The Trouble with Destiny

by Lauren Morrill

  “I don’t know,” I say, allowing irritation to creep back into my voice. Hillary basically said the same thing. If only they knew that I can’t relax. “Can you make sure that Mr. Curtis doesn’t turn psycho vigilante on the captain of this ship? Or go back in time and erase our horrible performance? Or prevent Russ from turning this cruise ship into a reenactment of the Titanic? Better yet, maybe you can figure out a way to keep the captain from watching the surveillance video that’s probably going to show us vandalizing the ship?”

  Huck pauses, using his fingers to stroke an imaginary beard.

  “The time travel issue is, well, difficult. Video? I’ll mull. And making sure that Mr. Curtis stays distracted … hmmm,” Huck says. He grabs a bunch of my windblown hair and gives it a little tug. “That I can do. But you’ll need to meet me by the pool if you want to make it happen.”

  “Are you serious?” I stare at him.

  He shrugs a shoulder, fake-modest. “I already have an idea. It won’t solve all our problems, but it’ll be a start.” Huck pulls me into a bear hug.

  “What would I do without you?” I say, my words partly muffled by the green fabric of his T-shirt.

  “Be a lot crazier, that’s for damn sure,” he says. He pulls back and stares into my face like a naturalist observing some kind of endangered species. “So what do you think? Are you in?”

  I know setting Huck loose is a risk, but we’re at that point where it’s time to go all in. So I take a deep breath and plaster on a smile. “Let’s do it,” I say.

  Huck slaps me on the back. “Attagirl. Now go change into your suit. Meet me on deck in five. My plan commences in ten.”

  Chapter 7

  As I make my way down to the Laguna, the largest of Destiny’s three outdoor pools, I pull the towel tighter around my waist like it’s my own personal cloak of invisibility. It’s bad enough that we’ve lost another practice opportunity, but I also acted like a hormonal lunatic and yelled at all my friends. I’m hoping a moment of lounging by the pool will help me get control of life and the band, and maybe, possibly, get me back to my normal self. I do not like being spazzy, panicky, out-of-control Liza.

  I walk onto the pool deck, scanning the crowd for Huck. The pool is packed, maybe because the backup generators on board mean the ship’s AC seems to be on its last legs. The deck is dominated by forty or so fellow performers and their chaperones, lounging on the purple beach chairs or splashing around in the oval-shaped pool. Near the back of the ship—The prow? The stern? I’ve already forgotten what was written in the promotional materials—a small band of men and women are playing shuffleboard, visors holding back their gray hair, oversized sunglasses taking up most of their tanned, wrinkled faces. There’s a crowd gathered around a makeshift tiki bar with a cerulean awning at the far end of the pool, and waiters in crisp white uniforms are bustling around the deck delivering brightly colored drinks filled with fruit and umbrellas. Next to the tiki bar is one of the ship’s many buffets, covered by a row of navy-blue umbrellas.

  I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, and suddenly I’m ravenous. I don’t see anyone I know in the line, so I scoot over and join the end of it while still searching for Huck. When I get to the front, I see it’s mostly tiers of cheese and crackers, along with a large fruit salad in a crystal bowl. I reach for a plate and the gleaming metal tongs, then scoot a few pieces of cantaloupe aside and start plucking the big, fat strawberries out of the bowl, placing them on my plate.

  “Morty, she’s takin’ all the strawberries!” a scratchy-voiced lady croaks to her husband. Her eyes look massive behind her thick plastic glasses, like they might jump out and land on my plate. She nudges her husband hard, sending a few crackers tumbling off his plate and onto the deck. She points at me with her fork. “See that? She’s takin’ all the strawberries! Little missy, you can’t take all the strawberries.”

  “Don’t listen to her, my dear.” Another voice, this one smoother and heavily accented, floats down to me. I look up to see a tall, thin woman, her graying hair swept up in an elegant french twist, a summery orange-and-yellow silk caftan hanging off her slender frame. She winks at me. “Life’s short. Eat the strawberries.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I glance back triumphantly at the cantankerous old lady and her husband, Morty. She’s still giving me the evil eye. I pop a strawberry into my mouth and smile.

