The Trouble with Destiny

by Lauren Morrill

  “You coming?” Huck calls from the doorway.

  The air is still cloudy and scented with a bitter, chemical tang. I have a sudden image of smoke pouring out of the portholes, of the ship tipping, of slowly sinking into the ocean while we bob around it in tiny lifeboats. My stomach has climbed up my spine and blocks my windpipe.

  “Yup,” I reply.

  Then Huck and I duck out of the bowling alley and race down the hall.

  Chapter 5

  Three hours have passed since the bowling ball incident, and I spent almost every second of them waiting for some kind of wailing alarm to signal us to report to our lifeboats, all the while fighting the urge to confess what we did. I barely managed to choke down my caesar salad at dinner.

  But as we take the stage for the opening showcase, still afloat, still with no indications of trouble, I start to realize how ridiculous I’ve been. No way could a runaway bowling ball sink a cruise ship. No doubt the cleaning crew has long since discovered the damage and set about repairing it. No one needs to know the band was involved in any of it.

  I look around at the Grand Auditorium, built to look like a miniature Lincoln Center, with the luxury boxes painted onto the walls as murals and small versions of the famous modern diamond chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The Mechanicals just left the stage to riotous laughter and raucous applause after performing a selection of scenes from Spamalot. It takes several minutes to get the chairs, stands, and instruments set up afterward, and it doesn’t help that Michael Narducci, the pit leader, drops the gong.

  I swallow hard, wishing I weren’t troubled by such a bad case of preperformance jitters, which make me feel as if there’s a major grasshopper infestation in the bottom of my stomach. What I do not need right now is to barf all over Nicole Mauser, who is practically vibrating with nerves far worse than mine. When she catches me staring at her, I mime a deep breath. She sits up straighter in her chair and mouths a silent thank you.

  The audience is made up mostly of our fellow competitors, who stuck around after their performances to scope out the competition. The rest of the crowd includes a collection of retirees who think a performing arts showcase is a lovely way to spend a Friday night at sea. Their gray and silver hair catches the light in the theater, and I wonder if any of them could be bribed to turn down their hearing aids. I’m not exactly feeling confident after today’s “practice”—if you can even call it that—and from a glance at the band gathered around me in all black, they’re not feeling great either. Everyone looks nervous or traumatized … or both.

  The Athenas, next up on the program, are waiting in the wings. All of them are huddled in a group, whispering and snickering. Except Demi. She’s standing off to the side, eyes closed while her mouth moves in what I recognize as her traditional preshow good luck ritual: reciting the Debbie Allen dance teacher speech from the TV series Fame. Demi’s older sister got her the DVD set for her tenth birthday, and we watched the episodes so many times we practically wore out the discs. As I watch Demi now, I have to stop myself from reciting along with her, as I did so many times when we were kids. You’ve got big dreams? You want fame? Well, fame costs. And right here is where you start paying … in sweat.

  I force my eyes away from Demi and take one final visual sweep of the band in front of me. Everyone is seated, their instruments poised on their laps, just waiting for my signal. It’s time.

  I raise my hands, and everyone lifts their instruments with my motion, their eyes on me for the count. I take a deep breath, letting myself wish one last time that we’d gotten that practice in. Or at least hadn’t caused property damage such that my band is traumatized. But it’s too late for that now. As my grandpa Sanders used to say, Wish in one hand, spit in the other, and see which one fills up faster, an expression that always makes Dad grimace in disgust.

  And then we begin. We manage to all hit the downbeat at the same time, but my pride is short-lived. Huck and his oboe immediately skip a measure, a mistake he’s made at nearly every performance this year, letting out a series of ill-timed, squawking trills. This sends Jared, the snare drum player, into a minor panic, since those trills are his cue. He sweeps his shaggy bangs out of his eyes, and with a better late than never shrug, he starts banging away. The trumpets seated in front of him jump in surprise.

  Sweat starts moving from my neck to my waist. With one hand I flip forward in the sheet music, frantically scanning the measures. I have absolutely no idea where in the music they are.

