The Trouble With Destiny (10 page)

I open my eyes and see that we're several hundred yards off the shore, far enough that the whole of the resort is spread out before us. The gaudy pink of the stucco now looks soft and warm like a late-setting sun, and it complements the sparkling blue ocean around it.

“Pretty great view, huh?” Russ says over his shoulder. He shakes his head like a dog and sends a spray of salt water across my face.

That's when I realize I've been clutching the side of his buff upper body with a death grip.

Instantly, I let go. “What is
wrong
with you?” I screech, right into his ear. He jerks away, and the Jet Ski leans hard to the left. He twists at the waist until he's practically facing me, his brow furrowed.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, rubbing his injured ear.

“I said not too fast!”

“I wasn't going that fast,” he says, his tone wounded. “You should have said something.”

“I tried!” I cry. I finally take the opportunity to punch him hard in the arm, though he barely flinches.

“You were hollering,” he says.

“Yeah, in
terror,
” I snap. “Take me back,
slowly
this time.”

“I'll take you back, but not before you take a moment to appreciate this view,” he says. He gestures back toward the shore, where I can again see how beautiful the resort looks, almost as if it's popped right out of my imagination, like an oceanic mirage. But it's not until I follow Russ's gaze in the opposite direction, out into the ocean and toward the horizon, that I see the real view.

The water is so blue it almost looks Photoshopped, and it's clear and smooth as glass. The turquoise of the water meets the baby blue of the sky at a point so far away that no matter how long my eyes search, they can't seem to pin it down. The fluffy white clouds dot the sky, scattering beams of sunlight onto the water. They glitter like diamonds. And after a moment, I notice something else, too. Something a few hundred yards away is disturbing the clear water. Up and down, up and down. And as I squint, I see that it's a group of dolphins, leaping through the water as they make their way across the horizon.

“Worth it?” Russ says, his voice barely above a whisper, even though it feels like there's no one around for miles.

“Yeah,” I say, the word rushing out of me soft and quiet, like a prayer.

We sit there in silence for a few more minutes, watching the dolphins until they disappear, then staring up at the clouds as they move lazily across the sky. And only when our skin is completely dry from the sun does Russ twist back toward me.

“Ready to go?”

“Okay,” I say, my pulse more than slowed from my earlier wild ride. But that doesn't stop me from reminding him, “
Slowly
this time.”

Russ rolls his eyes and turns back to face front. Reluctantly, I place my hands back on his waist. The engine grinds up again, and we're off, though this time the speed is less NASCAR and more elderly mall walker. We're going so slowly, in fact, that I'm barely catching a breeze, and the hot sun high in the sky is searing into my exposed shoulders.

“Very funny,” I say to Russ.

“Hey, you said slow,” he says, his eyes focused on the shore.

“I'd like to get back sometime today, please,” I retort.

Russ shrugs and kicks up the throttle slightly until we're motoring briskly—but not dangerously—to the dock.

We pull up right behind Lenny and Demi's banana boat. They've just climbed off and deposited their life jackets and are now making their way down the dock to the shore. I don't want to lose Lenny. I want to spend more time with him after our talk earlier, so I quickly stand, ready to launch myself onto the dock.

“Liza, wait a second,” Russ says, reaching for my arm, but I shrug him off. Only, without the engine running, the Jet Ski is far less stable. The motion sends it pitching away from the dock, and in my standing position, there's no way to maintain balance. I try to correct, but it's no use—I'm thrown headfirst over the side. My life vest sends me spinning underwater until my head pops up above the surface, my ponytail plastered to my face. I cough and sputter and splash until my toes dig into soft-packed sand. The water next to the dock is only about four feet deep, so I slowly stand up to catch my breath—and glimpse Russ, who is practically pulling a muscle trying not to laugh.

