The Trouble with Destiny Page 3

  I spot Mr. Curtis in a seat in the back corner of the theater, and I set off to join him while I attempt to catch my breath. On my way up the stairs, I pass Mrs. Haddaway, the advisor for Holland High’s all-girl show choir, the Athenas. I almost don’t recognize her with her hair tucked up in an orange Tennessee Volunteers baseball cap, the bill pulled down low as she hunches over some pink-and-green knitting project. Two rows up are Demi Tremont and her best friend, Missy O’Brien, the captain and cocaptain of the Athenas. In their identically worn-in denim miniskirts and candy-colored tissue tanks, they look like Tweedle Mean and Tweedle Meaner. When Demi spots me coming up the stairs, she sneers at my rumpled clothes and messy bun, then turns to Missy.

  “Thank God my mom got us upgraded,” she says in an exaggerated stage whisper. “She’s dating this totally hot travel agent, which means VIP everything. I can’t imagine being squeezed down in the ass end of the ship, practically bunking with the freaking crew.”

  I’ve spent most of high school ignoring my ex–best friend, but her comment makes my blood boil. After I found out about the cruise competition, we fund-raised for months to earn the money for the tickets, selling candy bars, wrapping paper, magazine subscriptions, anything that would bring in the cash to cover our rooms. I practically turned my band into a living production of Death of a Salesman just to get here. On the other hand, the Athenas hosted exactly one bikini car wash and are staying in deluxe suites. Unfair.

  Demi and I were born on the same day, in the same hospital, one hour apart in rooms right next to each other (she came first, which would turn out to be a theme between us). This basically ensured that we’d be either best friends or mortal enemies, and for the first twelve years of our lives, we were the former. While our moms drank coffee and shared neighborhood gossip, we babbled and played and eventually became best friends. We were in the same preschool class, the same ballet class, played on the same soccer team, and sat next to each other in the same Sunday school class. And when we weren’t shuttling around to various activities together, we were in each other’s bedrooms playing endless hours of pretend.

  There’s only one thing to know about Demi: Demi is a winner. Demi wins. From the time we were little, she was always the best soccer player, the prima ballerina, and the first to raise her hand to name the writers of the Gospels. When we played school, Demi was the teacher. When we played hospital, Demi got to perform lifesaving surgery. In the confines of her cotton-candy-pink bedroom, Demi racked up an Oscar, a Grammy, the American Idol title, and a Super Bowl ring. And honestly, I never minded much. I liked opening the envelope, and covering myself in ketchup to play a surgical victim was fun (though we got in mega trouble for the mess we made on that one). I’ve just never been that competitive. It wasn’t until I tried out for drum major that I’d ever really competed for anything, and I like it just fine that way.

  Then sixth grade rolled around and middle school happened, and Demi discovered a whole new world ready for the taking. Now she didn’t just have to pretend to win; she could simply win. And so Demi set out to always wear the cutest outfits, have the most friends, sit at the best table in the cafeteria (and in the best seat, of course, right in the middle of the action), and go out with the most sought-after boy at Holland Middle School.

  And me? When it wasn’t just the two of us playing pretend anymore, it wasn’t as fun. Not for me, at least. I just got tired, first of trying to keep up, then of always playing second fiddle. Every day with Demi was like running a marathon. But no matter how fast I ran, I was always guaranteed to come in second. So on the first day of seventh grade, when we had agreed to sign up for auditions for the fall musical, I walked over to a different table and signed up for the one activity I knew Demi would never, ever deign to do. There would be no competition, and I definitely wouldn’t earn any points in the race to be cool.

  Demi won the lead in My Fair Lady, and I became a flautist in the middle school band. Without shared activities, our carpools disappeared, and with Demi in rehearsals, so did our sleepovers and movie dates. I started eating lunch across the cafeteria with my new band friends, which turned out to be way more fun than watching Demi flirt and everyone else fawn over her. And with all my newfound free time I gained from not applauding for Demi every day, I even became a kickass flute player. I didn’t realize we’d broken up until long after it had happened, leaving me to wonder if Demi and I were ever real friends, or if I was just her tagalong. Regardless, Demi and I never competed against each other again.

