Cross Me Off Your List (9 page)

She shut down security and her boyfriend in
under two minutes, took the car keys from Jules’s bodyguard, and
got us past a horde of paparazzi quicker than I think anyone else
could’ve managed.

“There’s a thrift shop down this way that I
wanted to check out,” she tells me, glimpsing out her window for
Lorelei’s Second Stop. “Chloe’s not much of a thrift shopper, but I
like the buried treasures you can find there.”

She gives me the short version of lockdown
and how she and Jules snuck around for three weeks and her entire
family thought she liked Tate.

The story behind her relationship isn’t what
I’m interested in, though. I’m more concerned with how the
rebellious Branson sister doesn’t seem to hang out with Noah at
all. Jules is the “bad boy” of the band anyway. Why isn’t this a
thing?

She whips the car into the thrift shop’s
parking lot and drops her sunglasses in the cup holder. Since going
thrift shopping is number thirteen on my list, I snap a photo of
the store’s sign.

“So, you and Jules don’t hang out with Noah
much?” I ask. “Seems like he’d gel better with you than Chloe. She
seems more wrapped up in being a Saturn girlfriend than you. No
offense to your sister.”

Aralie laughs and shakes her head. She gets
out of the car without answering my question. I follow her to the
entrance, wondering if I screwed up by insulting her sister.

“Chloe isn’t wrapped up in being Saturn
girlfriend,” she finally says, walking directly toward the dresses.
“She has a different level of pressure on her because she’s dating
Milo Grayson, and he’s the epitome of wholesome.”

She grabs a black dress with shimmers of
silver and holds it up against herself, studying how she’d look
wearing it in the mirror.

“As far as Noah and Jules go, there’s
friction,” she says to the mirror more than to me. “That’s one of
those things you might want to ask Noah about. Anything I’d say
would come from the Julian Rossi point-of-view, and that’s not the
side of the story you want to hear.”

She promptly spins around. “Little black
dress,” she says. “What do you think? Classy enough for a yacht
club party?”

Looking at the dress, I almost wish I’d found
it first. Then again, it suits her skin tone better.

“It’s perfect,” I say. “Party crashing dress
number one – done. Now, let’s find me something in red.”

The Golden Star sits at the end of the docks,
sparkling in all its gold and white glory. A golden starfish is
perched on the bow of the boat. It’s about as tacky and expensive
as I expected. This must be the great doctor’s idea of class. The
Golden Star sounds like a cheap southern restaurant or a cowboy
saloon. Yet here it is, on the coast of California, hosting a
lavish party for lavish people who think Noah Winters couldn’t
afford their cars with his entire lifetime earnings.

Twinkle lights hang around the ship’s railing
as more midlife crises in name-brand suits and dresses creep on
deck. We’re about twenty years too young to pull this off. We’ll
stick out like a flip flop on a rack of Manolo Blahnik heels.

“How the hell are we supposed to sneak in? We
look like kids – well-dressed kids but, you know, still kids,”
Aralie asks.

“That’s what I was just thinking,” I say. And
then I see our ticket into the party on deck – the guy from the
boating store. Reed.

“I think I just found our way in,” I say.
“Let me do the talking. Just follow my lead.”

I lock hands with Noah, and Aralie and Jules
follow behind us. I warn them to just play it cool, to act classy.
We wait in the line until we’re face to face with Reed Strickland
and his list of names allowed onboard.

“This isn’t exactly on the Strickland’s
Boating activity list,” he says, swapping glances between Noah and
me.

“We sort of need a favor,” I say, wriggling
my hand free from Noah’s. I ease a bit closer to Reed. “Look,
here’s the thing. I’m competing in this spring break dare list
against some of my friends. We were each given a list, and we have
to document us doing these things, and whoever crosses the most
items off – with proof – wins the competition.”

He folds his arms and rocks back on the heels
of his shoes. He looks so wholesome in his khakis and polo shirt.
He has the entire Milo Grayson aura. There’s no way this short red
dress and silver eyeshadow is going to work on him.

“What exactly do you need me to do?” he asks.
“I can’t afford to mess this up. My dad gets a ton of business from
these people.”

