The Trouble With Destiny (12 page)

My fury at Jared for missing our performance melts away as I watch angry red splotches appear on Demi's cheeks. She's glaring at Jared, but it's too late to put that toothpaste back in the tube. Once again, the band is crashing her party. So take
that,
Demi.

But I can't let Jared completely off the hook, so as he starts to leave, I grab him by the elbow. “Hey, where
were
you? You totally screwed us!”

Jared looks sheepish. He sticks his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched up around his ears. “Sorry, Liza,” he says, a blush forming in his cheeks. “I lost track of time. But hey, Russ sounded pretty good, right? I heard him on ‘Kiss the Girl.' ”

“His snare roll was two counts too long,” I snap.

“Uh, he was kind of good,” Ryan says, joining our conversation.

I remember the way everyone looked terrified of me at dinner, and I'm not eager to go back there. Instead I just give Jared a stern look and tell him not to miss anything else or I'll put his name on the list to do wake-ups this summer at band camp.

Huck skips up next to me, his oboe case tucked under one arm. “Demi's a beast, but you
know
I'm gonna shut that room down with my rendition of ‘Sweet Transvestite,' ” he says, throwing his other arm around my shoulder. “You coming?”

Behind me, the door swings open again, and in walks Russ, a pair of drumsticks in his hand. He gives me a look like he's not sure if I'm going to hug him or kick him, a look that is somewhere between a smile and grimace.

“Uh, yeah, I'll meet you there,” I say.

Huck glances from me to Russ and back again. “Have fun with that one,” he says, before darting after Hillary, asking who's going to lead the Time Warp.

Russ shuffles over but leaves a distance large enough to prevent me from smacking him. He looks like he's waiting for me to say something, but I'm not sure what he's up to, so instead I focus on organizing the stack of music in my folder.

After a moment of shuffling around, he finally taps me on the shoulder, a wide grin on his face. “I was kind of awesome, right?”

I have to laugh at him, standing there like a puppy who just dropped a tennis ball at my feet. And even though I'm not ready to trust him yet, I can't deny that he was good.

“Where in the
hell
did you learn to drum like that?” I ask.

Russ shrugs, a touch of pink appearing in his cheeks. “I dunno, I just sort of always banged along with whatever I was listening to. Picked it up, I guess.”

I gape at him, a look of pure incredulity on my face. “You don't just
pick up
snare rolls like that,” I say, hooking my fingers in air quotes.

“Okay, so maybe I have a pair of drumsticks hidden in my desk, and
maybe
I've watched a few hundred”—Russ pauses, glancing up at the ceiling as if he's tabulating—“thousand hours of YouTube videos.”

I laugh. “Dude, you're good! Why aren't you in the band?” Russ raises his eyebrows at me. “Okay, well, I know why you're not in
the
band, but you should be in
a
band. You can actually play!”

“My dad doesn't think I should be taking time away from practice and conditioning. The man's got football scholarships on the brain,” he says, tapping at his temple as he rolls his eyes. He shrugs his wide shoulders again. “I mean, it's no big deal. It's something I do for fun. But it was cool to play tonight.”

I watch him as he hems and haws, but there's no mistaking the light in his big blue eyes when he talks about playing. It makes my heart feel like it's growing Grinch-style, and his grin is infectious.

“It
was
cool that you played tonight,” I say, taking the last step to close the distance between us. “Thank you, seriously.”

Russ flings his arm around me, pulling me in close in the most epic bear hug of my life. It's like a full-body high five, and I'm powerless to resist. In fact, I can't even protest, because my face is smooshed into the fabric of his button-down, which smells newly ironed.

“Anytime, boss,” he says, his words disappearing into my hair.

The door swings open again, and Demi trips into the room followed closely by Lenny. Demi is giggling while Lenny moves toward a cardboard box marked
TEQUILA
in black, blocky letters. He's starting to pry open the lid when Demi gasps. They both spot us, sending Demi tripping into Lenny's back. Russ's grip on me loosens at the distraction, so I take the opportunity to shove off him and take one giant step backward. But it's too late. The pair of them are taking the scene in, wide-eyed. I want to shout at Lenny that it was just a friendly hug, I was just thanking Russ for saving our performance, but it's clear that both of them have already decided what it is they saw.

