The Trouble With Destiny (6 page)

“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 over 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….

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.

“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.

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.”