I feel my blood pressure rise, and I open my mouth to scream at him. But my fury quickly turns to terror when I feel something brush against my leg, then wrap around it. It's cool and slimy, and it's got a grip on me. Instantly, I forget all about Russ and the Jet Ski and the dock. I turn toward the shore and take off kicking.

“Jellyfish!” I screech through salty mouthfuls of ocean water. “Jellyfish!”

Despite all my kicking, the jellyfish doesn't let go. In fact, its grip only tightens. My screams quickly turn to cries as I start to emerge onto shore. I trip and get a faceful of sand, but ignore it as I spring to my feet. I dance from one foot to the other in a frantic attempt to shake the jellyfish free.

Russ, who climbed onto the dock and sprinted after me, drops to his knees in the sand to examine the creature.

“Get a stick! Get it off! Get it
off
!” I yell, my voice reaching the piercing pitch of a cartoon character. But Russ skips the stick and simply reaches for the white gelatinous glob with his bare hands.

“Careful, it'll sting you….” But the words die on my lips as I spot the words
THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING
printed in red on the jellyfish.

No, not a jellyfish.

Russ looks up at my attacker, held between his thumb and forefinger.

“Liza, it's a plastic bag,” he says in that gentle, soothing tone that's usually reserved for toddlers or mental patients. As much as it makes me want to smack him, there's only one thought that occupies my mind. I glance over Russ's shoulder.

Please don't let him be watching. Please don't let him have seen that.

But there he is, water glistening off his short strawberry-blond hair. Demi is doubled over with laughter, but Lenny is staring at his toes, a pained expression on his face.

He's embarrassed for me.

And I don't blame him. Not a bit.

The bathroom in my cabin is tiny, maybe the size of a double-wide coffin, and my shower has steamed it up completely. Stepping out of the stall, I use the palm of my hand to swipe at the steam on the mirror. Not that it matters, because I'm not paying any attention to my reflection. My eyes keep flickering down to the scrap of paper I put on the bathroom counter, right next to the sink. It's starting to curl slightly from the humidity, but I can't stop staring at it. Lenny really likes me, and after yesterday, I know it for sure.

Okay, so I royally embarrassed myself with my jellyfish freak-out, but he didn't laugh. Not at all. In fact, after I managed to scrape together what was left of my dignity, we spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach, where he showed me all the pictures he'd taken so far on the ship. And there were a
ton,
so that was basically two hours spent side by side, huddled over the little screen on the back of his digital camera.

I could hardly fall asleep last night, replaying the entire day in my head.

Now I brush my teeth and gather my wet hair into a messy bun, then take the paper off the counter and dance out of the bathroom into the narrow strip of floor that separates my bed from Hillary's. Her bed is rumpled and empty, since she decided to squeeze in a quick stop at one of the small cafés on the Sunrise Deck in hopes of winning the Ship's Bounty, the award the seniors have decided to bestow upon the first band member to sample every buffet aboard the ship.

I root through my duffel until I find my favorite pair of dark denim bermuda shorts. I pull on a gauzy white tank top over them and, glancing in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door, I give myself a little booty shake. I may have wet hair, a few odd tan lines from yesterday, and even a bit of a sunburn on the back of my neck, but I can't even care. Lenny likes me.
Me.

But there's no time for dancing if I want to pass through the breakfast buffet before claiming our extra practice, rightfully won from the Athenas. With yesterday morning's practice botched, this is a chance to hopefully reroute our proverbial ship away from the iceberg of failure that was our first performance. I know we can do better. We
have
to, and it's my job to get us back on course.

I grab my watch, my folder of sheet music, and Lenny's track jacket. I
might
be planning to run into him to return the jacket and maybe, you know, fall in love and make out a little. But first, I need to get the band back on track for competition. Friday night was a total embarrassment. We've never played that poorly. Ever. And I don't plan on a repeat. Even after all the insanity (and, I'll admit, fun) of yesterday, I can't get the horror of our showcase performance out of my memory. Luckily, we had Saturday night off. But we've got another performance tonight. And I know we've got the chops to win this competition; I just need to get everyone's head in the right place. Including my own.

