by Kyla Stone
“Hell no. They’re all stuck-up jerkwads.”
“Their loss.” Rihanna sneezed and pulled a pink polka-dotted blanket tighter around her shoulders.
“Are you okay?”
“Got that Armageddon bat flu thing the media keeps going insane over. This thing is malicious.”
Willow’s mom waved at her as she headed back to work. Willow waved back and frowned down at the phone. “You don’t look so hot.”
“Funny you should say that. I’m actually dreadfully, terribly, horrendously hot. You ever had a fever of one hundred and five?”
“Seriously? Should you be in a hospital?”
Rihanna grunted. “It was just a stupid cold that wouldn't go away. Then, bam. Woke up yesterday feeling like I've been smashed into a blender. I don’t recommend it.”
Willow felt a pang of guilt. Here she was drinking champagne every day and Rihanna was puking her guts up. “I’m sorry. Did you get out of that Physics test, at least?”
Rihanna coughed. “They shut down half the schools in the county two days ago.”
“Really?”
“Voluntary quarantine or something.”
Nervous energy prickled up and down Willow’s spine. She hadn't paid attention. Home was a universe away. Schools shut down for a few days every year due to the flu or whatever new disease was all the rage, but never so many of them. Not all at the same time. That was weird.
She tapped the top left corner of the screen, and the home page appeared, the various news sites' headlines crawling along the bottom beneath the celebrity and sports gossip, near-constant weather record-breakers, and the latest on the soybean blight spreading throughout the Southern United States and Argentina: 'Vice President Sloane says Epidemic Concerns Overblown,' CNN's headline stated. Fox News posted, 'Universal Flu Vaccine Declared a Success.'
“The news says things are getting better. Lots of doom and gloom over nothing.”
Rihanna snorted. “I'm about to hurl all over your doom and gloom, bitch.”
Willow smiled. “Love you, too. Didn't you get the free shot?”
“A useless five hours standing in line, if you ask me. A ridiculous, pointless publicity stunt.”
“You must've already been infected.”
“I guess.” Rihanna’s face turned an even unhealthier shade. She swallowed several times. “Seriously, though, the toilet and I have a date. Go kiss a hot rich guy for me, 'kay?”
Willow logged off, missing Rihanna like a physical pain in her chest. Rihanna was funny and irreverent and always up for a dare. This cruise would be a radically different experience with her best friend here. With anyone her age who didn't look at her like she was a pariah or a communicable disease. Annoying little sisters didn't count.
“Lo Lo!” Zia jogged up, damp and glistening, her turquoise hair sticking up all over her head. “I’m starving.”
Willow hadn't felt a hunger pang since their first hour on the cruise. But she could eat. She could always eat. She stuffed herself every day, eating everything in sight—tart strawberries and raspberries and sweet, juicy cantaloupes, roasted corn on the cob and steamed asparagus. Vegetables had never tasted so delicious. And buttered bread rolls and succulent herbed chicken legs with real meat practically falling off the bone. And the buttercream cupcakes with actual cream and five-layer chocolate cake and . . . she couldn't remember after that. When she got home, Lola Cherry would pinch her and call her fat, but Willow didn’t care.
The food was nothing like the chemical-tinged, nearly tasteless fruits and vegetables she was used to. Lola Cherry did her best, but she could only afford to make chicken adobo and lumpia, her delicious eggrolls, at Christmas. But this was how the rich ate all the time. Willow couldn't even imagine it. “We can grab those falafels you like at the Mediterranean Grill.”
“Oh, I know! Let's go to that fancy restaurant, The Edge. The one jutting out over the water, with the glass floor.”
Willow’s stomach turned over. Nothing but a pane of glass and a hundred feet of empty space between herself and the ocean below? No thanks. “Not in a hundred million years.”
Zia grinned mischievously. “No? You don’t like the edge? Are you sure?” She grabbed Willow’s arm and tugged her toward the deck railing—the clear glass railing with its own hundred foot drop straight down.
