The Trouble With Destiny (15 page)

I shake my head in confusion, blinking at the plastic trinket. Seriously, all that for
this
?

I look up at Russ, who doesn't seem to care one way or another about the trophy. Victory is victory, and that's one thing he's used to on our state champion football team. He throws his arm around my shoulder and hoists his tiny trophy like it's the Stanley Cup.

My eyes go to Demi, who looks furious. And then she leans over to the tall, tanned figure next to her, who is no longer chanting my name. She rises up on her tiptoes and whispers into Lenny's ear, her lips brushing his cheek as she pulls away. He studies Russ and me onstage with a confused look on his face, and when I glance back at Demi, she's snaking her arm through Lenny's and throwing me a venomous smirk. I pull myself away from Russ, but it's too late. They make their way through the crowd together.

The wind picks up and I have to shield my face from my out-of-control hair. The sky has gone from a dull gray to a menacing dark slate, with black clouds bruising the sky. It looks like it's going to open back up at any second, and before I can change my mind, I grab Russ and yank him offstage, through the crowd, and around a corner to a bench outside the sundeck. We're alone, except for a white-clad crew member who's taking down the surrounding umbrellas in preparation for the second round of storms the ship's captain is expecting. When he doesn't leave, I decide I don't care. I pull Russ down onto the bench next to me.

“You have got to stop this,” I say, trying to mask the quaver in my voice. I'm angry, but I don't want him to know. I don't want him to ask any questions, I just want him to leave me alone.

“Stop what?” His face is a blank page. I can't tell if he's playing with me, or if he's genuinely oblivious. Either option infuriates me.

“The hugging. That's twice now, just in time for Demi to stare us down. I don't need to be pulled into your drama.”

Russ glances out at the ocean, which is now so dark it looks like it's not even on the same planet as the crystal-blue water from the other day. He runs his hands through his wind-tossed blond hair. He squeezes his eyes tight, as if the view is too much. Then he opens them and turns to face me, his big blue eyes boring into mine with such force I nearly lean back. “I swear to God, Liza, I have no idea what you're talking about.”

My resolve falters only for a moment. For the first time in my life, I charge on, saying the thing I know I'll want to say later, when I'm alone and regretful that I've rolled over.

“I know you still like Demi!” I say, the power of the truth fueling my fire. “And you're using me to make her jealous, so you can get her back.”

Russ blinks once, twice, his eyes blank. Then his brows knit together, his nose wrinkling in total confusion. “What?”

“You still want Demi, and you're using me to get back at her. Just stop it. It's messing everything up and giving people the wrong impression.”

He takes a step back, his head cocked to the side. “People like Lenny?”

At the mention of his name I feel a catch in my throat. I don't even want to imagine the damage Russ could do if he knew Lenny liked me. “Just stop using me,” I say, my tone final. I want to end this conversation. Now.

But Russ doesn't take the hint. He shakes his head, studying me like I'm a mental patient. “You think
I'm
using
you
?” The words hit me like a glass of ice-cold water tossed at my face. I jerk back, blinking at him, and something flashes across his face that I can't read. His face softens, but his words don't.

“Open your eyes, Liza,” he says.

“Shut your mouth, Russ,” I reply. I stand up and brush past him with my shoulder, but he barely moves. He's practically a stone wall of muscle and frustration. I ignore the feeling of his rock-solid chest and go straight to the ship's railing. I lean over and look down, past the lifeboat waiting on the side of the ship, straight down to the swirling gray water below. Behind me, I hear him pivot, but he doesn't come near.

“I can't believe this,” he says. “Seriously, I can't believe it.”

I turn to see him shaking his head at me, a look of something—Disgust? Anger?—across his tanned cheeks. I can't tell what it is, but it infuriates me. He's acting as if the idea that Lenny could like me is about as normal as me growing wings and flying back to Nassau, which really hurts. I didn't think we were friends or anything, but I definitely didn't think he thought so low of me.