“Sloppy seconds?” Demi says, but her voice is dripping venom that actually stings.

“Shut up, Demi,” Russ mutters, but I raise a hand to silence him. If he defends me, it's only going to make it worse. And anyway, I don't care what Demi thinks. I care what Lenny thinks. But as I watch his face, his expression is inscrutable. He glances at Demi, a little wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. Then he glances at Russ, and then at me. My brain spins trying to formulate an explanation, something,
anything
that will make this better.

Lenny's frown deepens, and then he takes three long strides across the room, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me.

As soon as it happens, my mind goes blank. It takes me a second to remind myself to take in what's happening. I'm being kissed. By Lenny. I don't want to miss it.

Freshman year, a junior saxophone player named Jake asked me out to a movie. About an hour in, he leaned in for a kiss that was all tongue, and
not
in a good way. But Lenny's kiss is all lips, pressed firmly against mine. They're warm and wanting in a way that reminds me of the photo of the sunset he showed me the day we were sitting on the beach. There's also an urgency there that sends my heart somersaulting across my chest.

I hear Demi gasp while Russ lets out a shocked “Dude!” When Lenny steps back, my fingers fly to my lips, as if to make sure they're still there. I run my tongue over my lower lip, tasting lime and something salty. I blink at him, my face a picture of nothing but shock, which quickly turns to horror as Russ's fist flies toward Lenny's face.

The two boys are almost the same height, but when it comes to muscle mass, Russ's athletic body is twice the size of Lenny's narrow art-kid frame. Watching Russ's arm extend toward Lenny's face makes me worry that Lenny might actually be about to die. I want to yell, to shout at Russ to stop, but I'm speechless and in shock.

Lenny sees the punch coming and takes a quick step back, the blow just glancing off his cheek. I can tell it was enough of an impact, though, because a red mark blooms just above his jawline, and his hand goes up to cradle the spot.

“Russ!” Demi shrieks at the same time I leap in between the two boys.

“What in the hell, man?” Lenny barks, still rubbing his jaw.

“Not cool, dude. Not cool at all,” Russ says, spitting his own venom in return.

“Whatever, man, you're just jealous,” Lenny says, flinging his other arm around Demi's shoulder. I see Russ's fists balling again. He opens his mouth to retort, but I raise my hand to silence him.

“I don't know what's going on here, but both of you need to shut up right now.”

Demi, who's been shockingly silent this whole time, takes one look at Russ, then shrugs out from beneath Lenny's arm and bolts from the room. Lenny follows close behind, leaving me to wonder why he kissed me, but followed her. And then there's Russ, who responded to the whole thing by
hitting Lenny in the face.

I can't really tell who the winners and losers are right now, but the fact that my lips are still buzzing from the kiss feels something like a win.

“Liza, I'm really—”

“Stop,” I say, not even able to meet his eyes. I don't want my memory of Lenny's kiss to be replaced by Russ or anything he has to say. It already feels like it's fading too fast. My head is starting to hurt like I'm the one who's been punched, and I don't want to deal with any of this. “I don't know what's going on here, or what that was, but it was too much. All of it.”

And with the heat of Lenny's kiss still on my lips, I grab my folder of music and head for the door.

Huck or Hillary.

Hillary or Huck.

Or preferably both. That's what I need right now if I'm even going to begin to make sense of what just happened.

What
did
just happen?

I pause on the black-and-white tile of the atrium and close my eyes, and it all flashes back. Lenny. The kiss. Russ. Hitting Lenny. My hand goes to my lips, and at the same time I shiver, dueling feelings of happiness and horror coursing through me in equal measure. It's been happening ever since I walked out of that room, and I'm not sure if it's going to stop until I find my friends.

The atrium is cavernous and filled with people, and even though a massive blue-and-gold sign overhead littered with arrows directs passengers to the Punch Line Comedy Club, the Blue Note Dinner Theater, and Lucky Strike's Casino, there's no listing for the karaoke lounge. That's when I collide with a white-clad
Destiny
crew member. He glares at me but keeps muttering into the walkie-talkie he has pressed to his mouth. I hear something about poker and a fifty-dollar buy-in, and something else about Miguel screwing him. As soon as he stops talking, I take my chance.

