The Trouble With Destiny (14 page)

I see Mr. Curtis's eyes go quizzical as he glances over his shoulder at Huck, who's grinning, and I pray my band director won't bring up our conversation last night. I make a mental note to update him on my decision.

“Good to hear. Because Ms. Haddaway and I were, um, talking,” he says, a slight flush creeping into his cheeks. I see Huck make a gagging motion from behind him, and I have to stop myself from reacting. “We think it's time the show choir and the band did a little team bonding, and we have just the thing.”

I force my face to remain still and fight the urge to eye-roll, grimace, or mirror Huck's gagging motion. Teacher-enforced team bonding is awful in the best of circumstances, but team bonding with the Athenas? I'd rather wrestle an angry tiger while covered in raw steaks. Plus, if our teachers knew anything at all, the last thing they'd do is force us into competition with Demi. Talk about something I definitely
don't
need. My focus goes to Huck, and I allow my eyes to narrow slightly. Clearly his plan has backfired. The teachers were not supposed to be working together
against
us.

Mr. Curtis doesn't notice the tiny daggers I'm shooting at Huck, though. He's too busy snatching a cracker from my plate and clapping his hands in self-satisfaction. Our task? A shipboard hula-hooping competition scheduled for after lunch. Participation? Not optional. Fun? To be had by all, apparently. When he finishes his spiel, he looks at me, eyes glittering from an overdose of the home ec teacher persuasion.
Gag.

“Sounds good,” I reply, because it doesn't appear I have any other option.

“Great! Well, I'll let you get ready,” he says, making his way to the door. He turns and gives me a jaunty tilt of his head, a ridiculous gesture that looks completely out of place next to his usual lazy smile. “Hit the deck, as they say.”

The door swings shut behind him. “More like walk the plank,” I mutter to Huck.

The rain has subsided over the course of the morning, but thick gray clouds still cover the sky as far as the eye can see. As Huck and I emerge onto the shiny wooden deck, we're assaulted by a reggae mash-up of steel drums and bass booming through strategically placed oversized speakers. The crew of the good ship
Destiny
has decided that without the sun, it's their duty to bring all the color in the world to the upper deck. There are multicolored tiki lights strung up on anything stationary. The umbrellas have all been draped with swaths of brightly colored fabric, and for some reason, there are shiny metallic Mardi Gras beads hanging off everything, from deck chairs to buffet tables to the cruise passengers wandering around the deck. And there are crew members wearing as many rainbow leis as will fit around their necks as they skip through the crowd “lei-ing” the guests and cheering. Combine that with all the guests who, despite the clouds, are committed to their multi-colored bikinis and swim trunks, and the overall effect makes the upper deck look like a life-sized candy bowl. It's an odd hodgepodge of Caribbean, Polynesian, Hawaiian, and New Orleans that shows that First Mate Kevin either doesn't understand or doesn't care a bit about cultural correctness.

The frenetic sounds of steel drums pause as First Mate Kevin's voice crackles and whistles through the speaker. “We won't let a few clouds get in the way of our destiny,” he chatters, his voice filled with double meaning. But for anyone who missed his pun, he hooks his fingers in the requisite air quotes. “And that destiny is, of course,
fun
! To get this funfest started, we've got a special treat in the form of a little intraschool rivalry we need to take care of. Would the Holland High Athenas and Style Marchers please grab your hoops and join me up on the stage!”

I glance over toward the ship's railing and give myself just a moment to imagine what it would feel like to fling myself into the sea. Huck clears his throat, nudging me with his shoulder.

“The executioner beckons,” he says, stepping aside and gesturing for me to lead us to what I'm sure will be one of the most humiliating and miserable experiences of my life. Hula-hooping? In front of a crowd? Against the Athenas? God, the indignities just keep piling up. But I can fight only so many battles, so I fall in behind Ryan and Hillary, who have come out of the crowd to join the band in our death march toward the stage.

“Who in the what, now?” Hillary says over her shoulder.

“Just go with it,” I reply. “Please.” If this is what it's going to take to distract Mr. Curtis from our various shenanigans so far this week, then so be it. I'll hula, dammit. But screw the competition. Demi can have this one. I can't bring myself to care. I've got bigger competitions to worry about.

