The Trouble with Destiny Read online

  “Or someone?” Huck mutters, throwing a glance down toward the door, where Lenny is talking to his dad. Leave it to Demi to set her laserlike focus on the hottest guy on the boat. Just another trophy for her collection, I’m sure. But before Demi can reach him, Lenny disappears out the door.

  Demi spins on her heel, her eyes going from my frayed cutoffs to my rumpled tank to my messy bun and down again. “Don’t even try,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s too sad.”

  Missy appears, trotting up the aisle. “Did you find him?” she asks, but the question dies in her throat after a death glare from Demi. Missy’s eyes go wide as she catches sight of me. Then her expression turns smug. “So what are you guys going to do for your showcase? Like, march back and forth across the stage?”

  “It’s concert band, Missy. We sit in chairs,” I deadpan. Missy may be cute, with the voice of a pop tartlet, but she’s not exactly the brightest spotlight on the stage.

  “Did you bring your army jackets?” Demi asks, all syrupy and sneering.

  “Still looking like a walking explosion at the sequin factory?” I retort. Say what you will about the band uniforms (and you could say a lot about our British army–inspired red jackets with epaulets and gold buttons, purchased thirty years ago and sporting an almost vintage fade), but they’re nothing compared to the sock-hop skirts, spandex turtlenecks, and sequined vests the Athenas have been wearing since at least the midnineties.

  “Well, when we win the twenty-five K, we’re going to buy new designer dresses. In gold,” Demi says, taking a step toward me, “to match our trophies.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but she holds up a tanned, manicured finger in my face. “Save it,” she says, arching an eyebrow at me. “You know y’all don’t stand a chance against us.”

  They pivot on their ballet flats and strut toward the door. Before they even make it out, both Missy and Demi have peeled off their tank tops to reveal brightly colored, barely-there bikini tops. Their VIP rooms may all come with private balconies, but I know Demi & Co. won’t miss a chance to show off their stage-ready bods to the whole ship. Even when we were little, Demi loved prancing around the neighborhood pool in her hot-pink suit, while I preferred to curl up on a towel with my iPod and the one trashy magazine I’d allowed myself to bring.

  “Don’t worry, Liza,” Huck says, placing his warm hand on the small of my back. “They’re just trying to get in your head.”

  “I know,” I reply, and I wish I could tell him it wasn’t working, but the truth is, I’m nervous. I’m nervous we’re not as good as I think we are and that the Athenas are better. I’m nervous that we won’t get the money and about what will happen if we don’t. Of course, he doesn’t know that. “I just … I really want to win. I need to win.”

  Huck puts a hand on my shoulder and pivots me around to face him. “Is this about band camp again?” he says, suppressing a small sigh.

  It’s not just band camp. It’s Senior Speeches, where the outgoing seniors get up and talk about the band and memories and how much everything meant to them. They remind us of all the traditions we’re supposed to carry on, where they come from and what they mean. Senior Speeches are fun and hilarious, if not a mild threat to the underclassmen not to screw everything up in the coming year. Every year, the seniors who’ve just graduated drive up for the last day of band camp, which usually happens a week or two before they all leave for college. On the steps of the library at Cherokee State College, the tiny liberal arts campus in the woods that hosts camp every year, the outgoing drum major gives the final speech. Last summer, Sam Jacobs, a short, curly-haired clarinet player and certified genius who was off to Swarthmore in the fall, gave his entire speech while staring directly into my eyes.

  “Liza Sanders, youngest drum major in the history of the Style Marchers, I leave my legacy in your hands. My legacy, and the legacy of all the drum majors before me! We kept this band marching. We kept the music going. We kept the crowd cheering. We kept the spirit of the Holland High Style Marchers alive. This legacy is yours to carry, and yours alone.”

  He was probably a little drunk when he said it (okay, a lot drunk; rumor had it that the seniors passed around two handles of Jack before they gave their speeches), but something about those words resonated with me.