“I'm looking for the karaoke lounge,” I say, and he nods, one ear glued to the walkie-talkie. Apparently someone is talking through the static.

“The lounge? That red door across the atrium,” he says, pointing. Then he double-times it across the floor until he disappears through a set of doors marked
STAFF ONLY
.

When I get to the red door he indicated, I push through and find myself hit with a wall of light and sound. The entire room is cast in a deep red glow that bounces off the many mirrored tabletops, as well as the ceiling, dance floor, and walls. A disco ball spins in the center of a starburst of lights, with blue and gold and green glinting off in so many directions I feel like I'm in a nightclub aboard the starship
Enterprise.
Cocktail waitresses in vintage-style sequined uniforms of hot pants and suspenders carry trays of drinks around that are made up of so many neon colors they couldn't possibly be food. They look more like martini glasses full of cleaning fluids.

Even though the room is designed to look like some übertrendy hot spot on the Vegas strip, the crowd is decidedly not cosmopolitan. The dance floor is crowded with what looks like the parents who just dropped their kids off at the Kidz Camp next door and were so excited to cut a rug that they didn't have time to scrub the zinc oxide off their noses or change out of their garish Hawaiian shirts. They bob and flail along to the techno track pounding from the overhead speakers, but it looks like only about half of them have caught on to the actual rhythm of the bass. The rest are so far off tempo that they look like they're having some kind of group seizure, with sweat flying across the dance floor at such a rate I worry someone's going to slip and break an ankle.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

I turn to see a middle-aged man sporting a comb-over that starts just above his left ear. He's holding up his ship credit card between two fingers, trying to affect the high-rolling celebrity persona that the nightclub is meant to evoke. I swear to God, if this man says
pop some bottles
to me, I'm stomping on his foot and running until I hit the ocean.

Instead, I settle for the truth. “I'm sixteen,” I reply, shouting over the techno beat.

“What?” he asks, leaning closer so I can smell whatever cheap body spray he purchased at the drugstore before coming on this trip.

“Sixteen!” I shout back, directly into his ear. “I'm sixteen!”

He jerks back from me and takes one giant step in the opposite direction, his card clattering to the mirrored dance floor. He scrambles to pick it up, muttering something that might be “I'm sorry” or might be “Oh my God.” I can't tell over the music.

I don't wait to find out. I spin on my heel and bolt for the exit, not slowing until I'm through the swinging saloon doors and back into the cavernous atrium. I grab the first staff member I see.

“Excuse me, can you tell me where the karaoke lounge is?”

She points across the atrium. “Down the Havana Hall, on your left past the piano bar.”

I thank her and set off. It doesn't take me long to find the piano bar, its tinkling ivories and soft blue glow oozing out of the glass doors. And just a bit farther down the hall I find the karaoke lounge. I push through an identical set of glass doors just in time to hear someone hit the third key change of Whitney Houston's “I Have Nothing.” And from the way the voice screeches and veers sharp, I can tell they're right. I grimace and press my fingers to my ears in an effort to dull the cacophony, then scan the room for my friends. I spot Huck and Hillary in a red velvet banquette in the corner along with Jared, Ryan, Molly, and Nate, a pitcher of something electric pink in front of them.

I make my way over, trying to figure out how I can discreetly get Huck and/or Hillary away from the group so they can help me figure out what happened with Lenny. There's no way I'll be able to work this out in front of the others, or with the soundtrack of the worst Whitney Houston impersonator in the world blasting into my ears.

“Hey, guys, whatcha drinking?” I ask, then cringe. I didn't want to sound like a mom the moment I walked up.

“Pitcher of Shirleys!” Hillary says, sliding a heavy-bottomed glass across the table at me. “Extra grenadine and double cherries, of course.”

I pour myself a glass and slide into the end of the booth next to Molly. A quick look around the bar, which is fairly crowded, shows that while the band showed up to Demi's party, Demi did not. Neither she nor any of the Athenas are anywhere to be found.