  Okay, not the classiest thing to do. But sheesh, lady. Who made you the strawberry police?

  The tall woman transfers her plate to her left hand and reaches out to me with a tanned, french-manicured hand. Her palm has the smooth, waxy feeling of parchment paper. When I let go, I can smell her lavender lotion. “I’m Sofia. Would you mind, darling, helping me with this extra plate?” She reaches for a glass of iced tea and gestures to another plate on the table piled high with cheese and crackers. “Hands full and all.”

  “Sure,” I say, and take her plate in my free hand. She sets off through the crowd and the sea of chairs, moving with easy confidence, like a cat. She stops at an empty high-top café table, where she rests her plate and glass and gestures for me to do the same.

  “Do you have a minute to chat? I love a little girl talk,” she says. She must be at least sixty, but her demeanor makes her appear years younger. Her smile carves deep dimples into her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes practically infectious.

  I don’t see Huck, so I figure why not? Sofia’s voice is soft and lilting, and I can feel it sending a wave of calm right over me. “Sure, I’d love to,” I reply.

  “Oh, good! So tell me, darling. Are you here with your family?”

  “No,” I reply, tasting another one of my own strawberries. They’re perfectly ripe and sweet, like they’ve been sprinkled with powdered sugar, and I’m glad I took plenty. “We don’t do much traveling as a unit anymore.” I don’t know why I blurted that out, but seeing Sofia arch an eyebrow makes me hastily add, “I’m on a class trip with my high school band, actually. We’re playing in the showcase.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful! Ramon and I will have to come see you perform,” she says, and winks. She’s so nice, I wonder how I can tell her not to bother. I’d hate to assault her ears the way we did the audience last night. “We’re here celebrating our wedding. His first, my fourth.”

  I can’t hide my surprise.

  “Oh dear, don’t look so scandalized!” Sofia laughs. The sound is loud but delicate at the same time, like the sound of glass shattering over a tile floor. “What did I say? Life’s too short not to eat the strawberries … or fall in love!”

  Her joy is contagious. Before I know it I find myself laughing along with her. She stacks three pieces of Brie on top of a cracker, then pauses before taking a bite.

  “But, darling, you’re not here to spend your time with an old woman,” she says, her voice light and playfully scolding. “Go now, be with your friends. But don’t forget what I said.”

  “Eat the strawberries,” I say, raising my plate to her in a toast.

  “And fall in love! Don’t forget that one,” she says, a knowing smile on her face.

  But I have to forget that one. I don’t have the brain space for love right now. In fact, I rarely have the brain space for love, other than the occasional fictional character. Between school and band and dealing with my parents, it’s a wonder I have time for friends. Which is what makes it so convenient that the people in band are my friends. And what makes it all the more important that I not lose them.

  When I scoot back from the table, I spot Huck near the shallow end of the pool. He sees me at the same time.

  “Liza! Over here!” He’s lounging in a pair of red vintage swim trunks, his signature fedora (at least for this week) atop his dark hair.

  As I move through the crowd toward him, I spy Andrew and Clarice sharing one lounge chair and reading aloud from a tattered copy of The Prisoner of Azkaban. Michael, Ben, and Na
te are all taking turns doing some kind of flip where they launch one another from their interlocked hands. A few other band members are lounging under the clouds, flipping through magazines and sipping Cokes. Seeing them provokes fresh waves of embarrassment about how I acted earlier, and I drop quickly down into the chair next to Huck’s.

  “What’s with the muumuu?” he says, and I realize I’m still wearing my towel like a cape. “You trying to go incognito?”

  Huck is on his back, squinting up into the sky, which is starting to get gray. It doesn’t matter, though. Huck has no need to work on his tan. His skin glistens in the heat, and I’m simultaneously jealous and overcome with desire to apply sunscreen. I reach for the tube I brought out with me. Of course I applied liberally before leaving my cabin, but I’m the girl who always misses a spot and winds up with some kind of wonky burn, even if it does look like that storm Mr. Curtis was talking about might roll in.