I watch the dark clouds race across the sky with the whipping wind in what would be a really impressive photo. And that's when I remind myself that Russ is wrong. It's not crazy to think that Lenny likes me. Because he does. I knew it when I was twelve and he kissed me behind the curtain, and I knew it when I listened to him talk about his photography and sat on the beach looking at pictures. We have a connection that's based on something other than popularity and hotness, which is something Russ could
never
understand.

“Just stay away from me,” I reply.

Now it's Russ's turn to look like he's been slapped. His eyes widen, and then his face goes blank. “Whatever,” he says, throwing his hands in the air. “I give up.”

Russ turns and walks away, his usual lazy gait gone. His shoulders are tense, and I see the muscles of his arms flexing.

I look back down at the water, where whitecaps are forming on the ever-darkening waves. Suddenly my stomach is rolling again. I turn and bolt in the opposite direction, taking the long way through the ship back to my cabin.

When I get back to my room, I rip off my two seasickness patches, leaving angry red welts that match the feelings coursing through me. I slap on two new patches and swallow a Dramamine for good measure. And because my head is now pounding at the base of my skull as if it's about to rocket right off my shoulders, I take the Tylenol bottle out of Hillary's bag and wash two down with the remainder of the flat ginger ale on my bedside table.

When I go to fluff up my pillow, my eyes fall on the little golden mike trophy Huck stole from Demi. I totally forgot about it, and now I get a moment of sick satisfaction imagining all the ways Demi is going to freak out when she finds it's missing. But that only leads to dread over what she's going to do to me when she finds out I have it. Crap. I've got to get it back before she realizes it's gone.

When I planned this cruise, I had lots of ideas about how it would go. I'd hoped we'd win the twenty-five grand to save the band, first of all. After that, we'd stuff ourselves silly off the buffets scattered around the ship. Huck and Hillary and I would hang out on deck, making one another laugh until our sides hurt. Maybe I'd even get a sunburn. I guess I knew it wouldn't really be that easy, but I never imagined it would be this hard.

Because breaking into Demi's cabin to return her stupid lucky mike that Huck stole? Yeah, that was not on the list.

I've tucked the mike into my purple satchel, ready to return it without anyone noticing I ever had it. I make my way up to the luxury suites. At her room, I try the door, but in a totally not shocking turn of events, it's locked. I don't know what I was expecting. Why did I think I could pull this off? I should have brought Huck. This is stupid.

No, what was stupid was Huck stealing the mike. Of course, I'm the one who turned him loose in the first place when I sent him to take care of Mr. Curtis. Another plan that seems to have backfired.

I hear a squeaking followed by a shuffling and, not wanting to be caught standing outside Demi's door, I turn and bolt down the hall just as the maid rounds the corner with her wheeled cart, overflowing with fluffy white towels and bins of tiny shampoos, soaps, and foil-wrapped chocolates.

I stop just around the corner and lean against the wall so I can work to quietly catch my breath, willing my heart to slow down to a dull thud. I peek back around the corner to see the maid stretching the key card attached to her belt to unlock the door to the cabin next to Demi's. She takes a fat stack of towels off the top of the cart along with a handful of chocolates, then shoulders her way through the door. This couldn't be more perfect. Demi's room will be next.

I crouch there, my ear in the direction of her room so I can know just when to strike. Only now it's not the squeaky wheel of a maid's cart that gets my attention—there's a scurrying and a panting coming from somewhere near my feet. I glance down and see a little dog, about the size of a small cat, with long white hair fluffed up and sculpted in a way that tells me its owner spends more time on its hair than I do on my own. A small tuft of fur rises off the top of its head, held in place by a red ribbon with a heart-shaped rhinestone in the middle.

As soon as it sees me, it sits up, grinning at me with a crooked underbite.

“Shoo!” I whisper at little Fido, waving my hands over its head. “Go on!”

But the command doesn't do anything other than make the dog cock its head at me and start to whine.

