The Trouble with Destiny

by Lauren Morrill

  “I will not have the students in my care put in danger,” Mr. Curtis is saying now, his voice stern. I notice that his hands are clenched into fists so tight his knuckles have turned white. The collar of his HHS polo is sticking up on one side, and his hair looks like it has suffered through an accident at the gel factory. The only time I’ve seen him even close to this upset was when he caught the flute players twirling their instruments like batons on the last day of band camp. “I want to know exactly what’s happening. Why are the engines in trouble? How could this happen? I demand a full report. And what’s this I’m hearing about a storm coming? Are we adequately prepared for this?” All sense of Mr. Curtis’s trademark calm is gone, and questions continue flying from his mouth. He waves his phone in Mr. Ferengetti’s face, the weather app on the screen showing little cartoons of clouds and lightning bolts.

  I am about to respond when I realize that he is talking to Mr. Ferengetti, not me.

  “Of course, sir, of course,” First Mate Kevin chimes in, while the cruise director simply nods, slowly twisting the end of his mustache, which is, if possible, even shinier than the hair on his head.

  I lean against one of the oversized Roman columns that frame the stage. My initial relief—he’s angry at the cruise line, not at me—turns just as quickly to dismay. If Mr. Curtis gets the investigation he demands, it might just turn up a hot-pink bowling ball and a certain band practicing in the closed bowling alley. Forget saving the band. I don’t know how much it costs to repair a cruise ship, but I know we’d have to have a whole lot of bake sales to even come close. Like, a million of them.

  Over the years, I’ve learned that the best way to avoid panic is to make a plan. Working through steps and organizing your problems keeps you from thinking about all the ways things could fall completely apart. It’s how I got through my parents’ divorce, it’s how I got through drum major tryouts, it’s how I got through the idea of losing the band, and it’s how I’ll get through this.

  “Mr. Curtis, can I talk to you?” I say quietly, directing a smile at Kevin and the cruise director that’s meant to say, Well, what can ya do?

  Once we are safely out of earshot, I lean in and gesture for him to do the same. “Everyone’s really freaked out about the malfunction,” I begin, glossing over the fact that no one seems more frantic than he is. “We should probably focus on keeping everyone calm, and direct them back to their cabins to make sure they’re safe. I was wondering if maybe you could help me with that.” I smile, channeling Shandy’s acting lessons. Because I may be freaking out right along with him, but I can’t let him see it. I let the smile grow slightly before continuing. “Sometimes you just really need assurances from a grown-up, you know?”

  Mr. Curtis seems to realize for the first time that he’s the grown-up and that he’s supposed to be the calm one. I see him mentally try to get ahold of his horses, and I pretend not to notice the gross sweat rings now forming under his arms.

  “Yes, yes of course, that’s a great idea, Liza,” he mumbles. He nods so hard his head looks in danger of rocketing off his shoulders. “That’s a great idea.”

  And then, without meeting my eye or uttering another word, Mr. Curtis makes a beeline for the nearby stairwell that leads down to our block of cabins. I’m not sure if he’s going to throw up or cry or take a sedative (though I certainly hope it’s the latter). Whatever it is, it’s taking him away from questions about what happened and any conclusions about what his students may have done to cause it.

  Mission accomplished. For now.

  I buzz through the auditorium, grabbing all the band members I can find and telling them to spread the word: HHS band needs to get below deck. Once I no longer spot any of our stiff black concert dresses or black suits in the crowd, I head down toward our rooms.

  The elevator doors slide open to reveal that the hallways of the Riviera Deck, also known as the lowest floor of the ship not occupied by the crew, have become a mini dance club. Someone’s turned up their iPhone speaker to full blast, but the tinny tunes are drowned out by the voices of my bandmates singing along. Almost all of them are crammed into the narrow space, hands on hips, stepping to the right, executing the Time Warp from Rocky Horror. Despite having come extremely close to losing everything and possibly getting sent to some juvenile detention center on a remote island, I still feel a surge of pride that even in the most chaotic of moments, the HHS Style Marchers find a way to make their own fun.