  “I wish,” I say. I squeeze a quarter-sized dollop of sunscreen into my palm. “I acted like a total lunatic in front of all my friends, who are also the people I’m supposed to be leading.” I rub sunscreen onto my knees, which I often forget until they’ve burned red as summer tomatoes. “Oh, and don’t forget that when we performed last night, we sounded like a bag of cats in a dryer. Not that it matters if the cruise mechanics figure out we broke the cruise ship—I’ll be remembered forever as the drum major who broke the band.”

  “Oy with the drama.” He flips over in his chair, lowering the back so that it’s flat, allowing him to lie facedown for an even tan. With his change in position, I can see that four chairs down is Lenny, his nose scrunched up as he studies the back of his camera. Sofia’s words echo through my mind. Those strawberries were damn good. … Maybe falling in love isn’t such a bad idea. Okay, maybe not love, because who has time for that? But maybe a serious case of like. I definitely have time for that.

  “Holy crap,” I mutter, and quickly adjust my chair to flat so that I can lie down and hide behind Huck. The last person I want to see is the hottest guy on the entire boat.

  Huck cocks an eyebrow at me and then follows my gaze to Lenny. “I can’t believe that kid is related to Curtis. I mean, for serious?”

  “I kissed him,” I say, the words coming out before I can suck them back in. “Lenny, I mean. Not Mr. Curtis.”

  Huck lets out a squawk that makes him sound like a parrot caught in a hair dryer. He props himself up on his arm and gapes at me. “You kissed him? Where? When?”

  I wave my hand frantically to shush him. “We were twelve. It hardly even counted. It was at performing arts camp.”

  “Who knew?” Huck says, grinning. “Liza, a twelve-year-old temptress.”

  I ignore him. “But he walked me to my room yesterday and I think …” I pause, wondering what I think. Since he came on board, he’s been finding little excuses to talk to me, bringing up our old camp days. Then again, we haven’t exactly spent a lot of quality time together. “I think I might … have a little crush … just a tiny one. …”

  Huck leans across the space between our lounge chairs. “You like him!” he crows with accusatory glee. “You totally like him! You want to take him out into the woods at band camp!”

  “Shhh!” I glare at him, even though I can’t help but smile. “What is wrong with you?” I shake my hair off my shoulders. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter whether I like him or not, or whether he likes me. I have to focus on the competition.”

  “Liza and Lenny, sitting in a tree … ,” Huck singsongs. I reach out and whack him.

  “So weren’t you saying something about a plot?” I say pointedly, desperate to change the subject. I check one of the shoulder straps on my suit to be sure I’m not burning. Last summer I went to the beach and fell asleep with both hands resting on my stomach. For four weeks I had perfect white handprints pasted over my otherwise scarlet skin. You only make that mistake once.

  “Liza, I got more plot than a Stephen King novel. And we’re starting with Curtis.” Huck points to the tiki bar. Mr. Curtis is there, dressed in a banana-yellow polo and long black swim trunks, the first time I’ve ever seen him out of his uniform. He’s managed to tame his hair (and his collar), but he’s still frowning, and his eyes dart periodically between the pool, the sky, and the ocean, as if trying to anticipate the most likely source of our demise. He’s sipping some kind of neon-colored frozen beverage topped with a cornucopia of brightly colored fruit and umbrellas.

  “You want to spike his drink until he’s too drunk to notice how badly I’m screwing up?”

  “Think bigger,” Huck says, pointing back toward the bar, “and less felonious. Observe.”

  I turn back to Mr. Curtis. At first I don’t notice anything unusual, except for his insane fashion choices.

  “What am I looking for, exactly?” I say, beginning to grow impatient.

  “Shhh.” Huck leans forward, clearly enjoying himself. “Just keep watching. Trust me.”

  After another moment, something clicks, and I notice that Huck’s right: every time Mr. Curtis’s eyes sweep over a certain woman, they pause, and his expression turns momentarily gooey.

  The woman is wearing a black sarong over a fire-engine-red halter suit. It’s a far cry from the hoodie and ball cap ensemble she was sporting when we arrived. She raises her cat’s-eye sunglasses up to push back her blond curls. The gesture causes Mr. Curtis to cough, choking on his drink and dribbling it down the front of his shirt.

  “Mrs. Haddaway?” I squeak.