“Stop! You know that’s not funny!” She usually had a sense of humor, just not when it came to heights. She yanked her arm back and whirled away—
And ran smack into a large, heavy shape.
“Oh, sorry!” She stumbled back and looked up. And up.
A giant of a guy towered over her. He was huge, at least 6’3, maybe 6’4, and big all over.
“I didn’t, um—”
“See me there?” he asked wryly, thrusting out his hand. “And I’m usually so hard to miss. I’m Finn.”
She shook Finn's massive hand. Up close, he was younger than she'd thought, with smooth walnut-brown skin, dimples in his cheeks, and a gap in his slightly crooked teeth.
“Nice to meet you.” She smoothed her sundress over her stomach. This ship and these clothes made her feel like someone else. She wanted to be someone else, for one damn day at least. “I'm Gwyneth. This is Monique.”
Monique? Zia mouthed.
Willow ignored her. “Our parents drag us on this thing every year.”
Finn raised his eyebrows. “Funny, I don't remember you.”
Zia kicked Willow's ankle, but she only smiled wider. She hadn't expected him to be a repeat passenger, which made him a son of an elite. Scratch that, it made him an elite himself. She'd pegged him for an off-duty crew member or something. But in for a penny, in for a pound, as her mom always said. “We've changed a lot. Maybe it’s the hair.”
He nodded. “Must be. Where you guys from?”
Zia opened her mouth, but Willow spoke first. “New Jersey. Avalon.” She named the fanciest neighborhood she could think of. “But we summer in the Hamptons.”
Zia crossed her arms with a scowl. She didn't have a clue how to have fun. Not like this, anyway. She had no imagination. Rihanna would've already created a full backstory and convinced him she was a southern debutante planning her cotillion ball.
The wind snarled Willow’s hair, and she tucked it behind her ear. “Where are you from, Finn?”
“My dad's a biotechnologist for BioGen. But I live with my mom in Virginia. They're divorced. But I still spend a lot of time with my dad. We do the Health Summit every year.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yeah, he’s not bad.”
“So . . . you having fun?”
He shrugged, rolling his massive shoulders. “What's not to love? Though I gotta say, getting shunned by my more affluent and socially adept peers has its upsides. One gets to know the tomes in the quaint library quite well.”
Willow laughed before she could stop herself. Maybe that was rude, but he didn't seem offended. “What? Why would you be shunned?”
He gestured at himself. “Too big. Too loud. Too much everything. Maybe I'm not refined enough for their tastes? Who knows.”
“Their loss,” she said and meant it.
Finn smiled again, showing the gap in his teeth. “I do play a mean game of ping pong. Strangely, I find winning isn't quite as satisfying playing against myself. Chasing the ball all over a rolling deck loses its appeal quite quickly.”
“I've never played ping pong.”
“It's not exactly the sport of the elite, now is it?” Finn said ruefully. “Too much sweating.”
Willow raised her chin. “I'm not afraid to sweat.”
“Great. I'll teach you.”
Heat crept up her neck. She was so tired of being alone on this ship, of babysitting her siblings all the time like she did at home. This was supposed to be her big life-changing trip. So far it was just more of the same, but with a prettier backdrop. And better food. “Sure. Why not?”
“Not quite a ringing endorsement, but I'll take i
t. You want to grab some grub first at the Coral Gardens Café?”
“I never turn down food, especially when it's free.”
He grinned. “Me either, as you can tell.”
“Me either,” Zia said.
Willow had almost forgotten about Zia. “Why don't you stay here?” she said quickly.
Zia jutted her lower lip. “What about Benjie? You’re not supposed to leave us, Gwyneth.”
Willow shoved her hair behind her ears. She deserved some time to herself. She deserved this. She worked hard, too. But no, she was stuck here, doomed in paradise. Even a pathetic game of ping pong beat this misery.
“You’re not supposed to—” Zia started.
“I heard you just fine.” She turned to Finn. “Sorry.”
Finn tugged on his shirt. “Lido deck is a cool place, too. We can hang out here.”