  “Liza, come on! It’s the Time Warp!” Hillary shouts over the chorus while waving her arms over her head in full-on jazz hands.

  I have an almost Pavlovian urge to jump in and pelvic-thrust right alongside them, but I need some quiet time. I have about twelve hours until our next rehearsal, and I plan to spend every minute of it trying to figure out how to save our performance—and our band.

  “Y’all have fun, I’ve got some stuff to take care of,” I shout back. “But please don’t leave the floor, okay?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep everyone in line,” Huck says, a devilish glint in his eye. He’s got the bow tie from his concert suit fastened around his head, the bow askew on his forehead. He breaks into a very intense variation of the twist.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep everyone in line,” Hillary says, and I mouth a thank you to her before disappearing into our room.

  I’ve got to strategize.

  With the practice room switcheroo, it’s obvious that the Athenas are planning to play dirty this week.

  Which means we’ve got to get dirty right back.

  By the next morning, the power still isn’t working. On the plus side, the backup generators are grinding away and the ship is still seaworthy. So far.

  Since the Athenas stole our practice space yesterday, I told the band to meet for our Saturday-morning practice in what should have been theirs. I scoped it out last night, and while it’s not nearly as large as the one the Athenas took over, it’s at least large enough for us to sit down in actual chairs and practice. Which is good, because we clearly need it. Forget the prize money; if we repeat last night’s performance I wouldn’t be surprised if the Sail Away Cruise Line fines us $25,000.

  I push open the door to our new humble home, three floors up and down the hall from the big atrium at the center of the ship. The plaque on the door reads hideaway hall.

  “Hideaway Hell is more like it,” I mutter to myself. I put my hand on the door to shove it open, but a tap on my shoulder stops me.

  Demi is standing next to Mrs. Haddaway, who is wearing a vintage sailor suit and cat’s-eye sunglasses buried in her curls.

  “Liza, I’m glad we caught you,” Mrs. Haddaway says. She nudges Demi with her elbow.

  Demi grimaces, then rearranges her face into something approximating a look of apology. All I can see is the face she used when we were seven and had to apologize to her mother for using all her (very expensive) makeup for our circus extravaganza backyard show, where Demi played the ringmaster and I was a clown. It looks just about as sincere now as it did then.

  “I’m sorry we stole your practice space,” she says, somehow managing to hide the fact that really she’s just sorry she got caught.

  “Oh, uh, thanks?” I glance at Mrs. Haddaway, who I assume is responsible for Demi’s sudden bout of contrition, because she’s giving Demi a look.

  “And you can have it back,” Demi says finally.

  “The Athenas will be happy to help you transport your instruments if you need help,” Mrs. Haddaway adds.

  Demi’s mouth falls open, and I can tell she will definitely not be happy about that.

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary at all,” I tell Mrs. Haddaway. I turn to Demi and give her a smile that I hope doesn’t look too smug. “And Demi, I so appreciate your heartfelt apology. It means a lot.”

  Demi’s nose wrinkles, and she pretends to scratch it with a certain middle finger.
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  Mrs. Haddaway doesn’t notice, though, because she’s too busy fanning herself.

  “I’m glad that’s taken care of,” Mrs. Haddaway says, waving a sweaty curl away from her forehead. “Now if only they’d get the power back on. Those generators are just not doing the job on the air conditioning in here.”

  At the mention of the engine trouble, I freeze.

  “Yeah, um …” I pick at the remains of my blue nail polish, trying to appear unconcerned. “Have you heard anything more about that?”

  Mrs. Haddaway shrugs. “The captain mentioned at breakfast that they were looking at some surveillance video to find out what happened. They suspect tampering,” she says, but she quickly goes from fanning herself to waving off that idea. “That just seems ridiculous, though. I doubt they’re going to find anything on a video.”

  “Right, exactly,” I say, my voice squeaking, and panic surging through my veins. If the captain looks at a video, what he’s going to see is a bowling ball smashing into, well, whatever it is that’s down there that causes boats to break. And from there, they’re going to find us.