“Hush!” I say, my whisper growing more frantic. “Go on!” I lean over and wave a little closer.

“Miss Gloria!” A thick, gravelly voice echoes down the hall, and the dog hops back up onto all four legs. It spins around in little hopping circles. “Miss Gloria, come now!”

It takes me a moment to place the voice, but a peek around the corner at the greasy-haired, ample-bellied cruise director confirms it. Mr. Ferengetti is leaning against the wall, a phone pressed to his ear as he jangles Miss Gloria's leash in his other hand.

I fling myself back around the corner and out of sight, my eye on the dog to make sure she won't smoke me out.

“Yeah, it's that shoddy maintenance schedule,” Mr. Ferengetti mumbles into his phone. “I
told
them they needed to be doing more frequent inspections, but what do I know? I've only spent my entire adult life on these damn boats.”

There's a pause, and I lean closer to the corner just out of sight, trying to home in on the conversation.

“Yeah…yep…of course…it's about taken care of, should be no problem. We'll be back to full power soon….Uh-huh, bye.”

I hear the jangle of the leash once more. “Miss Gloria, I said
come
!”

The dog gives me one last look that I swear says
You were lucky this time, missy,
then sprints off after her owner. The sound of her tinkling collar fades in the distance, replaced by the telltale squeaking and shuffling of housekeeping.

I reach into my satchel, which is stuffed with all the little last-minute necessities a drum major usually needs. There's a bottle of slide grease for the trombones, some pencils for marking music, a whistle, and some cough drops. And down at the bottom, fuzzy with lint, is a small roll of masking tape that we use to secure music to stands if the wind is high.

I tear off a three-inch piece of tape, sticking it to my index finger in preparation.

I peek around the corner just in time to see the maid swipe the lock on Demi's door with her key card. Propping the door with her foot, she turns to count out a tall stack of towels, then leans her shoulder into the door. As soon as she's through, I dart down the hall as fast as my legs will carry me. The plush carpet running down the middle of the hallways muffles my steps, and I have to hold my breath to keep from huffing and puffing.

I make it to the door just before it clicks closed. I place my hand on it to stop it, then pause to make sure the maid isn't right there. I peek through the crack and see the back of her uniform as she struggles to carry the stack of towels through the room, muttering to herself in a language I don't recognize. I probably have less than a minute before she finishes, at which point she'll come back into the hall and catch me red-handed, so I quickly pull the tape from my index finger and gently, quietly place it over the latching mechanism on the door. I stick it vertically, so once the door shuts, there will be no evidence that anything has kept it from locking as it should.

I run my finger over the tape once to ensure it's going to stick. I hear the water turn on in the bathroom, which means the maid is done depositing the towels and I may have only a few seconds. I place my hand flat on the outside of the door, letting it close with barely a sound. I give it a quick nudge, and sure enough, it gives behind me. The tape is working.

I hear footsteps coming, so I pivot on my heel and bolt back down the hall, passing my hiding spot and going all the way back to the elevator. No need for the maid to see me at all. I don't want to wind up in a lineup somewhere, a bright light in my face while she picks me out as the one who was around just before the room was broken into.

I stand by the mirrored elevator doors and count by tens to a thousand before I start making my way back to Demi's cabin. With my pounding heart and my full-body jitters, I'm afraid I look like I'm strolling through the hall with a live wire in my jeans.

With a quick peek to make sure no one's watching, I push through the door, letting it shut behind me.

I glance around, taking in how the other half lives when they travel VIP. The door opens into a small sitting room, which is the size of my entire room six floors below. Instead of that flat, industrial hotel carpet, this cabin has dark, shiny wood floors with a rug so fluffy and soft it looks more comfortable than my bed back home. The back wall is all windows and french doors that open up onto a balcony overlooking the ocean.

My cabin only hopes to be this cabin when it grows up.