Oh, I hate this. I hate jeopardizing this
guy’s job or his dad’s business. I hate lying to someone who seems
like a genuinely nice person.

“We just need to sneak onto the boat, snap a
few pictures to prove we were here, and we’ll be right back off
before this thing even leaves the dock,” I lie through my teeth
with my best smile.

Reed swishes his hair out of his face and
glances over his shoulder. He peers into the party room of the boat
and makes a few observations before turning back to me.

“A few pictures and you’re gone, okay?” he
says, a bit demanding for his demeanor. “Don’t make a scene. Don’t
get in the way. In and out, got it?”

“Got it. Thank you,” I say, flashing my best
smile before pushing through with Noah, Aralie, and Jules right
behind me.

Once we’re on the deck, it’s nothing but
business. Aralie and I slip away to find an escape route, just in
case this thing sets sail before we can bail out. I’m not really up
for hiding in the boiler room or jumping overboard, but the sharks
may literally be better than staying on the ship if this ends
badly.

“Let’s see where this leads,” Aralie says,
pointing to a hallway.

We slip around the corner, careful to make
sure no one sees us, and then we follow the narrow corridor until
we wind up at a stairway that leads back to the upper deck. There’s
a straight shot to the ramp. Escape route – check.

“I think we’ve found our way out,” Aralie
says. “We’ll let whatever happens happen, and we’ll make a run for
the hallway, back upstairs, and off the boat.”

“And hopefully Reed Strickland won’t capture
and slaughter me in the process,” I say.

I hate that my conscience is getting in the
way of crashing a party. This is the kind of thing I’m good at –
breaking the rules, having some fun, finding the party. My head is
a bit of a mess right now. If I’d really thought this through, I’d
have worn shoes other than heels. There’s no way I’ll be able to
make a running getaway in these things.

We take a quick selfie with Aralie’s phone,
as documentation that I can’t share, and then slip back into the
party room which is fortunately full of people. They sip champagne
while discussing political offices, construction projects, and who
has the biggest bank account.

My parents would love this. Dad could brag
about the software company that writes him a fat paycheck while Mom
slinked around in her designer dresses offering to help with so
many committees and volunteer groups that you’d never realize she
actually has a daughter that might need her every now and then.
She’s the perfect trophy wife, and I love my parents. They’ve given
me everything I’ve ever asked for except the attention I never
admit to actually wanting.

Noah and Jules stand against a wall, talking
to each other with their backs somewhat turned toward the rest of
the room. We quickly work through the crowd to meet back up with
them. Aralie explains the escape route while I skim the room for
some way to actually crash the party.

“We have an idea,” Jules says. “It’s dumb and
Noah thinks I’ll fuck it up. They have a band area set up, but we
haven’t seen a band yet.”

“Probably some little orchestra quartet or
something,” Noah says, making no sense because an orchestra and a
quartet can’t even be compared to each other.

“Uh, yeah, anyway,” Jules interrupts. “Once
things start to chill out, Noah’s going to get on those drums, and
I’m going to jump on one of the tables. I’m thinking about the one
with that giant ice sculpture.”

I scan the room in search of a table with an
ice sculpture. It’s not hard to find. It’s massive, right in the
center of the room. My heart hurts just a little when I realize
it’s an anchor, just like the charm on the bracelet I forced myself
to take off for tonight. As much as I love it, it didn’t match the
little red dress. I hate that I love this sculpture. I’d have it at
my own wedding. And I feel like a hypocrite for feeling this way,
on this boat, with these snobby rich people.

Aralie leans against the wall. “And what
exactly do you plan to do once you’re on the table?”

“I’m going to sing something,” Jules says.
“Nothing SAS-related. I haven’t really figured it out yet. I think
I’m going to wing it. If I go in with a plan, I’ll probably choke,
so I’m just going for it.”

We slowly circle the room, trying to blend in
and pretend to mingle as everyone else is, until Dr. Richardson
takes center stage and silences his audience. He thanks everyone
for being here, blabs on about his successful year, makes a few
chiropractor jokes, and then says that dinner and entertainment
will be served shortly.

This is our move.

