Sweet (28 page)

And then it will detonate the explosives.

I gulp.

Then I press in 2-6-6-8-7.

B-O-O-T-S.

WRONG PASSWORD
, it flashes, then,
ENTER PASSWORD
.

I do not stop to think.

I enter 2-6-6-8-7.

WRONG PASSWORD.

ENTER PASSWORD.

Again I type in B-O-O-T-S.

And the iPhone's face resets.

It's a countdown. Sixty seconds.

That was easier than I thought it would be, I think for a second.

Then I come to my senses—I set it down and I
run.

I race through the casino and when I get to the open door, I see the raft.

It's floating off a ways. Not very far. (Probably not far enough.)

I kick off my boots and I dive.

 

TOM

DAY SIX

I WAKE WITH A START
and everything is orange. I'm in some sort of tent? No. Water's rolling beneath me. For a second, all I know is that everything is wrong. Then I remember: Laurel. Sabbi. The ship.

“NO!” I shout, because I realize where I am.

I'm in a freaking life raft.

“Laurel!” I yell. “LAUREL!”

I flip over, which wrenches my ankle. Hot pain sears up my leg. Using my arms, I belly-crawl across the smooth, yellow floor to the opening in the roof overhead.

I pull myself up on the side of the raft, coming up to kneel on my good leg.

The raft is floating maybe a hundred feet from the ship.

She's swimming hard.

“Come on!” I shout. I reach out my arm.

She swims for all she's worth.

I reach out, my ankle shrieking but there! She reaches for me, fumbling, her arm wet and slippery, and I get a good hold on her wrist and pull with everything I've got as—
BOOM!

Everything is white-hot light and a wall of sound.

I pull Laurel over the side of the raft to me and—
BOOM!
A second explosion splits the air and we're hit with water.

The raft tips; Laurel and I slide down it, back through the open doorway, into the part of the raft that has a roof. And then the raft goes end over end like we're in a washing machine.

Water pounds us from every direction, and there's the feeling of falling. The raft being sucked into a giant vortex of dark, churning water.

We hit something—a part of the ship, maybe—and the raft absorbs the hit. We're scrunched together, heavy rubber against my face for a split second and then the raft regains its shape.

I sputter and gasp—trying to get air.

My lungs are burning. My ankle's bleeding. Bone through the skin. I can feel the joint sickly loose now.

Then we're spit back up, the whole raft, into the night air. We're spit back up on a wave that carries us away from the wreckage.

The waves churn and spin us. But I hold on to Laurel.

We choke up seawater. We gasp. We puke up seawater.

We slide all over the life raft. There's nothing inside except us and the soft sides.

But eventually we are floating. Bobbing on the waves.

Laurel says, “Tom.” She says it over and over. I answer her with, “Laurel.”

There's blood and water in the raft. It sloshes back and forth as choppy waves roll under the raft.

Laurel crawls-paddles through the water to the edge of the raft and looks out.

“What—” I sputter. “What do you see?”

“The ship is a flare,” she says. “It's a flare.”

“We did it,” Laurel says.

Her hair is plastered to the sides of her face and she's shaking.

“You did it,” I tell her.

She crawls back to me.

We lie there, huddled together, looking up at the inside of the life raft.

The smell of burning ship fuel wafts across the water.

We bob on the waves.

My leg throbs in constant agony.

We're all washed out. Nothing left. Nothing but the instinct to cling.

*   *   *

After a good long while, we hear choppers.

 

LAUREL

DAY SEVEN

AT FIRST I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM.

There's a window with glass slats. Outside I see the tops of scrawny palm trees and I can hear street noise and the sounds of televisions blaring and chattering.

It smells like cheap gasoline and grilled chicken and frying bananas.

Everything on my body hurts. I can't even lift my head, the pain is so severe.

There's an IV in my hand.

I'm in a hospital, I realize. A hospital in some country that is not America (which is why it doesn't smell like a hospital).

“Tom,” I croak. My throat is dry and scratchy. “Tom.”

No one can hear me. I need to know if he is alive. And no one is coming.

I lift my head (agony) to see if there's a nurse call-button thingy. There's none.

“Tom,” I repeat. “Somebody!”

The walls are painted a mint green and the equipment is mismatched new and old.

There's a TV. On it I see the news. The anchors are a Latino man and a Latino woman. The sound is off.

I wonder where I am. (Will anyone ever come?)

I hear a fuss in the hallway. The sound of people talking in Spanish. And Tom! I hear his voice!

“Tom!” I call.

And he bursts in.

He's dragging his leg, which is in a plaster cast, and he staggers to my bed.

“Laurel!” he cries and we're kissing and trying to embrace and I forget the pain I'm in because it feels so good to touch him.

Two small nurses are tutting and fussing in Spanish. They demand that Tom return to his room. (Fat chance, nurses.)

“
El canal Americano!
” he says, pointing to the TV. “
Por favor, el sonido! Por favor!
”

One of them shakes her head in disapproval but marches over to the TV, changes the channel, and cranks up the volume. The two nurses argue for a moment, pointing at us, and they must decide to leave us alone for a minute because they turn and go.