  Until now.

  I open my mouth for some kind of smart retort, but Demi has already turned back to Missy. The pair of them start pointing at our competitors and whispering behind cupped hands, throwing narrow-eyed glances around the auditorium. I make my way to the back corner and take my seat next to the ever-quiet Mr. Curtis, who once again has his nose buried behind his phone. We don’t get cell service out here, but the website boasted about the ship’s superior Wi-Fi capability.

  “Hi, Mr. Curtis,” I say as I plop down in the chair in the row in front of him.

  “Hey there, Liza,” he says, a relaxed smile on his face that I would attribute to the cruise, except Mr. Curtis always seems to run on half speed. He’s the calmest, most Zen teacher I’ve ever had, which is probably why I feel like I have to be doubly motivated to get anything done with the band. Without me taking the lead, I’m pretty sure half the woodwinds would still be in the parking lot of the cruise terminal, and at least one student would have been left back at the school.

  I think about Lenny and his laid-back smile. I guess he does get something from his dad, though I have to push the thought away quickly. I don’t want that like-father-like-son image to come creeping into my head later. Ick.

  I start to apologize for being almost late, but Mr. Curtis is already back on his phone, where I notice he’s playing some kind of game that involves tapping on pictures of flaming candy bars. Which is just as well, because a crew member clad in the ship’s uniform of crisp white shorts, matching polo, and white socks and sneakers is starting to pass around a stack of stapled papers. When he gets to the back row, he hands two to me, and I pass one over to Mr. Curtis. I leaf through the packet, recognizing most of the information as stuff I already pulled off the web, mostly maps, schedules, rules, and programs. There’s also a list of all the other competitors. I take a moment to scan down it to see that the only groups I know are the Athenas and the Mechanicals. There’s an orchestra listed, and some kind of dance troupe, plus two other bands. The other three I can’t determine from their names alone.

  The crew guy, who introduces himself as First Mate Kevin without a single note of irony, runs through the performance schedules, locations, and rules of the competition. He reminds us all to double-check that the judges have the most up-to-date programs for each of us, a task I took care of via email last week. We’ve been working on our program since January, so there was no reason to wait to submit our music. He also reminds us to arrive at the auditorium by 6:30 sharp for tonight’s showcase, and I make a mental note to get there at least fifteen minutes early. Definitely on time in Mr. Curtis’s book.

  First Mate Kevin finishes right as the auditorium door swings open and the rest of the student performers start to stream in to join their team leaders. The remaining Athenas, all dressed like they shopped on the same really expensive website, all wearing variations on the short skirt and brightly colored tank top, stream in. A few have accessorized with matching candy-colored sunglasses or bright bauble necklaces, but they all have their hair flat-ironed shiny and cascading over their shoulders. They squeeze in past Demi and Missy and occupy the row of seats right in the center of the auditorium. Of course.

  The Mechanicals file in behind them, still in their matching shirts, all stumbling in doing spot-on impersonations of zombies for reasons I can’t possibly guess. It’s like they don’t even care about the competition; they just want to be the center o
f attention. Though only one town over from Holland, Centreville is a much more affluent community, so the Mechanicals probably aren’t facing the same cuts we are. Which is good, because if they don’t need the money, maybe they’ll let their guard down enough for us to squash them.

  As they plop down in seats, laughing and talking and high-fiving, I almost envy them. They look like they’re having fun, which is what I’d be doing if we weren’t in dire financial straits. While the rest of the crowd trickles in, I give myself a moment to imagine what it would be like to be on this trip without the black cloud of the cuts hanging over my head. I’d probably spend most of my time sitting in a lounge chair with Hillary on one side of me and Huck on the other, a stack of trashy magazines on my lap. I’d eat my weight in buffet food and belt out songs in the karaoke lounge and probably act just like the Mechanicals.

