpreter and guide. With eyes on their leader's happy grin they accepted my offer and did their own sniffing. 

"Excelente, Jenna dear." Mom had stepped up behind me and probably would have hugged me if she hadn't been so focused on the results of the big smellfest.

This suited me just fine because Mr. Cute-Guy-Volunteer was staring at me with a measure of respect that shot warmth all the way down to my toes.

Amidst all the smiles and laughter, Mom and Dad took advantage of the crew's goodwill and started unloading the crate into bags, boxes, and anything handy. I snagged a bottle and slipped it into the pocket of my cargo shorts. Surely I'd earned at least one for saving the day.

Anticipation spiked inside me. This Amazon run might turn out to be the most interesting one yet, and that's saying something because National Geographic totally envied the five adventures I'd already trekked up the river. As much as I argued against coming on this trip, I surprised even myself with the depth of enthusiasm I currently felt.

This time, and maybe for the first time ever, I saw my lack of a stable lifestyle as a blessing in disguise.