The Trouble With Destiny (3 page)

They're words I've repeated to myself over and over again since I first overheard the conversation between Mr. Curtis and Mrs. Buckner, the art teacher, back in October. I knew cuts were coming, but I figured they'd cancel construction on the new football team weight room or skip repaving the student parking lot. Not cut the buses they use to transport us to away games and sell off all the school-owned instruments. Without the buses we could at least figure something out, but without the sousaphones, the baritones, or the drums, there's no band left. I'd never betray my woodwind sisterhood, but let's be honest, flutes do not a marching band make.

I spent weeks trying to brainstorm ways to raise enough cash to keep us going. Then, an email from a newsletter I subscribe to gave me the perfect solution:

A spring break cruise for high school performing arts groups. A week of showcases concluding with a shipboard competition. A $25,000 grand prize. It would be more than enough to fund instrument maintenance and pay for the buses that take us to away games. All I had to do was write an essay on why we wanted to compete (Uh, hello? The future of the band?) and send in a video of a performance (luckily our performance at our town's annual fall festival this year was flawless), and we were in. And now only one week and nine other groups stand between us and the money we need to exist next year.

That money will be our savior, and my legacy.

A wrinkle of concern appears in the space between Lenny's blond eyebrows. I realize I sound like one of those high-strung mothers on the Lifetime movies my mom loves to put on while she cleans the house. In those, a crazed mom invariably attempts to knock off the competition to get her child to the top. This is
not
the impression I was hoping to give off.

I take a breath, rubbing my sweaty hands on my shorts. “I have a plan,” I say slowly. “But it's important that everyone stay calm. That means they can't know that we're in danger of losing the band.”

“They don't know?” Lenny asks.

“They
can't
know,” I say, especially not now, this close to the competition. I've managed to keep the secret to myself for months, not even breathing a word to Huck. I didn't want the panic and pandemonium I knew would come if they knew how close we are to losing one another. I needed them to focus. It hasn't been easy, especially as everyone started making plans for roommates and band camp this summer and suggesting new songs to add to our game-day repertoire. I almost slipped once, after homecoming, when Huck asked me if I was going to try out for drum major again next year, but I held it in. I've come this far. I'm not going to let the secret out now.

“Understood,” Lenny says, nodding slowly. He stands up and adjusts his camera strap around his neck, then reaches up and turns an invisible lock at his lips, flicking the imaginary key over his shoulder. “They won't hear it from me.”

“Thank you,” I say, and smile at him. I can't help but notice that despite the fact that he's become a tall, hot photographer, I can still see the grinning, freckled Stuart Little in there. It makes my heart flutter like a tremolo.

“Not a problem at all,” Lenny says. “I should probably get going. You know, make sure my dad didn't lose
my
suitcase.”

“Oh, sure,” I reply. I flatten myself against the wall as he edges past me toward the door.

He has to duck just a bit to get through it. Then he stops and turns, his old friendly smile back. “I'll see you, okay, Birdie?” The reference to his summer nickname for me, after Margolo, the character I played opposite him in
Stuart Little,
makes me want to do a happy dance right then and there, but I manage to contain myself.

“Yup, see you!” I try to sound light and playful, but instead I sound like I've swallowed a piccolo. Lenny just gives a quick wave and pulls the door shut behind him.

Crap.

Now that I'm alone, all the tension of his presence, all my worries about the loss of the band, and all the pressure of the competition rush out of me in a
whoosh.
I fall back onto the empty bed, my hand running over the warm spot where he was sitting.

A red light catches my eye from the narrow bedside table between the two beds: an iPod dock reading 11:00. The team leaders meeting has just started. And I'm going to be late.

Double crap.

As I leap to my feet, I can feel
Destiny,
all fifty thousand tons of her, rumble to life beneath me. I glance through the tiny porthole and see the terminal sliding away. We've left port. With each passing second we get farther away from land—and closer to a win.

I take the stairs three at a time and bolt down the hall toward the Sunset Pavilion, a smallish theater with bright orange walls and no windows. There are ten groups participating in the shipboard competition, and a quick scan of the two dozen or so people in the auditorium shows that I'm the last of the group leaders to show up.

I spot Mr. Curtis in a seat in the back corner of the theater, and I set off to join him while I attempt to catch my breath. On my way up the stairs, I pass Mrs. Haddaway, the advisor for Holland High's all-girl show choir, the Athenas. I almost don't recognize her with her hair tucked up in an orange Tennessee Volunteers baseball cap, the bill pulled down low as she hunches over some pink-and-green knitting project. Two rows up are Demi Tremont and her best friend, Missy O'Brien, the captain and cocaptain of the Athenas. In their identically worn-in denim miniskirts and candy-colored tissue tanks, they look like Tweedle Mean and Tweedle Meaner. When Demi spots me coming up the stairs, she sneers at my rumpled clothes and messy bun, then turns to Missy.