  But this week isn’t about fun. It’s not about hanging out with my friends or scarfing belgian waffles while I read about which celebutante is dating which heartthrob. It’s about making sure that next year, I get to keep the band and my friends. And that thought has panic washing over me, first as a trickle, then as a flood.

  I squeeze the arms of my chair tightly, willing myself to breathe. Huck comes through the door, tailed by the other four oboe players, the rest of the woodwinds, and all the brass. The percussion section brings up the rear, as usual. They’re a scrappy group of dudes who are always in motion, drumming on themselves, one another, or anything within reach. Huck trots up the steps and drops down in the seat beside me, and I immediately feel a little better. Huck may be drawn to trouble like a starlet to a scandal, but he’s also my best friend.

  “I can’t believe I have to spend the week dealing with that,” I say, gesturing down to the row of Athenas. “I know we’re here to work, but I was at least hoping for a little break.”

  “A break from what?” The row of seats bounces and groans as Russ, Holland High’s quarterback—and Demi’s ex-boyfriend—drops his solid frame down in the empty seat next to mine. He reaches up and tucks his long, nearly chin-length blond hair behind his ears, where I notice a hole, the remnant of the time the starting line decided it would be cool to pierce one another’s ears as some kind of warped demonstration of toughness and solidarity. Coach Morrison went ballistic and made all his players remove the earrings, but the mark remains.

  When Russ catches me staring, he nods at me with a jocklike “ ’Sup?” At well over six feet tall, his knees thud into the seat in front of him, his arms more than taking up his armrest and starting in on my own. I nudge him hard with my elbow in an effort to confine him to his own space.

  “You were saying about work?” Huck mutters under his breath. He leans back in his seat so as to disappear behind me, and thus out of Russ’s view. Huck has never forgiven the HHS football team, Russ included, for the incident during the pregame show sophomore year. We’d just finished the national anthem and were about to march into the tunnel formation, when the football team accidentally (on purpose) stormed the field early. Huck went flying ass over ankles into the end zone in front of a cheering crowd of Bulldog fans.

  “Uh, Russ? Could you, um—” I search my brain for a task that will occupy him somewhere else, somewhere far away from me so I don’t have to spend every second babysitting him. “Could you double-check that our instruments got loaded into the practice room?”

  Russ leaps out of his seat with all the eagerness of a golden retriever sent after a tennis ball.

  “Sure thing, Coach,” he says, and flashes me a grin like he’s starring in a Gatorade commercial.

  “You don’t have to call me Coach, Russ,” I say for the ten thousandth time.

  “Wait, so what are you, then?” His face gets quizzical, as if he’s trying to solve a complex geometry problem.

  “You mean existentially?” Huck chimes in, still slouched down in his chair. I slap him in the chest.

  “I’m the drum major, Russ,” I say, channeling my mom when she’s trying to get her third graders to settle down and work on subtraction. When the look of confusion doesn’t fade, I clarify. “I’m like the leader.”

  Suddenly he’s all smiles, deep dimples you could deposit Skittles in appearing on both cheeks. “You mean like the QB.”

  I sigh and give a resigned shrug. “Sure, I’m like the band’s QB.”

  Huck swallows back a snort.

  “I can respect that,” Russ says, raising a hand for a high five. His hand whizzes toward mine with so much speed it actually produces a breeze. The impact sends my hand flying backward into my own face. Russ, who thinks this is all some kind of funny act, grins, then turns and bounds down the stairs two at a time.

  All around me, my friends bust out in riotous laughter. Even Huck is doubled over, hiccuping.

  “Traitor,” I snap, shooting him a warning look, but he only laughs harder.

  “C’mon, Liza,” he says between desperate gasps for air. “That was funny.”

  I reach up and pop his fedora right off his head. He bends down to retrieve his hat from Clarice Cartwright’s lap. Clarice is a freshman who plays clarinet. Seriously, Clarice, the clarinet player. I sometimes fantasize about handing her a saxophone and whispering, “Hurry! There’s still time!”