  They’re more than my bandmates, they’re my friends. The band has always been my home, a safe haven where I escaped Demi and the rat race of popularity happening in the cafeteria and in the halls. Every morning before first bell, between classes, and after school, the band room is where I can go and talk about who had the best Dr. Frank-N-Furter costume at last week’s Rocky Horror sing-along, or debate who has the best female superheroes, Marvel or DC. Our weekends are spent at bonfires out at Hillary’s family farm or singing along to the Grease sound track, the only songs on the ancient jukebox in Ben Tucker’s parents’ living room. And every year, Molly throws a Halloween party in her backyard, where you won’t find a single person dressed as a slutty nurse, slutty mouse, or slutty anything, except for the year Huck decided to dress as just “slutty” (let’s just say Nicole’s red bandage dress was working very hard that night). I have three years of memories with these people, and I’m supposed to have one more.

  So when I overheard Mr. Curtis talking about cutting the band, it felt like he was talking about cutting off my arm. And Sam’s words sang through my brain like a chorus. Keep the band marching, keep the music going … the spirit of the Holland High Style Marchers. I can’t imagine making it through senior year without the band.

  I won’t imagine it.

  The rest of them are counting on me. And they don’t even realize it.

  “Liza? Earth to Liza?” Huck snaps his fingers in front of my face, and I have to blink a few times to get my focus back. “You know Sam had had like, six shots of Jack and a pot brownie that night, right? You have to let go of the legacy speech. It’s going to drive you insane. The speeches are just overblown stand-up routines. Yours is going to be fine.”

  I nod, letting out a breath so Huck will see that I’m relaxing. But he’s totally wrong. It’s not the legacy speech I’m worried about.

  It’s our actual legacy.

  Chapter 4

  “I did not realize there were so many ways to prepare shrimp.” Huck rubs his belly with a muted groan.

  “Well, maybe sampling them all wasn’t the best idea.” I’ve avoided seafood since my oyster incident, preferring to stick to a burger and fries for lunch. Since the ship set sail only two hours ago, we’re still working on picking up speed. This means that while feasting on the largest buffet known to man or beast, we’re simultaneously working to develop our sea legs. For some, a lethal combination.

  “If you need one of these, let me know,” Hillary says. She lifts the sleeve on her i only date beatles fans T-shirt to reveal a three-inch square stuck to her arm just above her tattoo of the opening notes to “A Day in the Life,” which was her eighteenth-birthday present to herself. “Seasickness patch. I bought the family-sized box at Costco.”

  Hillary is a senior and off to Northwestern this fall to study journalism. She sort of adopted me as her little sister back when I was a freshman. Huck has always been my best friend, but Hillary has been there when I needed a girl on my side, like when I needed a roommate for band camp or that time I started my period during the first quarter of a playoff game and Hillary produced a tampon she’d wedged between the valves of her tuba. Her self-styled pixie cut makes her the Queen of the Home Haircut, and she can often be found before rehearsal giving out free trims in the tiny restroom in the corner of the band room. Thanks to Hillary, my bangs are always the perfect length.

  “I read in the brochure that the first few hours are the worst,” I reply, thankful that my stomach appears to be cooperating with the motion of the ship. At least one thing is going right for me. “Once we hit full speed on the open ocean, we’ll barely feel th
e waves.”

  “Ugh, then full steam ahead,” Hillary says, bumping my hip with hers.

  The three of us make our way down a mirrored hallway toward our practice room, a space called the Copacabana Canteen. When we arrive, we find band members gathered outside the door. The clarinets are sitting in a circle playing some kind of hand-slapping game, while the trumpets kick around a Hacky Sack while trying to avoid beaning the head of Susan Bryan, a french horn player sitting against the wall nearby. Behind them, the drum line practices an impromptu step routine.

  “Is the door locked or something?” I ask the waiting crowd.

  “Or something,” a skinny freshman saxophone player named Alex says, tossing her impossibly long red hair over her shoulder. She points to the door. I peek through the porthole window and see Demi leading the Athenas through a dance routine that involves knee bends and a shoulder shimmy.

  Without a word, I burst through the door, sending it clanging into the wall behind it. The dancers halt midshimmy, and a tall brunette in the back row actually lets out a small shriek.

  “Excuse me, rehearsal in progress,” Demi snaps as if she’s the dance teacher from Fame, a role she’s been dying to play since we were kids.