  “Make that Ms. Haddaway,” Huck says, leaning back in his chair, satisfied. “She got divorced over Christmas.”

  Aside from being the Athenas’ faculty advisor, Tanya Haddaway teaches home ec, a class no one takes anymore except the girls who are too stoned to sit through an art class and the athletes looking for a hookup or an easy A. I’m pretty sure she spends all her time down in the home ec room making her vintage re-creation dresses on the ancient sewing machines, wishing desperately that she were teaching the class circa 1958. She’s nice, but a little strange. Actually, in another life, she could have totally fit into the clarinet section.

  “And you want to play matchmaker why?” I glance between Huck and the potential lovers at the bar.

  He shrugs. “You said you wanted to keep Mr. Curtis out of your hair, didn’t you?”

  He has a point. “And how do you propose we make that happen?”

  “You’ll see, amiga.” He winks at me, then calls out, “Hey, Russ, how about some dodgeball?”

  Russ is acting as a human jungle gym for a group of kids, who are taking turns climbing up onto his shoulders and cannonballing off into the shallow end. I catch a few sunning moms watching him lift their children, his broad shoulders shaking with laughter at their excited squeals. At Huck’s suggestion, Russ ushers his new friends back toward the steps and grabs for one of the colorful, spongy foam balls floating lazily around the pool. His game-winning smile cranks up to a thousand watts.

  “Seriously, Huck?” I say through clenched teeth. Russ immediately sets me back six steps in my path toward relaxation. I feel a bubble of anxiety growing in my stomach. Not only is he a giant pain in the ass, he’ll never have to worry about someone cutting his bus fund. The band gets cut and what does the football team get? A bigger weight room.

  “We need the power of a crowd,” Huck says. He stands up from his chair and deposits his hat back where he was sitting, placing his sunglasses safely inside. “Everyone likes Russ.” Before I can correct him, he adds, “Besides, who’s going to believe that I want to play dodgeball?”

  Huck’s not wrong. He’s faked nearly every illness on WebMD to avoid gym class. As far as I know, the kid’s never actually run the mile. Last year, he was struck down by strep throat, avian flu, and rickets, an illness I’d never even heard of. Neither had Coach Morrison, apparently, because Huck sat out a whole week for that one.r />
  “Dodgeball!” Russ bellows, and all eyes swivel to him. He raises his hand to point to a little girl, who tosses him the purple ball she’s holding. He wades over and, with the ball cradled in one arm, lifts her out of the pool with the other. She giggles and skips away. Then Russ wings a sopping wet ball at Andrew, who after only one and a half semesters of high school gym has already developed catlike reflexes when it comes to flying objects. In a flash, he’s under the water. The ball sails through the space he just occupied and lands on Britt Marsh’s tanned back with a loud, wet thwack. Britt spins around; her mouth, which is usually belting out soprano parts with the Athenas, forms a surprised O. As soon as she realizes Russ is the culprit, her surprise turns to laughter.

  “Dodgeball! Who’s in?” she calls to the rest of the Athenas. A few roll their eyes, but they fall in nonetheless. I have to admit, Huck’s instincts about Russ were spot-on. He knows how to mobilize a crowd.

  Huck stretches and cracks his knuckles over his head. “You in?”

  “Dodgeball?” I eye Russ, who’s dividing up teams in the pool as a bunch of skinny, giggling airheads—Demi’s friends—ogle him. “Uh, no thank you.”

  Huck shrugs and jumps in. When the few grown-ups in the pool realize they’re paddling through a makeshift dodgeball court, they make a quick retreat toward the bar. The moms usher their kids off to the kiddie pool at the far end of the deck. The teams separate to their respective ends of the pool, and the bright blue Sail Away logo on the bottom of the pool is designated as the line of no return.

  Russ raises the ball above his head, and for just one second—one teensy, tiny microsecond—I notice how nice his smile looks against his tanned skin, and the broadness of his shoulders and arms. I quickly look away. Russ is way too annoying to be hot, and I can’t let his good looks distract me. After the practice-room switch, I’m still not sure he’s not a double agent for Demi and the Athenas. I need to keep my eye on him.