“Thank
God
my mom got us upgraded,” she says in an exaggerated stage whisper. “She's dating this totally hot travel agent, which means VIP
everything.
I can't imagine being squeezed down in the ass end of the ship, practically bunking with the freaking
crew.
”

I've spent most of high school ignoring my ex–best friend, but her comment makes my blood boil. After I found out about the cruise competition, we fund-raised for months to earn the money for the tickets, selling candy bars, wrapping paper, magazine subscriptions, anything that would bring in the cash to cover our rooms. I practically turned my band into a living production of
Death of a Salesman
just to get here. On the other hand, the Athenas hosted exactly
one
bikini car wash and are staying in deluxe suites.
Unfair.

Demi and I were born on the same day, in the same hospital, one hour apart in rooms right next to each other (she came first, which would turn out to be a theme between us). This basically ensured that we'd be either best friends or mortal enemies, and for the first twelve years of our lives, we were the former. While our moms drank coffee and shared neighborhood gossip, we babbled and played and eventually became best friends. We were in the same preschool class, the same ballet class, played on the same soccer team, and sat next to each other in the same Sunday school class. And when we weren't shuttling around to various activities together, we were in each other's bedrooms playing endless hours of pretend.

There's only one thing to know about Demi: Demi is a winner. Demi wins. From the time we were little, she was always the best soccer player, the prima ballerina, and the first to raise her hand to name the writers of the Gospels. When we played school, Demi was the teacher. When we played hospital, Demi got to perform lifesaving surgery. In the confines of her cotton-candy-pink bedroom, Demi racked up an Oscar, a Grammy, the
American Idol
title, and a Super Bowl ring. And honestly, I never minded much. I liked opening the envelope, and covering myself in ketchup to play a surgical victim was fun (though we got in mega trouble for the mess we made on that one). I've just never been that competitive. It wasn't until I tried out for drum major that I'd ever really competed for anything, and I like it just fine that way.

Then sixth grade rolled around and middle school happened, and Demi discovered a whole new world ready for the taking. Now she didn't just have to pretend to win; she could simply
win.
And so Demi set out to always wear the cutest outfits, have the most friends, sit at the best table in the cafeteria (and in the best seat, of course, right in the middle of the action), and go out with the most sought-after boy at Holland Middle School.

And me? When it wasn't just the two of us playing pretend anymore, it wasn't as fun. Not for me, at least. I just got tired, first of trying to keep up, then of always playing second fiddle. Every day with Demi was like running a marathon. But no matter how fast I ran, I was always guaranteed to come in second. So on the first day of seventh grade, when we had agreed to sign up for auditions for the fall musical, I walked over to a different table and signed up for the one activity I knew Demi would never, ever deign to do. There would be no competition, and I definitely wouldn't earn any points in the race to be cool.

Demi won the lead in
My Fair Lady,
and I became a flautist in the middle school band. Without shared activities, our carpools disappeared, and with Demi in rehearsals, so did our sleepovers and movie dates. I started eating lunch across the cafeteria with my new band friends, which turned out to be way more fun than watching Demi flirt and everyone else fawn over her. And with all my newfound free time I gained from not applauding for Demi every day, I even became a kickass flute player. I didn't realize we'd broken up until long after it had happened, leaving me to wonder if Demi and I were ever real friends, or if I was just her tagalong. Regardless, Demi and I never competed against each other again.

Until now.

I open my mouth for some kind of smart retort, but Demi has already turned back to Missy. The pair of them start pointing at our competitors and whispering behind cupped hands, throwing narrow-eyed glances around the auditorium. I make my way to the back corner and take my seat next to the ever-quiet Mr. Curtis, who once again has his nose buried behind his phone. We don't get cell service out here, but the website boasted about the ship's superior Wi-Fi capability.

“Hi, Mr. Curtis,” I say as I plop down in the chair in the row in front of him.

“Hey there, Liza,” he says, a relaxed smile on his face that I would attribute to the cruise, except Mr. Curtis always seems to run on half speed. He's the calmest, most Zen teacher I've ever had, which is probably why I feel like I have to be doubly motivated to get anything done with the band. Without me taking the lead, I'm pretty sure half the woodwinds would still be in the parking lot of the cruise terminal, and at least one student would have been left back at the school.

I think about Lenny and his laid-back smile. I guess he does get
something
from his dad, though I have to push the thought away quickly. I don't want that like-father-like-son image to come creeping into my head later.
Ick.