  “Okay, well, we’ll let you get back to your rehearsal,” Mrs. Haddaway says, smiling. “And like I said, if you need help moving your instruments, let Demi know.”

  Demi shoots me a look that says Do not let me know. But Demi is now the least of my problems. All my mental energy is focused on the video. Will it show the band tampering by means of a certain pink bowling ball? What will happen if we get busted?

  While Demi and Mrs. Haddaway make their way back down the hall, I shove the door open to Hideaway Hall. Inside I find what looks like a standard-issue conference room, the tables pushed to the edges of the room, all the chairs arranged scattershot across the middle of the floor. A few band members have arrived to set up early, but before I can tell them not to bother, a flying silver object whizzes past my face.

  “Fore! I mean, duck!” Russ intercepts the baritone mute, cradling it in his arm like a receiver heading for the end zone. He fakes left around me and executes a pass toward Huck, who’s sitting on one of the back tables examining Hillary’s new typewriter tattoo on her shoulder. Huck’s reaction to Russ’s throw is to stare helplessly at the metal projectile headed right for his face, so Hillary reaches up and swats it away seconds before it careens into his nose. The mute lands back on the carpet and rolls into the leg of a chair.

  “Dude, you saved me!” Huck wails. He flings his arms around Hillary’s neck like she just threw herself in front of a speeding train for him.

  “Down, boy,” Hillary says, patting his head gently. “It was nothing. You’re just indebted to me forever now.”

  I turn to yell at Russ as the mute comes whizzing back in a tight spiral. “Nice!” Russ calls. He raises his hands for another perfect catch, then wings it toward the clarinets, who are sitting in a circle sucking on reeds and cleaning their instruments. Ray, a sophomore trombone player, darts over at the last second, preventing the mute from colliding with Madeline’s head. He grins and tosses it back.

  Russ reaches around for another catch, so I throw my hands into the air and intercept, a skill I’m shocked I’ve absorbed from simply watching three years’ worth of high school football games. He crosses the space between us in three long steps, arms out like he’s going in for a hug, or—

  Not a hug. A tackle.

  In a flash I’m on the ground.

  “What in the fresh hell?” I shout, but my words are muffled by a gray Holland High Athletic Department T-shirt and a very muscled chest.

  Russ just laughs and attempts to pull himself off me. “Sorry. Instinct.” He puts his hands flat on the floor next to my ears and lifts himself in a push-up, the smell of detergent and spicy deodorant filling my nose.

  “Eeeiii!” I screech as he lifts himself off me. My gold hoop earring, a gift from Grandma Sanders when I started high school, is caught in the sleeve of his T-shirt. I worry that my ear might actually detach from my body, so I grab a wad of his shirt and pull him back down. He lands with a thud back on top of me.

  “My earring,” I say into his chest. “Hold still.” I reach up and unclasp the hoop, remove it, then shove him off.

  Russ rolls to his feet. He offers his hand to me, but I smack it away and pull myself up. I glance around the room to see that, per usual, all eyes are on me, except for the french horns, who are already whispering behind their hands while they throw glances at Russ and me.

  “Sorry, boss,” Russ says. He gives one of those corn-fed-farm-boy aw shucks shrugs. “My training kicked in a little there.”

  I feel an instinct kick in, too, only mine involves my foot and his ass.

  “I don’t know if you realize this, but this week, you’re not a football player,” I say, my voice rising like steam from a kettle. “You’re not the quarterback or All-American or Captain America or whatever the hell else you fancy yourself to be.” My words send Russ’s all-star grin melting right off his face. “You are here because you were screwing around, and now you’re being punished. You’re here to work for me, which is ironic, since all you’ve done is cause work for me. From the moment we stepped onto this ship you’ve acted like a prize jerk.”

  Someone behind me snorts. I spin around, feeling as if my anger is going to sizzle out through my eyeballs. “And you guys! You’re just as bad! It’s like you don’t care whether we win or lose. Like it doesn’t mean anything to you, when it means everything. It means everything!” My voice is rising as fast as my blood pressure. Everyone is staring, even Russ. The expression on his face has morphed past embarrassment into something else. Shock? Terror?