  Then—like a phoenix rising from the ashes—Nicole stands for her flute solo. Her solo is beautifully performed, if seven measures early.

  When she’s done, she walks quickly and deliberately offstage, where I see her bend over a trash can in the wings. Thankfully, the band is playing so loud that no one can hear her retching. I don’t think any deep breathing is going to help her out of that one.

  At this point, I just need to get them all to wrap it up, more or less at the same time. I hold my hands up to indicate a fermata, a moment where they all hold their respective notes until my signal. The few that are actually watching me hold, but it takes a good twelve counts before the rest of the band catches on. Like musical dominoes, they fall in line, one after the other. And when I’ve got all their eyes, I give them the final cutoff.

  “Oh, thank God,” I mutter as merciful silence takes over. I catch Huck’s eye. He mouths, “I’m sorry.”

  I can’t even respond. What would I say? Thanks for missing your cue yet again and messing everybody up, Huck? I wish you’d do us all a favor and quit? Even if it’s true, I can’t say that to my best friend. I feel dizzy and hot, and like maybe someone’s shoved cotton balls in my ears. Everything is oddly muted, and I wonder if I’m having an aneurysm. Or a psychotic break. I can feel the eyes of the audience boring into my back like a sea of hot laser beams.

  A tentative smattering of applause begins, and even though I’d prefer to drive blunt pencils into my eyeballs, I turn to face the audience. The applause picks up to something that borders on respectable when I, followed by the rest of the band, take a bow. I focus on the empty seats so I don’t have to see anyone looking at me with pity or bewilderment. I wish again that I were back on the football field, where the crowd is farther away and I can hide behind my bulky red and black uniform and my drum major hat with the giant plume on top. Standing there in my black pants and black long-sleeved shirt, I feel entirely too exposed.

  I practically bolt off the stage, eyes planted firmly on my feet, and nearly steamroll Demi. The rest of the Athenas are behind her, all clad in their sequined vests.

  “Don’t worry, I started a rumor that you guys are from the deaf school, so everyone understands.” She grins, and I swear, her bright white smile actually twinkles. “You’re welcome.”

  She nods to the Athenas, who nod back at her. Then, like a herd of Broadway cheerleaders, they bound onstage, their black circle skirts and ponytails tied tight with matching grosgrain ribbon bouncing in unison. Unconsciously, I let out a groan.

  “Cheer up,” Huck says. He cradles his oboe in one arm and throws the other around my shoulder. “They could choke.”

  “Or we could sink,” I reply, scuffing the toe of my shoe against the floor. “Literally.” After our horrible performance, I’m almost hoping we will.

  “Dude, it was a bowling ball. Have you seen this boat?” Huck gestures out at the theater, which makes up about one-eightieth of the total square footage of the ship. “There’s no way one little ball could break an entire ship.”

  “You’re right,” I reply, but my voice shakes just enough to betray my lingering nerves.

  “And like I said.” Huck nudges my shoulder with his, a playful smile on his face. “They could totally choke.”

  But they won’t.

  The Athenas have always been good, but under Demi’s leadership, they’ve turned into a tiny, perky show-choir army.
They’re as talented as they are snotty—which is to say, extremely. They perform at every pep rally, at every holiday assembly, and without fail, they have our entire school of jaded teenagers cheering. My classmates barely tolerate the band, but they love the Athenas.

  The Athenas take their positions onstage in two lines, heads bowed, arms crossed behind their backs. Demi gives an almost imperceptible nod, and then they’re off, singing and dancing in such perfect time that I wonder if they were animated by Disney. All thoughts of our monster truck rally of a performance (Crash! Clank! Eek!) are gone as the crowd starts clapping in time with their medley of throwback boy-band classics from the late nineties. When they perform, their twenty bodies suddenly look like forty, or more. Their movement, their enthusiasm, their smiles, it’s all bigger than life. They make use of the entire stage, spinning and jumping and moving down to the floor, legs kicking in the air. The electricity of their performance sizzles through the auditorium. I have to admit, Demi is amazing, but when they perfectly execute classic boy-band harmonies and the video-ready dance moves that go along with them, I know I’ve had enough.