Hillary gives me a two-fingered salute and an “Aye, aye, Captain.” When we get to the stage, there's a big wire bin full of multicolored hula hoops. I grab a purple one and climb up behind Hillary onto the risers that form the makeshift stage. The Athenas are falling into the mix too, and they look just about as happy about this forced fun as we do. It's a sea of scowls climbing onto the stage.

First Mate Kevin skips the stairs and leaps straight from the deck to the stage like some kind of coked-up gazelle. He lands, executes a wild spin, then faces the competitors.

“Band on my starboard side, Athenas take port!” he singsongs into the mike, but when everyone just stands in a cluster blinking at him, he mouths “band” and points to his right. We all shuffle into place. I take a spot near the front, ever the leader, and ready my hula hoop on my hips, holding it out to the sides. I glance out at the crowd, an equal mix of whatever students aren't barfing their guts out and whatever oldsters have skipped their afternoon naps, those oversized eye-doctor sunglasses taking up practically their whole faces. I can see Mr. Curtis and Ms. Haddaway standing as close as they can without actually touching, matching grins on their faces as they watch education in action.

I scan the crowd once more, and just offstage I see a flash of buzzed strawberry-blond hair. Lenny is hanging away from the crowd on the starboard corner of the stage, his camera poised to capture every embarrassing moment for eternity. I feel a phantom twitch on my lower lip, the memory of the kiss flooding back. Without thinking, I raise my hand to my lips, sending one side of my hula hoop clattering to the deck. I look to see if Lenny noticed, but I can't see him, because a tall, broad-shouldered blond guy is blocking my view.

“Russ, what are you doing?” Demi snaps, asking the very question on the tip of my tongue.

“I'm with the band,” he says, as if
duh,
and I don't have the energy or interest to get in the middle of the argument. Those two can have each other. Sooner rather than later would be ideal.

Demi shoots me a withering look and says, “You won't beat me. You never will.”

And now I care about hula-hooping. I care very much. Any plans to let Demi take this one are gone. Because I'm a
great
hula-hooper. Demi's about to be very sorry she made us spend hours in her backyard practicing circus tricks. She may be a great juggler, but I kick
ass
at hula-hooping. I'm going to win this. And when I'm done with that, I'm going to wipe the floor with her and take home the $25,000 check at the end of the week.
This time
I'm
the winner, Demi.

This contest is no longer some kind of miserable detention. Now I can't
wait
to start. I hold my hula hoop in my fingertips, balanced at my hips, ready for instructions. My waist feels itchy and twitchy, ready to get this show on the road.

“Okay, rules! When your hoop hits the floor, you hit the deck!” First Mate Kevin gestures a thumb toward the crowd. “I'll be calling out challenges to shake things up a little, as if there won't already be plenty of shimmying!” He pauses for laughter, but since he didn't give that instruction to everyone in front of him, the only response is the shuffling of feet and the sound of whipping wind from another far-off (but growing ever closer) storm. Ever the pro, First Mate Kevin gives an enthusiastic nod and charges on. “Okay, then. DJ, crank up those funky beats!”

At that, the silence is filled with a hip-hop-reggae remix from hell. “Hula!” he shouts into his mike like a dictator of fun, causing the speakers to shriek in protest. In a whirl of activity, multicolored hoops start to spin. Almost immediately, about a dozen band members and two Athenas are out. They were standing too close to one another, and when they started, their hoops bumped each other and bounced to the floor.

“Hit the deck!” Kevin calls, taking far too much glee in the failure of teenagers. But I guess when your job is to be an overcaffeinated camp counselor at sea, you take your kicks where you can get them.

The first song wraps up, leaving just a brief moment of silence before a more frenetic remix begins. I adjust the swirl of my hips to match the new beat, which basically allows me to completely zone out. I've got this. While I imagine myself to be anywhere else, the rest of the brass and half the percussion section lose their hoops, along with a fair number of the woodwinds. We may be able to march, but I clearly should have been handing out hula lessons at practice. Jared, who I know for a fact has excellent rhythm, is barely hanging on to his hula hoop with some kind of full-body spasm. It lasts about six more counts before he loses the hoop, and he looks genuinely disappointed. The Athenas, who are no strangers to coordinated hip shimmies, are faring much better. Three songs in and half the band is gone, but only two Athenas are out. I can't worry, though. I plan to be the last woman standing, so whatever's going on around me doesn't matter. I keep swirling, the hoop spinning to the beat. It only takes one to win, and I plan on it being me.