  The room is silent. Huck is staring at me like I’ve gone bonkers. Hillary clears her throat.

  “Dude, when did you get so obsessed with winning?” she says. She gives me a look that tells me I’ve gone full loon. “It’s spring break. You need to chill out.”

  “Seriously, Liza, what’s going on?” Huck’s voice is low, cautious—and suspicious.

  As much as I want to explain, I can’t. I won’t tell them—any of them—how close we are to losing the band. I need them, which means I need to keep quiet.

  I press my fingers to my temples, where a monster headache is beginning to throb.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, grasping for an explanation, anything that might make sense. “I’m just, um, really … not feeling well. Maybe it was the coconut shrimp … or the mango shrimp … ,” I sputter, hoping no one will realize I didn’t actually eat any of those things.

  Everyone is still staring at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Without another word, I turn and bolt for the door.

  “Guys, meet back here for our afternoon practice time, okay? This practice is over,” Huck calls, even as I hurtle into the hall. Then: “Liza, wait!”

  But I don’t wait. I zigzag down the hall and up the stairs to the mezzanine, dashing past the gallery full of surf gear and miniature plastic replicas of the Destiny, up another set of stairs and past the casino, where a bunch of blue-haired ladies are hunched over the slot machines shaking plastic cups of nickels, and at last burst into the sunshine on the main deck. The sun is high and bright in the sky, and I have to blink and shield my eyes to keep from seeing spots. When I drop my hand, Huck is standing in front of me, staring me down, panting slightly.

  “Nice try,” he says, leaning against the railing of the ship, the open water over his shoulder. His voice is light, but his sunglasses are crooked on his nose, one end of the neoprene leash hanging down onto his chest. “Do you want to tell me what that was about?”

  Once again, I have no excuse to give him. I never yell like that. Raise my voice? Sure, who doesn’t in a group of sixty teenagers? Use my stern, grown-up voice? Of course. But yell? Never.

  I don’t lie to my best friends, either.

  My braid feels too tight, like it’s going to pull my hair straight from
my scalp. I reach up and pull the rubber band out of the bottom, running my fingers through my hair and shaking my head into the wind. The breeze catches it, blowing it into my face and out over the ocean.

  “I told you. I’m just not feeling well.” I place a hand on my stomach, hoping that will convince him. It’s not even that much of a lie. Increasingly, I feel like I might throw up.

  He makes a face. “If you’re gonna yak, please do it over the side,” he says. Huck is a champion babysitter, but he’s never been good with vomit. It’s a good thing neither of us drinks, because I’m pretty sure I can’t trust him to hold my hair back.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say. “I just needed some air.” I take a step toward the railing and look down at the waves churning against the side of the ship, one hundred feet below us. The water is so deep and dark it’s almost black, little whitecaps cresting on the waves. By now, we must be hundreds of miles from the shore and even farther from my house back in Tennessee. The view is certainly different from the one I see when I’m leaning over the back deck of our house, where my backyard gives way to trees, which break to show off the gently rolling foothills of the Smoky Mountains.

  “At least this is better than climbing the hills of San Francisco with a perky blond secretary,” Huck says, nudging me with an elbow.

  “She’s an associate,” I say. But Huck is right. Dad wanted me to spend spring break with him in his shiny new condo in San Francisco. His email went on and on about the views of the Golden Gate Bridge and how we could get chocolate milk shakes at the Ghirardelli place. Of course, the “we” there would be me, him, and his new girlfriend, Kimberly, a pretty young associate at his law firm. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that everything in that equation—except for the chocolate milk shakes—sounded like my version of hell.

  Huck sighs and leans next to me, staring out over the ocean. “Look, I know you’re under a lot of pressure, what with school and the parade of potential future stepmonsters and this newly cultivated need to win, but acting like a crazy stressball isn’t doing anyone any good. What can I do to get you to relax?”