  “I can’t watch,” I say to Huck.

  I turn and start to make my way into the blackness of the backstage area, stepping over bundles of sound cords and around sandbags, considering disappearing into the folds of the heavy velvet curtain, until I smash directly into Lenny and his camera, which is hanging around his neck. The lens smashes into my sternum, partially knocking the wind out of me. Onstage, another *NSYNC song is kicking up loud enough to mask my gasp.

  “Whoa, easy, Birdie,” he says, putting his hands on my shoulders. A small thrill runs through me, starting at the point where his strong hands rest on my shoulders. Then I remember that he must have seen what happened a moment ago onstage, when I basically led the band through a rousing performance of What-the-Heck-Was-That? And that thought makes me want to sink into the floor. “Are you okay?” he asks, as if to confirm my worst fear. He wasn’t struck temporarily deaf or unconscious. He saw our performance.

  “Not really,” I mutter. I wave one hand at the stage and rub my forehead with the other. “We didn’t get to practice today. And well, you saw the result.”

  “Hey, it wasn’t that bad.” Lenny gives me a slightly embarrassed smile that tells me he knows how big a lie he’s telling. A real whopper, as Grandpa Sanders would say. “First-night jitters, right?”

  “Times ten,” I reply, my voice weak and resigned.

  “Remember what Shandy used to say about jitters?”

  I can’t help but laugh at the mention of our drama camp counselor, a senior theater student at the community college famous for her massive mop of fiery red curls and genuine belief that she would be the next Meryl Streep. In unison, we both wave exaggerated jazz hands and say with Shandy’s trademark lisp, “Shake ’em out!”

  Onstage, the Athenas fling their hands in the air to hit the last chorus. As soon as the music kicks off, all the lights go with it, blinking out with an audible snap. The auditorium is plunged into darkness. But no one cares. Applause thunders through the room. I swear, the only light comes from the twenty Athena grins up on the stage.

  The audience is still cheering when a backup generator kicks in. It grinds up to illuminate about half of the overhead lights … just enough to show the curls of white smoke creeping across the stage.

  “Dang. The smoke machine’s a nice touch,” Lenny says, nodding at the stage.

  But as the smoke begins to rise and creep out into the audience, the sour smell from the bowling alley tickles my nose.

  My stomach twists like the guts of a french horn. Something isn’t right.

  And from the looks of disgust that cross the faces of the audience, it’s clear they know this isn’t part of the show. It’s only then that the cheers turn to confused chatter, the heads out in the audience pivoting around for an explanation.

  First Mate Kevin bounds out onto the stage wearing a Britney Spears–style headset attached to a walkie-talkie held in his hand. With no microphone, he has to resort to exaggerated hand gestures to quiet the crowd.

  “Settle down, everyone. Please take your seats,” he booms, trying to compensate for the nonworking mike. He waves his hand in front of his face to clear the smoke. Down in the audience, white programs fan frantically to keep the smell away. In the front row, an ancient, wrinkled lady with a silver pixie cut and thick Coke-bottle glasses erupts into a coughing fit. “It appears we’re having a few mechanical difficulties at the moment. Please remain calm and we’ll get it solved tout de suite.” He lets out a nervous giggle that, thanks to the acoustics of the theater, bounces around the room without the aid of a microphone.

  There are some groans and grumbles. The smoke is starting to clear, but the stench of something burning remains. The Mechanicals give one another exaggerated high fives, thumbs-ups, and even a few dramatic bows. But the words hit me hard, as if that stupid pink bowling ball has now dropped straight through my chest.

  Mechanical difficulties.

  The vent. The steam.

  A bowling ball couldn’t do this. A bowling ball couldn’t do this. A bowling ball couldn’t do this.

  My mind goes into overdrive trying to convince my body that everything is fine, but my body isn’t listening. My hands start shaking, so I clench them into fists, my nails digging half-moons into my palms.