  “Yeah, it’s supposed to be our rehearsal in progress,” I reply. I reach into my bag and produce my blue folder. I flip it open to the page with the schedule First Mate Kevin handed out and shove it under Demi’s nose. It clearly shows that the Copacabana Canteen belongs to the Holland High band. I cross my arms and tap my foot theatrically on the parquet floor. Not the best venue for a loud band rehearsal, but at least the cavernous room will be big enough for all of us and our instruments. It practically dwarfs the twenty Athenas and their rump shaking.

  “Oh, sweetie, didn’t anyone tell you?” A mocking pout spreads across Demi’s red lips, and she cocks her head in faux sympathy. “There’s been a change.”

  I glance around the room and notice a distinct lack of oversized instrument cases. All I see are mirrored café tables pushed up against the wall with black chairs stacked on top of them. One of the freshman Athenas has dragged a chair across the shiny tiled floor and is balancing on top of it while she tries to take down a disco ball that’s hanging low over what I assume is a dance floor.

  The band crowds into the open door behind me, jockeying for position to watch the showdown.

  “What did you do with our instruments?” My blood is pounding in my ears. I’m already picturing them settling onto the ocean floor, a cloud of sand rising up while tropical fish swarm around them. She’s not that evil, is she?

  A stormy look crosses Demi’s face. I follow her gaze and see that she’s glaring at Russ, who’s just wedged himself through the crowd.

  “Hey, Coach,” he says, then catches the combination stress-and-rage face I’m making. “I mean, uh, Liza. I was looking for y’all. I thought we had practice.”

  Staring at his innocent smile, I worry my brain might explode and ooze out of my ears. I take a deep breath, determined not to lose my cool in front of either the band or Demi and her posse of singing dancebots.

  “We do, Russ,” I say in a voice so icy and controlled that I hear Huck gasp. “Do you not remember me asking you to make sure our instruments got to our practice space? Which is here?” I gesture around the room, empty of instruments.

  Russ grins. “Yeah, but Missy said that there was a mix-up, so I moved our stuff. She gave me a luggage cart and everything. C’mon, I’ll show you.” Russ turns back toward the door. I shoot Missy a death glare. She gives me a smile and a finger-wagging wave.

  “Let’s just go,” Huck says. He loops his arm through mine and leads me through the door after Russ. The rest of the band falls in behind us. “Not worth it.”

  We make our way back down the mirrored hallway. “Huck, what am I going to do?” I whisper.

  “About what?”

  “What do you mean what? It was already going to be an uphill battle to beat the Athenas, but now they’re using Russ as a saboteur!”

  “Um, I doubt Russ is a saboteur. I think he’s just dumb,” Huck says. I glance at Russ’s back, a gray Holland High Football T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders. We follow him down two flights of stairs. “Besides, didn’t Demi just dump him?”

  Huck has a point. Still, better safe than sorry. “Please, that’s probably all just a ruse. Or maybe he’s trying to get her back by sabotaging us. Either way, he can’t be trusted.”

  “Uh, drama much?” Huck rolls his eyes, but I ignore him. I don’t trust Demi, so I can’t trust Russ.

  Russ leads us down a third flight of stairs, down another hallway, and around a corner to another doorway. A sign overhead reads paradise alley bowling, and a handwritten note taped to the door reads Sorry, Closed for Repairs.

  Russ throws me another grin, then shoves through the door into the darkened bowling alley. He flicks on a light, and I see all our instrument cases stacked in an impossible tower, crowding the small lobby area and reaching over into the seats at the end of the four lanes. Against the back wall, a ladder is set up surrounded by caution tape, an open duct exposed on the floor. The room is almost the same size as the studio upstairs. Unfortunately, most of the space is taken up by orange plastic seats bolted to the floor, racks of bowling balls, computer scoring units, and a freaking bowling alley. The rest of my fellow musicians crowd in behind me, leaving almost no room to turn around, much less rehearse.

  “This won’t work!” I hiss to Huck, my panic level reaching code red. My iron grip on my cool is loosening with each passing second.