But she couldn’t do that either. She’d just lied like a moron and told him she was someone else. Benjie would out her in a hot second. Then this guy would blow her off just like everybody else on this ship.
She gritted her teeth. “Sorry, Finn. I’ve really got to go. Maybe I’ll see you later.”
“Sure thing. Nice to meet you, Gwyneth.”
Willow stalked after Zia, her anger and frustration growing with every step.
7
Amelia
The waiter led Amelia and her parents to the large round table on the raised dais in the center of the Oasis dining room. He pulled out her chair with a slight bow. It was the same waiter they’d had the last three evenings. He was handsome, with dark, wavy hair, bronze skin, and an open, boyish face.
“Thank you.” She smiled.
He smiled shyly and ducked his head.
Her father greeted everyone warmly before marching off to visit the other tables. He always took the time to engage in small talk, trading jokes, admiring grandbaby pictures, and bestowing compliments. Declan Black knew how to charm those people he deemed valuable, knew how to keep his employees and business partners eating out of his hand.
Next to the captain’s table, the four-string quartet played Vivaldi's “The Four Seasons.” Amelia's fingers twitched instinctively, as if finding their own places on the strings. Both of her parents wanted to show her off again tonight. She usually loved playing. She rubbed the marks on the pads of her fingertips, the permanent indentations of the violin strings from years of dedicated practice.
“They’re wonderful, aren’t they?” Senator López nodded toward the quartet. “I love Vivaldi, though Bach is my favorite.”
Senator López was a handsome Mexican-American in his sixties, lean and fit, with deep set eyes, dark eyebrows, and thick, silvery hair. As the Majority leader, he was the most powerful person in the Senate. But he’d always been kind to her.
“I prefer Brahms,” she said. “And Pachelbel’s Cannon in D.”
“It’s always wonderful to talk classical with a fellow music lover. And I do believe congratulations are in order. You’ll love Juilliard.”
Her mouth went dry. “Well, I applied.”
“I’m sure you’re a shoo-in.”
Beneath the table, she dug her nails into her palms. She never regretted the sacrifices her music demanded, the unending practices, rehearsals, auditions, recitals, the competitions—it was all worth it. At first, she'd done it for her father. Her father, who didn't value art or music, but he did merit winning and status, anything that reflected honor and prestige back on him.
She played for the fleeting pride and approval shining in her father's eyes. He wanted her in Juilliard. For once in her life, she wanted the same thing. Only it didn’t matter. She wasn’t good enough. The rejection letter she’d received before the cruise was stuffed in the back of her dresser drawer, hidden. She’d been sick with dread when she read it, stumbling to the bathroom and vomiting. The migraine lasted twenty-four hours. She still hadn’t worked up the courage to tell her father.
“Are you there, Amelia?”
She straightened in her seat, an automatic smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “I apologize, Senator López. Lost in thought, I guess.”
“Don't get lost in foreign territory, my dear.” He chuckled. “My grandson loves that joke.”
“It’s a good one.”
“May I just say, you look breathtaking tonight, my dear. If only I was thirty years younger.”
She managed to force a smile. “Only thirty?”
He winked. “You've got me. A man never reveals his age.”
When her father returned to the table, a white-gloved waiter hurried over to slide out his chair with a flourish. A second waiter returned with two silver trays of appetizers: olive and pistachio bruschetta and mini peppers filled with goat cheese and asparagus.
“Welcome to the captain's table,” Captain Liebenberg boomed, repeating the same greeting he'd given the last three evenings. Her father smiled broadly and shook the captain's hand.
“I hope everyone had a spectacular day,” Declan said. “The weather is phenomenal. I can see Janet had a great time. May I just say, you look at least ten years younger.”
Janet Kingsley-Yates smiled and patted her coiffured hair. She was the CEO of Yates Pharmaceuticals, one of the big pharma corporations. Even she was charmed by Declan’s magnetic warmth. She had to be in her early fifties, but her warm brown skin was unlined. “There's nothing quite like that youth rejuvenation procedure at the spa, is there? That and the personal masseuse? I’m in heaven.”