  “I’m going to go find my dad,” Lenny whispers. “See you in a minute, okay?”

  I barely manage to nod. He hurries around the curtain and down the steps on the side of the stage, and Huck once again sidles up next to me.

  “Everything will get cleared up shortly,” First Mate Kevin continues, his finger to his earpiece as he receives an update. “In the meantime, we’ve shut down the engines and primary power until we can get it fixed. We’ll have the generators for now. I encourage you all to take a stroll on the deck or relax in your rooms. We’ll keep you posted on the progress.”

  “This is a nightmare,” I whisper to Huck.

  “Worse than what happened up there?” Huck cocks his head toward the stage, where the Athenas are patting one another on the back in their postshow huddle, too high on adrenaline to worry about a little thing like an electrical failure. I watch their enthusiasm, their collective triumph, and all of a sudden I worry that I really might throw up. A shiver runs up my spine as I remember our final, cacophonous note.

  Huck pulls my head to rest on his shoulder. “At least if we sink we won’t have to play again,” he says.

  “You don’t think … ?” I swallow hard. “I mean, what happened earlier … ?”

  “No, Liza,” he says firmly, gripping me by the shoulders. “This is not your fault. You heard that first mate guy. This is nothing to be worried about.”

  “Well, Kevin needs to work on his poker face, because one look at him tells me we’re going down.”

  Huck gives me a slight shake. “Liza, the man’s a glorified babysitter, not an electrician. So stop taking cues from a grown-up in a sailor suit and chill out.”

  But the longer we sit in semidarkness, the less I believe it. I try to block images of Bahamian jail cells and shark-infested waters, but it doesn’t work. I suddenly feel like it’s roasting in here, and not just because the power outage caused the air conditioning to click off. Pricks of sweat are starting to form on my forehead, under my arms, and down my back. I try to swallow, but my tongue feels like it’s made of steel wool.

  “What’s going on over there?” Huck points toward the audience. Near the stage, First Mate Kevin, his mouth set in a straight line, is nodding at Mr. Curtis, who keeps flinging his arms around, as if to say Look at this disaster. Behind them both is a greasy-haired, pudgy man I don’t recognize, and he looks even more unhappy than Kevin and Mr. Curtis. Lenny is nowhere to be seen.

  Mr. Curtis turns and scans the stage, where he sees me. He waves me o
ver with a hard flip of his hand.

  “Do you need backup?” Huck whispers.

  I shake my head. “I’m okay,” I say, which is a total lie. I can’t tell if it’s my imagination, or if the ship is rocking more violently than before, but it’s definitely harder to walk a straight line. Never have I felt more like I was walking the plank. Please let me not be in trouble.

  “What’s up, Mr. Curtis?” I say, trying for a smile and managing only a grimace.

  Mr. Curtis doesn’t even attempt a small grin. Instead, he turns to Kevin and the greasy-haired man. “Liza,” he says, pointing to the walking garlic knot of a man. “This is Raoul Ferengetti. The cruise director.”

  I feel the floor swaying beneath me. The room spins. Mr. Ferengetti scowls.

  Goodbye, band, I think fleetingly. I’ll write to you from prison. …

  Chapter 6

  I am the kind of girl who always seems to be working ten times as hard as everyone else for about 0.06 percent of the credit. Even I, despite being terrible at math, know that those odds suck. I can seriously count on one hand the number of times in my life I have truly gotten off easy. There was the time in fourth grade when I called Ethan Kline a four-letter word, and when he tattled, my teacher said I was a nice girl and didn’t believe him. And then there was the time sophomore year that I convinced my history teacher that my computer ate my midterm paper, when in reality, I fell asleep watching an eighties movie marathon on TV. I got an extension for the weekend. That’s it, a list so short I can’t help but commit it to memory.

  But as Mr. Curtis continues talking, and I notice that Mr. Ferengetti appears to be frowning in general instead of specifically at me, it occurs to me that this moment might in fact be one I can add to my list.