“It was weird,” Molly says, as if sensing my observation. “We got like, three songs in and the next thing I know, Demi is marching in here like a tiny dictator. She whispered something to Missy, and within minutes they were gone. Which is fine by me, because there's only so many girlie pop songs I can listen to in one night.”

Molly downs the rest of her drink and slams it on the table like we're at a bar in the old West. She turns to me. “You look like hell,” she says in the deadpan voice she uses no matter what the subject. From anyone else, the statement would sting, but somehow from Molly I don't mind because (a) she's never actually been mean a day in her life, and (b) it's probably true.

“Just tired,” I say, and surprise myself by actually yawning. I catch Huck cocking an eyebrow at me from across the table. I try to make eyes at him, eyes that say
You will never believe what just happened. Please excuse yourself so we can talk about it.

But even though he's my best friend in the world, we have yet to master the critical best-friend ESP. Instead he pulls a binder of music off the back of the booth along with a pencil and a little slip of paper. “Whatcha singing, Liza?” he asks. He flips through the laminated pages. “Are we going Broadway tonight? Or something more classic eighties?”

On any other night I'd be pulling the book across the table and searching for my signature songs (usually something twangy and country, with notes that fit my upper alto voice), but I don't think I can do it tonight. There's still a lump in my throat from the earlier excitement with Lenny and Russ, along with random zaps of electricity that shoot up my spine every time I remember Lenny's lips on mine. There's no way I could get through a Dolly Parton classic with this level of distraction, and even though it's just karaoke, I'm not about to get up there like a tone-deaf reality show contestant. I take music seriously, thankyouverymuch.

“Liza?” Huck asks again, his pencil poised over the slip of paper. “Or you could just join Hillary and me. We're up soon for ‘Friends in Low Places.' You
know
that'll get the whole bar singing along.”

I nearly choke on my maraschino cherry. “You're doing Garth Brooks?”

Huck winks. “Hey, I'll do whatever gets the crowd on my side,” he says.

The music echoes its final chords, and from the booth behind the stage, the karaoke DJ thunders on the mike. “Next up, Hillary and Huck,” he says in a smooth, velvety baritone. “Hillary and Huck, where you at?”

Before Jared and Nate can scoot out of the booth, Huck is up and across the table. Hillary chooses to take the below-ground route by crawling out from underneath. She pauses before taking the stage.

“You coming?” she asks me.

I glance up at the stage with the warm spotlight pointed down on it. Huck is already bounding up to the center and pulling a mike from its stand. He executes a perfect Elvis hip swivel that has the crowd hooting and hollering for him.

I shake my head. “I think I'm going to head back to the room. I'm really tired,” I say, and then yawn again. “You'll be back soon?”

Hillary's eyes narrow a bit as she studies my face, and for a moment I think the friend ESP might have worked. But then she breaks into a grin. “Not before I do ‘Roxanne'!” she says, then flounces to the stage, the black flowy gypsy skirt she wears for performances trailing after her.

The opening notes of an acoustic guitar twang from the speakers, and Huck lifts his mike, transforming his accent into a perfect Southern drawl as he starts the opening lyrics.

Hillary joins in on the chorus, and it takes only one line before half the bar is singing along. I take that as my cue to go, before I get sucked into a conversation about how terrible I look, which will only lead to me pouring my heart out about how confused I feel. I need to hold it in until Hillary gets back to the room. Then we can really talk.

I try to stay awake long enough for her to get back. I need to know why Lenny followed Demi after he kissed me. Because he wanted to let her know he was sorry he likes me and not her, right? He just wanted to make sure she wasn't too hurt. Because he's nice, but he likes me. Right?

There's no sun coming through our tiny porthole when I wake up on Monday, just a mask of gray and beads of rain pounding at the thick layers of glass. I sit up from bed and find that my head is spinning, as if I spent the previous night sharing that handle of tequila with Demi instead of hiding in my room. When I put my foot on the floor, the whole room tilts slightly. Only it's not a hangover, it's real life. The storm we've been promised has rolled in overnight, and the boat is now pitching side to side like an oceanic seesaw. And my stomach is rolling right along with it. I also can't shake the image of water pouring through a hole in the bottom of the ship, ready to capsize us at any moment. This trip is quickly becoming a metaphor for my life: a slowly sinking ship.