I start to apologize for being almost late, but Mr. Curtis is already back on his phone, where I notice he's playing some kind of game that involves tapping on pictures of flaming candy bars. Which is just as well, because a crew member clad in the ship's uniform of crisp white shorts, matching polo, and white socks and sneakers is starting to pass around a stack of stapled papers. When he gets to the back row, he hands two to me, and I pass one over to Mr. Curtis. I leaf through the packet, recognizing most of the information as stuff I already pulled off the web, mostly maps, schedules, rules, and programs. There's also a list of all the other competitors. I take a moment to scan down it to see that the only groups I know are the Athenas and the Mechanicals. There's an orchestra listed, and some kind of dance troupe, plus two other bands. The other three I can't determine from their names alone.

The crew guy, who introduces himself as First Mate Kevin without a single note of irony, runs through the performance schedules, locations, and rules of the competition. He reminds us all to double-check that the judges have the most up-to-date programs for each of us, a task I took care of via email last week. We've been working on our program since January, so there was no reason to wait to submit our music. He also reminds us to arrive at the auditorium by 6:30 sharp for tonight's showcase, and I make a mental note to get there at least fifteen minutes early. Definitely on time in Mr. Curtis's book.

First Mate Kevin finishes right as the auditorium door swings open and the rest of the student performers start to stream in to join their team leaders. The remaining Athenas, all dressed like they shopped on the same really expensive website, all wearing variations on the short skirt and brightly colored tank top, stream in. A few have accessorized with matching candy-colored sunglasses or bright bauble necklaces, but they all have their hair flat-ironed shiny and cascading over their shoulders. They squeeze in past Demi and Missy and occupy the row of seats right in the center of the auditorium. Of course.

The Mechanicals file in behind them, still in their matching shirts, all stumbling in doing spot-on impersonations of zombies for reasons I can't possibly guess. It's like they don't even care about the competition; they just want to be the center of attention. Though only one town over from Holland, Centreville is a much more affluent community, so the Mechanicals probably aren't facing the same cuts we are. Which is good, because if they don't
need
the money, maybe they'll let their guard down enough for us to squash them.

As they plop down in seats, laughing and talking and high-fiving, I almost envy them. They look like they're having
fun,
which is what I'd be doing if we weren't in dire financial straits. While the rest of the crowd trickles in, I give myself a moment to imagine what it would be like to be on this trip without the black cloud of the cuts hanging over my head. I'd probably spend most of my time sitting in a lounge chair with Hillary on one side of me and Huck on the other, a stack of trashy magazines on my lap. I'd eat my weight in buffet food and belt out songs in the karaoke lounge and probably act just like the Mechanicals.

But this week isn't about fun. It's not about hanging out with my friends or scarfing belgian waffles while I read about which celebutante is dating which heartthrob. It's about making sure that next year, I get to keep the band and my friends. And that thought has panic washing over me, first as a trickle, then as a flood.

I squeeze the arms of my chair tightly, willing myself to breathe. Huck comes through the door, tailed by the other four oboe players, the rest of the woodwinds, and all the brass. The percussion section brings up the rear, as usual. They're a scrappy group of dudes who are always in motion, drumming on themselves, one another, or anything within reach. Huck trots up the steps and drops down in the seat beside me, and I immediately feel a little better. Huck may be drawn to trouble like a starlet to a scandal, but he's also my best friend.

“I can't believe I have to spend the week dealing with
that,
” I say, gesturing down to the row of Athenas. “I know we're here to work, but I was at least hoping for a little break.”

“A break from what?” The row of seats bounces and groans as Russ, Holland High's quarterback—and Demi's ex-boyfriend—drops his solid frame down in the empty seat next to mine. He reaches up and tucks his long, nearly chin-length blond hair behind his ears, where I notice a hole, the remnant of the time the starting line decided it would be cool to pierce one another's ears as some kind of warped demonstration of toughness and solidarity. Coach Morrison went ballistic and made all his players remove the earrings, but the mark remains.

When Russ catches me staring, he nods at me with a jocklike “ 'Sup?” At well over six feet tall, his knees thud into the seat in front of him, his arms more than taking up his armrest and starting in on my own. I nudge him hard with my elbow in an effort to confine him to his own space.

“You were saying about work?” Huck mutters under his breath. He leans back in his seat so as to disappear behind me, and thus out of Russ's view. Huck has never forgiven the HHS football team, Russ included, for the incident during the pregame show sophomore year. We'd just finished the national anthem and were about to march into the tunnel formation, when the football team accidentally (on purpose) stormed the field early. Huck went flying ass over ankles into the end zone in front of a cheering crowd of Bulldog fans.

“Uh, Russ? Could you, um—” I search my brain for a task that will occupy him somewhere else, somewhere far away from me so I don't have to spend every second babysitting him. “Could you double-check that our instruments got loaded into the practice room?”