There's an open door to the right, through which I can see a corner of fluffy white bedding. I tiptoe across the wood floors and back to the bedroom, which looks designed to give the illusion of a Cape Cod beach cottage. The whitewashed walls are accented by wainscoting and dark-stained trim, with glossy white beadboard on the ceiling. A sleek, silver nautical light fixture hangs from the center of the room, right above a bright white king-sized bed topped with a mountain of blue silk pillows. Dark end tables and a dresser match the trim, and a matching wooden deck chair sits out on the balcony.

I'm so busy admiring the room that I completely forget why I'm here in the first place. But when I hear the beep of a key card in the door, all the blood rushes to my head, leaving me frozen in place for a split second. Before the door swings open fully, I race over to Demi's open suitcase and shove the golden mike into the mesh pocket holding her underwear. Then, like a cartoon dog about to be caught stealing from the pantry, I dart mindlessly around the room. I hear Missy's voice getting closer to the bedroom; her high-pitched cackle is like a warning siren that screams
Hide!

At the last second, I launch myself into the tiny closet in the corner, slide the door shut, and sink to the floor behind an oversized white terry-cloth robe, another item we don't have down in our cabin. I'm starting to think Demi was right when she said we were in steerage.

“I
so
did not pack for this weather,” I hear Missy moan.

I hear someone rustling through a suitcase, and I pray that Demi doesn't notice that the mike has been moved…and that this is the last of Huck's stunts for this trip.

“Seriously. I can't believe this. I mean, what if we end up having to hang out in our cabin for the rest of the week?”

My butt sinks into the plush carpet that lines the closet floor, and I have to roll my eyes. Yeah, forced to hang out in a luxury stateroom with a flat-screen TV, Jacuzzi tub, and twenty-four-hour room service? What a hardship.
Hate that for you, Demi.

“I think I'll wear
this,
” Demi says, and from the tone of her voice and Missy's squeal, I'm guessing she's holding up Lenny's Brentwood High hoodie.

“God, he is so smokin',” Missy purrs. “But I thought you said he kissed Liza.”

At the mention of my name, my breath catches in my throat and I have to struggle not to choke on it. I lean back into the wall and work on not moving a single muscle.

“I
said
Lenny was just trying to make me jealous,” Demi snaps, her voice crackling with the same electricity as the lightning out over the ocean.

I feel a torrent of rage course up and down my spine. Once again, I have to sit here and listen while someone acts like it's totally unheard of for a guy to like me. First Russ, now Demi. If it weren't for the precarious position I'm in, crouching in Demi's closet, I'd burst out and give her the same what-for I gave Russ.

“I mean, come on. Why else would Lenny kiss Liza?” Demi continues. I ball my fists at the way she says my name, like a guy would have to be blind with a head injury to want to kiss me. “I know he's into me. It's like I told Russ when I dumped him. Life's too short for mediocrity.”

I gag at the sound of the phrase, one that came straight from Demi's mom and was oft-repeated in her house.

“Why did you dump him again?” Missy's voice goes up into a squeak at the end, and I wonder if she wishes she'd kept that one to herself.

Demi pauses, and I lean closer to the door so I won't miss the answer. “It doesn't even matter,” she replies quickly. “Because Lenny is
hot.
”

I hear the door to the bathroom slide open. The water goes on full blast, and Demi's words are muffled by the spray of the sink. When the water shuts off, I hear Missy midsentence.

“…
so
obvious Russ is jealous. He's like, totally drooling every time you walk by.”

“Toootally.” Demi drags out the word, her voice distant, probably coming from the sitting room. I lean into the crack of the closet door, but I can't hear anything else except the click of the TV as the channels flip.

I guess it's going to be a bit before I can make my escape. Luckily this carpet is
really
soft, and the robe makes a nice pillow. So I settle in and allow myself to zone out, a heavy fog settling over my eyes. Wait…why am I so tired?

And that's when I remember the Tylenol I swallowed right before this whole little mission. And the Dramamine. And the seasickness patches. Those don't make you drowsy, do they?

About one second later, I pass out.