Everyone at the table chuckled. Though the captain was supposed to be the star, the guests were arranged around her father. Omar Ferguson, the CDC's Director of Public Health Preparedness and Response, was a trim African-American man in his forties who loved talking shop and golf scores. Bradley Marx, the heavy, balding New York representative and obnoxious blowhard, was on her left. Across from her sat Tyler Horne, the overly tanned, cocky young CEO of some up and coming RFID tech company.
The other names and titles slipped out of her mind like water through her fingers. Usually, she could remember everyone. She was just tired. Tired of all of it. Tired of watching her father charm everyone, conning them into believing he actually cared what any of them thought about anything.
No one else saw what he was really like. No one else saw his private self, the shadow that darkened his face, the dangerous flash in his eyes. The contempt that would soon be directed at her, as soon as he found out about Juilliard.
She sat up straighter in her seat and smoothed the napkin across her lap. The air was chilly, goosebumps prickling her arms and thighs. She needed to focus. Her father expected her to exude beauty, charm, and wit.
She turned to Senator López. “I read that article in the Times you wrote last month on the critical water shortages. It was excellent.”
The senator’s eyes brightened. “Thank you, my dear. You’re always so thoughtful. Things are getting worse out there, especially with the six-year drought causing people to flee Arizona and Nevada in droves.”
“One of the reasons for the refugee problem.”
“One of many. Just one more thing to add to the flooding on the coasts, the crop blights in the corn and wheat belts, the outbreaks of cholera and dengue fever. And now this terrible bat superflu. But I'm sure you don't want to bother yourself with such depressing topics.”
“Those poor families.” Amelia rubbed the violin charm on her bracelet. “My father thinks stronger state border checkpoints would help curb all these epidemics.”
He raised his eyebrows. “That’s one possible avenue. Word on the Hill is that your father is also gunning for the position of Secretary of Health and Human Services as soon as Larsson retires.”
She flashed him a charming smile, grateful that he had brought it up first. “Personally, I think he’d do a wonderful job.”
The senator swirled his wine. The lines bracketing his mouth deepened.
“You both want the same things, right? Public health and safety.”
&nbs
p; “I think we have very different methods on how to get there, Amelia. Besides, the president needs a secretary of Health the public has absolute faith in during a crisis like this. After this universal flu fiasco, some people are questioning whether your father is that person anymore.”
Amelia’s gut twisted. “It’s a minor setback, that’s all. It takes time to work.”
“You think so?”
“If most people who got the vaccine were already infected, then it would appear ineffective, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.”
“Your faith in your father is admirable.” Senator López swallowed the rest of his wine. “Unfortunately, not everyone feels the same way.”
She rubbed her charm bracelet uneasily. This wasn’t going well. How could her father expect her to convince someone like Senator López to change his beliefs? It was an impossible task. And yet, somehow it would still be her fault. Sometimes it felt like her father expected things of her no one could accomplish. Then he had someone to blame when things fell apart.
“And the confirmation he wants might not be so easy to come by,” the senator said. “President Morgan isn’t keen on all these Unitarians storming in and ruffling so many feathers.”
“You're mixing your metaphors, Senator López,” Declan said from across the table, an edge in his voice.
Amelia flinched. She hadn’t realized he’d been listening to the conversation.
“The President is weak,” her father continued, leaning forward in his seat. “His anti-security state border policy, the prohibition against weaponizing drones? He’s done nothing to eliminate these domestic terrorists that keep cropping up. He’s done nothing to eliminate the swarms of refugees swamping our cities, bringing disease and violence with them, straining our government to the breaking point.”
“Surely you aren’t blaming this epidemic on the refugees?” Senator López raised his eyebrows.
“Disease spreads in the filthy, unsanitary, contaminated conditions they choose to live in.” Her father was still smiling, but it had hardened, his lips flattening, that thick line appearing between his brows. He despised dissent, especially in a setting like this, especially by Senator López, the politician he needed in his pocket. “What would you attribute it to?”