“Look,” Tom says, as if I need to be told.

It's one of the networks and two news anchors are reporting, a gray-haired man and a pretty black woman.

“Search-and-rescue teams from Honduras and Nicaragua have been combing the seas for survivors. We have word that at least seventy-five people have been rescued, but no crews have been able to speak to any of the survivors yet,” the man says.

Footage of helicopter rescues show on screen. There's our raft—I think it's our raft. And a shot of a stretcher being airlifted off. I think it's me on the stretcher!

The anchorwoman takes over.

“Thanks, Jim. Now, the authorities have not confirmed this, but we have received an e-mail from a Private Amos Lancaster, formerly of the U.S Marine Corps, claiming responsibility for the attack. He wrote to us—”

An excerpt from his e-mail shows on the screen.

Timothy Almstead is dead now and he deserved it! I blame Pipop for the downfall of America. No one can resist it and all that sugar has poisoned us all. I look around and see poison everywhere. Every store, every second of the day we're surrounded by it. It has to end somewhere! I blew up that ship to fight back! Everyone should join me and fight back!

The man, Jim, talks: “Wow, Sabrina, what a tragedy for Timothy Almstead, the president and heir of the Pipop empire, to have worked to bring Solu to the market and have this happen on the day the product is launched!”

“I agree, Jim,” Sabrina says. “Stores across the country sold out in a matter of hours.”

They cut to a Greenway Superstore. Happy, smiling shoppers with arms full of lavender boxes wave and mug for the camera.

“Now we're getting word of a new development,” Sabrina says. She's reading from a piece of paper that's just been handed to her. “The authorities are asking people to temporarily refrain from taking Solu. Huh. Apparently, the passengers from one of the lifeboats are claiming it is not safe.”

“Solu is not safe?” Jim repeats.

Sabrina makes a little embarrassed face.

“Uh-oh!” the anchorwoman says. “That's a little late for a lot of us. I'm already on my third packet of the day, and I have to say…” She winks. “I'm feeling
fantastic.
”

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

What a pleasure it is to collaborate with the smart and talented people at Feiwel & Friends, Macmillan, and the Einstein Literary Management. I feel an enormous debt to the editorial, design, publicity, marketing, and sales departments for all the hard work that went into this book, as well as to my savvy and hardworking agents.

A brief laundry list of gratitude:

Holly, Jean, and Dave! Anne Heausler!

Susanna, Sandy, and Molly R-L.!

Molly Brouillette! Mary, Allison, Ksenia, Nicole B., and Brittany!

Liz F.! Kathryn!

Rich Deas and KB!

Angus!

Vannessa, the other Holly, Jenn, Mark, Claire, and Jennifer!

Lauren! Nicole L.M, Anna, and Christine!

I really mean those exclamation points. Those are sincere and exuberant exclams from the heart!

Another set of earnest exclamation points to my extraordinary and generous beta readers, Kristin Bair and Wendy Shanker. Thank you!

I dedicated this book to my father, Kit Laybourne. Dad, you have an irrepressible creative zeal and I'm so glad it rubbed off on me. Thank you for taking me on a luxury cruise to the Caribbean to do research. Wow—was that fun! (And a shout-out to all the friends we made on the cruise, crew and passengers alike.) Also, thanks for taking me to all those B movies over the years. They rubbed off on me, too.

Now,
Sweet
is hardly an issue book, but there are some important subjects that come into play. Just to be very clear, I,
Emmy Laybourne
, am a believer in fat acceptance and shame-free body love. I also have personal experience with food addiction (sugar, to be specific). You can read more about my personal feelings on these subjects on the page for
SWEET
at
emmylaybourne.com
. There, you'll also find links to articles I find relevant, as well as information on the books and tools I use to combat my sugar addiction.

Lastly, I want to thank my beloved children, Elinor and Rex. I feel so unbelievably lucky to be your mom. And thank you to my husband, Greg, for taking such good care of me and making me laugh and letting me love you so much. I kicked sugar and now you are my sweetener of choice.

 

Thank you for reading this FEIWEL AND FRIENDS book. The Friends who made

SWEET

possible are:

J
EAN
F
EIWEL
, Publisher

L
IZ
S
ZABLA
, Editor in Chief

R
ICH
D
EAS
, Senior Creative Director

H
OLLY
W
EST
, Associate Editor

D
AVE
B
ARRETT
, Executive Managing Editor

N
ICOLE
L
IEBOWITZ
M
OULAISON
, Production Manager

L
AUREN
A. B
URNIAC
, Editor

A
NNA
R
OBERTO
, Associate Editor

C
HRISTINE
B
ARCELLONA
, Editorial Assistant

Follow us on Facebook or visit us online at
MACKIDS.COM
.

OUR BOOKS ARE FRIENDS FOR LIFE.

 

CHAPTER ONE

TINKS