I hop on the elevator, carefully avoiding the young blond couple pressed against the back of the elevator…and each other. Their arms are wrapped around each other as they whisper and giggle. Normally such an obvious public display of affection would gross me out, but glancing at them has me imagining a delicious sunset kiss on the upper deck, Lenny's arms around me, clasped at the small of my back. He's taller than I am by a few inches, so I'll have to look up, maybe rise on my tiptoes to see into his clear gray eyes.
Sigh.
I hug his jacket to my nose and breathe in, catching the last of whatever detergent Lenny's mom uses mixed with Irish Spring and maybe a little campfire. The elevator pauses on the Empress Deck, the home of the most luxurious staterooms. The doors slide open, and a middle-aged couple tumbles into the elevator in a lovesick haze, alternately staring into each other's eyes and giggling, acting as if they're much younger than their graying hair would indicate. As I watch the reflections of the two swooning couples in the mirrored walls, I realize they look like before-and-after versions of one another, and it's an image I can't help but insert myself into. With Lenny at my side.

I'm pressing myself against the side of the elevator to avoid being sucked into their romantic orbit, when I hear another giggle coming from beyond the elevator doors. This giggle is a little more familiar, and it's mixed with a deep laugh that makes my stomach flip. I glance into the hall to see Demi wearing an oversized maroon hoodie with
BRENTWOOD HIGH SCHOOL
emblazoned across the front in big blocky letters. The sweatshirt is about two sizes too big and falls down over her hands. As she giggles again, she uses the excess fabric to swat at Lenny's chest while he leans over her, a wide grin on his face.

The elevator slides closed, leaving me to stare at my own reflection in the gold-mirrored doors. Or I
would
be staring at my reflection, if the image of Demi and Lenny grinning at each other weren't burned into my retinas like a screensaver left on too long. Suddenly that sunset kiss seems light-years away, and I grimace as Demi takes my place in my imagination. I look down to try to replace the image, and I see the track jacket in my hand, the smell of Irish Spring suddenly so overpowering I feel dizzy.

I reach into my pocket, but I left the tiny scrap of paper in my duffel back in my cabin. Without it, I have nothing to reassure me. All I have is the image of Demi and Lenny, laughing and grinning.

The elevator dings open again, but I'm just staring at Lenny's jacket, which suddenly feels like lead in my hand. I feel like such an idiot for thinking it mattered at all. The foul mood comes over me like hot syrup dumped on my head, weighing me down and running all the way to my toes.

“Uh, is this you?”

The male half of the swoony couple behind me jerks me out of my misery. Right, practice. I'm on my way. I fling my arms into the now-closing doors so I don't miss my stop. They jerk and pop back open, and I hurry off the elevator before I get another view of the honeymooners making out. At least I won't miss practice.

But as I make my way down the hall toward our practice room, a niggling thought won't leave me. I got one up on Demi last night, but now she's got some newfound free time. And what is she doing with it?

Once again, even though I managed to catch a break, it's turning around to bite me in the butt. I can't help but remember that one time in fifth grade when I beat Demi in our town's Fourth of July essay contest. That was the year that, on top of winning the hundred-dollar prize, the winner had to deliver the speech at the annual Fourth of July festival. Which meant that I had to sit on a dais in the town square, next to the mayor and half the city council, baking in the hot July sun at high noon, and then deliver my speech in front of a crowd of hundreds. I was so hot and nervous that I thought for sure I would pass out right there onstage. Some prize.

Beating Demi isn't always what you think it will be. Sometimes you just end up in a puddle of your own sweat and embarrassment.

Suddenly extra practice doesn't feel like such a victory. But I vow to push that aside and beat Demi where it really counts: in the final competition.