  “Maybe if we unpack everything and move the cases out into the hall, there might be some space?” Russ runs his hand through his beach-blond hair. Everyone looks at me, their fearless leader, for instructions. I’m tempted to call it a day, but that means I give Demi another in a series of wins. This is my band, and I decide when we practice. Maybe not where, but when.

  “All right, guys, here’s what we’re going to do,” I announce loudly, and tell them to unload their instruments and stack their cases by the door. Then I direct all the section leaders to gather their players into groups so that we can do a standing rehearsal like we would out on the practice field during marching season.

  Everyone gets to work. Russ has stacked the cases carefully to make them all fit in a complex jigsaw-puzzle formation, with the smallest instruments at the top. This means that our tiny woodwind girls are having to practically scale a mountain to grab their stuff, and then, in order to make space for others, move out into the lanes. Andrew, a lanky baritone player whose vision is partially obscured by a dark mop of curls, loses his footing on the greased-up floor. His baritone case hits the lane and careens toward the pins at the end just as he hits the floor with a thud. His girlfriend, Clarice, the clarinet player, yelps and rushes to his aid, but is blocked by Russ, who is standing over Andrew.

  “Strike!” Russ laughs. He offers a hand to Andrew, who stares at it suspiciously before ignoring it and pushing himself gingerly to his feet. I don’t blame Andrew. It wasn’t long ago that the defensive line mistook him for a tackling dummy as he crossed the practice field to our rehearsal and sent him skidding butt-first across the wet grass. I had to help him sew up his jeans so his jack-o’-lantern boxers wouldn’t be on display during his European history presentation the following period.

  “This is a nightmare,” I mutter to Huck, who is clutching his oboe case and trying to contain his laughter. Across the alley, Ben and another trumpet player named Nate, both of whom fancy themselves the jocks of the band, have started a game of catch with a hot-pink bowling ball.

  “Put that back!” I call, but in all the commotion, they either don’t hear me or pretend not to. I set off through the crowd, climbing over a bass drum and a tuba. Russ has already joined in, and has the pink bowling ball hoisted for a toss.

  “Put that back!” I bark at
full volume.

  Russ jumps, and the ball drops out of his hand and lands on the floor with a crash. It rolls—slowly at first, then faster—straight toward the open duct in the floor.

  “Oh God,” I whisper. I watch its path, my rolling stomach picking up speed with the ball.

  “Get it!” Russ shouts, and all three boys spring into action. The slick floor sends them all skidding headfirst after the ball just half a second too late. It drops through the duct in a flash of pink.

  The entire room goes silent while we wait to hear it land. It feels like we wait for three eternities. Finally, there’s a loud crack, a crash, a clang … and then a long, low hissing sound, like the air being slowly let out of a balloon.

  “What’s that?” Russ says, wrinkling his nose.

  Before I can answer, a stream of white smoke begins pouring out of the duct. It rolls low over the floor, curling around our ankles, then begins to rise until we’re fanning our faces just to see. There’s a hot, damp smell that makes my eyes water and my heart pound.

  “Oh my God!” Clarice the clarinet player shrieks. Images of lifeboats and a sinking ship flash before my eyes, making me break into a cold sweat. Nicole Mauser clutches her flute case and looks like she’s seconds away from throwing up or passing out—or both. Russ uses his huge arms to try to fan the smoke away from the opening, but it’s like sticking a teacup underneath a waterfall. The smoke is getting thicker, and it’s rolling toward the back of the alley.

  I have to do something before … I don’t know what. We sink? We get in trouble? We get disqualified from the competition?

  Suddenly death at sea seems less scary than what will happen if we lose the competition.

  “Everybody get your stuff—fast. We were never here.” My voice comes out as a yelp. “Our practice space was full, so we just stored our instruments in our cabins and enjoyed a free afternoon. Got it?”

  I haven’t seen a group of band kids move this fast since that time the homecoming game went into overtime and we nearly missed our postgame trip to Dairy Queen. Brass and silver disappear into the velvet guts of instrument cases. Stacks of sheet music are shoved into folders and bags, and for once, I’m not worried about folded corners or crumpled pages. Within minutes, the room is clear.