  “I do not envy you this week,” Huck says, straightening up again.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. But he doesn’t have to answer, because I feel a sudden twinge, an unpleasant feeling of being watched. A familiar pair of sea-green eyes is glaring at me. Demi. She’s giving me a look so sharp it could draw blood. As soon as she catches me staring, she pivots around and fixates on the door, where Russ’s broad shoulders are disappearing out into the hall.

  “Great,” I mutter. “Just what I need. More drama.” I heard Demi dumped Russ pretty spectacularly about a month ago, so I don’t know what she has to be pissed about. Besides, if I could offload Russ, I would. Gladly. In fact, I plan to spend the week giving him enough mindless tasks to keep him completely out of my hair. I make a mental note to brainstorm a list tonight.

  Up onstage, First Mate Kevin taps a mike and introduces himself to the new arrivals. This time his title draws a round of suppressed snickers from the crowd. First Mate Kevin either doesn’t hear them or pretends not to, because he charges on.

  “Welcome to Sail Away Cruise Line’s Ship of Dreams high school performing arts competition!” He pumps his fist in the air, and this draws a round of cheers. The Mechanicals jump out of their seats and stomp their feet. Off switch, I think in their direction. Kevin grins, then waves at the crowd like he thinks he’s a late-night television host trying to silence his audience so he can finish his monologue. “From the looks of all the talent in this room, I know we’re going to have a fierce competition this week,” he says while shielding his eyes and scanning us all, “but we’re also going to have a heck of a lot of fun!”

  Kevin pumps his arm again, but this time the reception isn’t quite as hearty. Undeterred, Kevin launches into another summation of all the rules and regulations of the competition. Finally, he gets to the just say no portion of the presentation.

  “And, kids,” he says, his voice affecting a kind of sitcom-dad tone, “when we get to Nassau, there are going to be some unsavory characters hanging around. They might even offer you some illicit substances.” He hooks his fingers into air quotes, and I feel a shift in the audience that feels like a collective eye roll. “But I know you’ll say no. After all, you’ll be having so much fun aboard the ship that you won’t need drugs to get high. You’ll be high on life!”

  The giggles start quietly but soon spark a roaring fire of raucous laughter. It seems First Mate Kevin is unaware that everyone is laughing at him and not with him, because he just stands there beaming like he’s accepting an Emmy.

  But I’m too distracted by the sight of Lenny to join in.

  He’s only just arriving, so inst
ead of making his way up the aisle to sit with us, he leans back against the bright orange wall, arms crossed, one leg propped up against the wall behind him, one hand cradling his camera.

  “High on life indeed,” Huck whispers, his gaze following mine and every other girl’s (and more than a few guys’). “Who’s the hipster James Dean?”

  “Mr. Curtis’s son,” I reply, trying to keep my voice from betraying the nervous energy racing through my veins. “I actually know him. …”

  But before I can give any more details, First Mate Kevin adjourns the meeting and bounds off the stage. I know from experience that I have exactly four seconds before I lose control of the band completely. I leap to my feet and turn to face them, raising my arms for their attention like I would on the football field. All heads snap to me in unison.

  “Guys! Don’t forget. Lunch next, followed by a rehearsal at two-thirty. The practice room number is on your schedule. Do not be late.”

  Everyone nods, and I get a scattering of “Sure thing, Liza.” But as soon as I drop my arms, they start moving for the door fast. They’re probably hightailing it to either be first in the buffet line or to steal some extra time to explore the ship. I don’t blame them. If I didn’t feel so responsible for their well-being on the ship and for the band’s entire future, I’d be pretty psyched to check out the three pools, six sundecks, bowling alley, and zip line. A zip line, for goodness’ sake.

  “Meet me in the room. We’ll go to lunch today, okay?” Hillary calls from the bottom of the steps.

  “Definitely,” I reply. “Fifteen minutes?”

  “Early is on time,” she says, rolling her eyes, and we share a laugh.

  When the stampede clears, I head down the aisle with Huck. On my way, I practically collide with Demi, who’s making her way up the stairs. Her pouty, pink-glossed lips are pursed as she scans the auditorium.

  “Looking for something?” I ask.