Most of the band is already in their seats, assembling their instruments, shuffling music, tuning up, or chatting about the variety of foods they speed-consumed during breakfast. I hear a long, low belch come from somewhere in the brass section, followed by a brief cheer and a flurry of high fives. I'm going to guess those are the pirates of the Ship's Bounty. At least they made it here.

I step up onto the podium in front of the rows and place my folder on the music stand, spreading out my music, prepared to start rehearsal. I pick up the baton and tap it on the stand, and everyone stops chatting or burping and turns to face me, instruments at the ready. I'll focus on the music, and when I'm done, I'll turn my focus to Lenny. Demi may be trying to work her magic, and it might even be doing the trick a little, but I'm not out yet. There's no way they have the chemistry we do. The passion and integrity he has when it comes to his art is the way I feel standing on this podium, a folder of music in front of me and rows of musicians waiting for my cue. She can't even begin to understand what that's like.

Game on, Demi,
I think as I raise the baton.

The ship's cooling system chooses the one moment of silence to kick in, the air conditioning roaring to life with an almost human-sounding
whoosh.
Nicole practically levitates from her chair, her eyes darting around as if smoke is going to start pouring into the room at any second. Her abandoned chair tips back on its hind legs, sending the music stand behind her crashing into Amelia's lap, snapping her bassoon reed into splinters.

“Hey! That was a new reed!” Amelia whines, trying in vain to salvage the bits.

Nicole spins on her heel at the exclamation, her hip knocking over
her
stand, sending it into the one next to hers, which causes a domino effect of falling stands and fluttering sheet music down the front row. As I watch the white pages hit the floor, all of a sudden all I can see is red.

“Dammit, Nicole, get it together!” I snap. “Do you have any idea how much your neuroses are screwing us up? I don't know how you expect to survive Juilliard when an
air-conditioner
sends you over the edge.”

The room goes silent. No one can believe I've snapped at Nicole over dropping her music.
Nicole,
who is our most talented and reliable musician. She
never
makes mistakes.

Nicole's face goes white, then red. At first I think she's going to cry, but then I realize the color is more the shade of fury. She snatches the music from the floor, the edge of it crinkling in her fist. She slaps it back onto the music stand, then rises so fast her chair tips over backward again, sending a second-row freshman flute player scooting back to avoid the shrapnel. For once, I don't see Nicole quivering. Everything about her is steely, from her stature to the daggered look she's giving me. Without a single word, she takes a wide step around the stand and strides past me, flute in one hand, case in the other.

“Wh-where are you going?” I sputter.

Nicole pauses and glances over her shoulder, eyes narrowed.

“I've worked my
ass
off for this band,” she says, her voice sharp and steady as a chef's knife. “I don't need this, not from you.”

“What does that mean?”

She glances across the rows of musicians. They've gone from a band to a silent chorus, their mouths agape as their eyes volley between Nicole and me. Her gaze settles on me, and suddenly all the steel is gone.

My tongue feels like it's swelling up in my mouth as I fumble for words, but nothing is coming out.
Her
mouth turns down as she gives me a look that's something close to pity.

“It means you need to chill. Also, I quit.”

I hear Huck snort, and as I turn to shoot him a look of
Don't even start right now,
Nicole walks out.

Huck stands up and lays his oboe across his chair, then follows after Nicole, snagging my arm on the way and dragging me off the conductor's stand. I nearly trip over my feet as I try to keep up. By the time I have my footing, we're in the hallway, walking toward the stairwell door that's just closed from where Nicole disappeared through it.

“When Nicole Mauser is telling you to relax, you know you've taken a sharp left turn into crazy town,” Huck says, still charging ahead.

“You know, Huck, I could use a little less commentary and a little more attention to your cues. You blew every single one back there.” I can hear the words coming out of my mouth. I can tell they're mean and just making the situation worse. And yet I'm powerless to stop them. I
yelled
at Nicole. What is wrong with me? It's like I've been taken over by some body-snatching rage monster. It feels like PMS on speed, and I'm not a fan.