Noah and Jules reach into their jacket
pockets and hand us each a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses.
They’re like kindergarten birthday party kind of sunglasses. I’ve
seen better quality in dollar stores. Jules demands that we keep
our faces hidden as best we can, and because this could be terrible
publicity for Spaceships Around Saturn, Aralie agrees to wear them,
and I suck it up as well.

The guys both pull their shades on, like
completely goofy secret agents, and Jules gives Noah the nod. He
casually makes his way over to the area set aside for the
entertainment, and he plants himself behind the drum set.

Aralie slides to the edge of her seat,
poising herself to jump up and run in an instant. I mimic her idea.
Fighting to push a chair back and run like hell is not something we
need. No one seems to pay much attention to Noah, probably assuming
he’s the first member of the entertainment to arrive.

Jules walks by, snatches a microphone, and
continues on his way, as if nothing just happened. Noah rattles the
drumsticks against the cymbals, decorating the air with a pretty
little sound. A few eyes glance his way – a perfect decoy – while
the real man of the hour makes his move.

That’s our cue. We slip our cheap sunglasses
on, and I hope the guys hurry with whatever they’re going to do
because we can’t sit here for long without looking suspicious.

“Is this thing on?” Jules’s voice echoes
around the room. “Alright, good. Welcome.”

He steps up on a chair and plants his shoe on
the shiny gold tablecloth. I fight the urge to giggle like a
preschooler.

“Let’s get this thing started,” Jules says.
“Come dance with me to the drumming–” He pauses for dramatic
effect. Noah beats the hell out of a few drums before letting Jules
finish.

“As I was saying, to the drumming…of our
once-beating hearts!” The words echo throughout the speakers.

A few people gasp and look around,
frantically searching for an answer to what’s going on, but Jules
pushes forward. He steps onto the table, mounting himself next to
the giant ice anchor.

Then he shouts. “Stay with me forever at this
undead masquerade!”

Noah picks up a beat on the drums while Jules
chants the words “We’re already dead!” over and over and over.

Aralie says something about this being a
Mutilated Arteries song. She’s more excited than I’ve seen her in
the time I’ve known her, and I don’t think it’s because we’re
crashing a party.

Someone shouts for security, and Noah tosses
the drumsticks.

“Now!” Aralie yells. She jumps up and runs
toward our exit, toward the hallway that leads back around to the
upper deck.

Jules screams, “Thank you, Golden Star!”
before kicking the ice sculpture. The ice anchor crashes on the
floor, shattering into shards of frozen water, bursting like a
firework. He jumps down and dashes away, closing in quickly on
Aralie.

I break the cardinal rule of never looking
back because I can’t bail without Noah. This was my list. This was
my adventure. I can’t leave him here to take the fall for us. He
runs toward me, screaming for me to go, go, go.

Chaos spills around us. People scream, and a
group of older men aren’t far behind us, screaming things about
security. So I keep moving as fast as these heels will let me.

“Here! This way!” I shout, pointing to our
escape route. But a man in a white uniform spots us from the other
end of the hallway. He points and shouts, but we have no time to
fight him.

Noah grabs my hand and rushes up a set of
nearby stairs. We stop long enough for me to rip off my heels
because they’re slowing us down way too much.

We reach a different deck on the boat, sort
of like those fancy hallways with the white railings on cruise
ships. We have a nice view of the night sky and the black ocean,
which appears to be moving.

“Oh God,” I say, realizing we’re too late.
“We’ve left the dock. We’re screwed.”

“No,” Noah says, shaking his head. “I don’t
think so. I don’t think we’re moving. You’re panicking.”

Um, well, yeah. We’re on a boat that I’m
certain has set sail, and we’re party crashers who are hiding from
security. Noah pulls me behind a potted plant. We crouch down when
we hear footsteps.

“That way,” someone orders. “I’ll check here.
If you find them, just holler for me.”

Damn it. Someone’s coming.

I cuddle closer to Noah, hoping that somehow
a girl in a red dress and a famous guy in sunglasses won’t be
noticed behind this skinny excuse for a palm tree.

As the footsteps grow louder, a shadow rounds
the corner, and I know this is it. This is our fate. We’re going to
get caught by…a guy in a polo shirt and khakis with swishy hair.
It’s Reed. He spots us immediately, but he doesn’t alert the other
crew members.