As the fourth song cranks up, the crowd starts to look elsewhere. There's only so long you can watch a bunch of strangers hula-hooping, so Kevin takes the opportunity to “crank it up a notch.” He instructs us all to spin in a circle
as
we hula, which fells about half the remaining band members and a third of the Athenas. When Kevin doesn't tell us to stop spinning, Huck gives up and lets his hoop clatter to the deck. He shrugs an apology, but I don't care. I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere. I crank my swirling up to double time as a small act of defiance, my hoop whizzing at a dizzying speed.

When that song ends, First Mate Kevin halts the spinning and barks at everyone to stand on one foot. I bend my leg slightly, just like we do on the field, to keep my knees from locking and maintain my balance. I'm still in rhythm, so I have no problem with it, but nearly all the rest of the band members are gone. In fact, as I glance around, I realize that only Russ and I are left standing, holding it down for the marching band. His hula-hooping isn't nearly as fast or coordinated as mine, and in fact he's having to execute a sort of full-body swirl, his upper half moving in one direction while his lower half moves in reverse, to keep his hoop going. His eyes are narrowed, sweat forming at his brow, as he gives the same focus to this as he does to calling plays. The quarterback is on deck, and I let myself forgive him, just for now, for hitting Lenny.

Things are getting tight on the Athenas' side as well. Missy's hoop falls almost immediately. I see Demi glare at her and mouth something in her direction that I can't make out. I don't have time to figure it out, because Evil First Mate Kevin has another instruction.

“Hop!” he says, his voice practically cracking with the enthusiasm.

Demi glares at Russ and me, and we glare back, all of us seeming to dare the other to go first.

“C'mon, kids, you heard me! Hop!”

And so we do, each of us bouncing just once. And surprisingly, all three hoops keep spinning.

“Keep hopping!” Kevin shouts, and the crowd is finally on his side. They're shouting and cheering, a few of them bouncing along with us as we continue to bob on the stage. When Demi realizes that the spotlight is on her, she flashes a wide smile at the crowd. Suddenly her determined shimmy takes on a more seductive swirl. She looks like she's not just competing, but performing. A whistle rises from the crowd, followed by another. Her grin grows wider, and that's when I see it. The hoop, which has been riding just above the strings of the cherry-red bikini poking out of her board shorts, is now riding a little bit lower. Demi realizes the slip just a moment too late to get it back, and the hoop falls.

She freezes, a look of abject horror crossing her face, her eyebrows knitted together in fury. On the band's side of the stage, Russ and I have realized we've won before First Mate Kevin can screech it to the crowd. We let our hoops fall, and the crowd, which now includes all of my fallen bandmates, starts cheering. But my eyes go immediately to Lenny. He's just off the side of the platform, clapping and cheering, his head bobbing in an
Oh yeah!
nod. Then he reaches for his camera, which is hanging around his neck, and raises it to snap a moment of victory. I grin right at the lens, imagining him looking at this picture later, and I'm so lost in the vision that I don't notice Russ rushing in from my left. I don't know if he's going for a hug or a chest bump, but either way I miss the cue entirely. I start to tumble backward, and Russ's strong arms encircle me, keeping me from bouncing off him and instead wrapping me up in another fiercely tight hug.

“Oof,” I grunt, the air escaping from my lungs with a squeeze of his arms. I try to get my breath back, taking in the fresh and homey smell of his detergent and deodorant on the tissue-soft tank he's wearing.

“Winners!” First Mate Kevin yells, scurrying up the stage and grabbing Russ's and my hands and thrusting them over his head,
Rocky
-style. “And now it's time for your prizes!”

At the mention of prizes, I can't help but get excited. Maybe some kind of monetary prize? At this point, even fifty dollars would help get the band closer to keeping it together. I grin in anticipation as First Mate Kevin turns to one of the high-top café tables off to the side of the raised platform. It's not until the tiny plastic trophy is shoved into my hand that I realize just how wrong I was. The golden replica of the
Destiny
sits on top of a black plastic base, and a small plaque on the front reads
DESTINY HULA HOOP CHAMPION!