The Trouble With Destiny (17 page)

Russ settles into the chair next to me, legs crossed at the ankles, his arms folded behind his head. I turn over onto my side, my hands folded under my cheek, and stare at him.

“Liza, you look totally wasted,” he says, turning to look at me. “I don't know what's going on, but you can't tell me your room number, and I can't let you be seen like this. You'll get in crazy trouble. So we're just going to hang out here until you're more…with it.”

“Okay,” I reply. The wind changes direction, and suddenly I can smell his fresh, spicy deodorant. I take a deep breath, then turn onto my back to stare at the stars. “What's this place?”

“It's the Starlight Deck,” he says. He gestures up at the palette of light above us. “Appropriate, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say as I try to pick out a constellation. Even in an unimpaired state, it would be futile. I've never been able to tell one star from the other. They look as random as a toddler's sketches to me, and that's just fine. I know enough about astronomy to know that even though it all
looks
random up there, there's meaning and order to it. As I lie here, my brain feeling like it's rubbing against my skull with the current of the ocean, the thought comforts me. Those stars came together for a reason. They
like
each other. You know, like relationships. Two stars find each other because together they make something great, like the Big Dipper or whatever. And that's not
random.
It's because they both like sports or art or music. Or
Stuart Little.

“Uh, okay,” Russ says, his voice halting.

And that's when I realize that all that star stuff? Yeah, I said that out loud. So much for feeling more with it. I'm going to be sitting here for a while.

I shut my mouth and try to stay completely still, like maybe if I don't move he'll forget I said that stuff. Or I'll disappear entirely.

We lie there in silence, both taking in our own corner of the sky. From this high up on the ship, everything else seems very far away, and then, suddenly, very, very close. Too close. Thoughts of the band and Lenny and Demi creep into my brain, and I don't want them there. Not now.

“Say something,” I say, opening an eye a crack. I want a distraction, and Russ is the only one here who can give me one.

“About what?” He brushes a lock of hair that keeps blowing down onto his face out of his eyes.

“Whatever. Anything.” It must be the drugs, because I open my mouth and hear myself asking, “What's the deal with you and Demi?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, but I can't respond. I'm suddenly overcome with something like drowsiness. “Uh, well, we dated for a while. It was fun, I guess,” he says, pausing. I can feel him watching me, but I just stare at the sky. “I mean, she asked me out and I said yes because she's really cute, you know? And when she sings, she's amazing. Full of energy and light.”

I nod. Even having seen her at her worst, I can't deny that Demi's a magnetic performer. It makes you forget everything nasty she's ever said. It makes you forget it's
her
up there. Whatever she's singing pours out of her and envelops her, until the song
is
her.

“And it was cool, you know, being a couple. Having someone to go to dances with or have around for holidays or whatever. But then I started noticing something weird. It was like I was her costar. She wanted to dress me. And she kept pointing out pictures of celebrities and telling me to get their haircuts. She actually made me an appointment at a salon and drove me there one night when we were supposed to be going to a movie. Can you believe that?”

Even through my drug-induced haze, I absolutely can. That sounds exactly like Demi, and I snort at the image of her trying to kamikaze a haircut for Russ.

“First it was homecoming king and queen. And then it was all about getting nominated for prom court. And then she told me she wanted to campaign for the Mr. and Miss Holland High title. It's a stupid superlative in the yearbook! I mean, who even cares?”

“So then why did she dump you?” I ask, feeling my equilibrium start to return.

He's quiet, just staring at the sky, for a long moment. Then he takes a deep breath. “She didn't dump me,” he says, his voice gravelly. “I broke up with her.”

All of a sudden I'm as steady as a high-speed train. I sit up on my elbows, turning toward his chair.

“Wait, what?”

Russ sighs. “She was
really
pissed. Then she made me promise I wouldn't tell anyone that it was my choice.”

“You agreed to that?” I ask, my face surely a picture of incredulity. “You let her tell everyone that
she
dumped
you
?”

Russ sits up and meets my eyes, his face soft and sympathetic. “I don't care what people think. I just didn't want to be with her anymore, so I let her have that one.”

I gulp, turning his words over in my head. Suddenly I can see him sitting in the hot tub, shrugging as Demi declared that she broke up with him. And he just let her, because really, what
does
it matter? It doesn't. Not at all.

And as soon as the thought comes to me, I realize that while my brain is starting to clear, my exhaustion remains. I can barely keep my eyes open, and I settle back down on the chair, my eyelids heavy.

“When you remember your room number, just let me know,” Russ says through a yawn, which spurs one in me. I reach up to the sky in a stretch.

“Yup, uh-huh,” I reply, then let out the breath of the yawn. My eyes droop, but the image of the stars remains, and stays there until I drift off to sleep.

The sound of waves lapping at the side of the ship six stories down, quiet and rhythmic, rouses me from a deep sleep. My eyes feel crusty, and I rub at them with my fists before finally cracking them open to see wide, bright beams of sunlight rising over the sparkling blue ocean. I take a deep breath and fill my lungs with warm, salty air, unable to contain the smile that's breaking across my face.

Sunrise…wait, sunrise?

I bolt up from the deck chair that served as my bed, bits and pieces of the previous night seeping into my brain with the rising sun. I was in Demi's closet. And I took something that was definitely
not
Tylenol.

And then I turn my head slowly to my left, holding my breath so I'm careful not to make a noise. And yup, there's Russ, one arm flung over his face, his chest rising and falling in a deep, slow rhythm. The longer I stare at him, the more comes back to me. He found me, completely impaired, in Demi's closet. He helped me get out of there…and something with a belgian waffle?

Next to me, Russ gives a sort of sniffle snort and rolls over onto his side, facing away from me. This is my chance.

I stand up from the chair slowly, making sure nothing creaks or squeaks, then tiptoe church mouse–like toward the door. With one final glance over my shoulder, my gaze going to the sliver of tan skin showing between his tank top and his khaki shorts, I push through the door.

I'll thank Russ later, when my mouth doesn't feel like I've been gargling moldy ocean water all night. I reach up to my hair to find it sort of knotted up on one side of the back of my head, and my reflection in the elevator doors confirms that I look as bad as the inside of my mouth tastes.

As the elevator glides down toward my floor, I lean my forehead against the cool glass wall, taking deep breaths to try to keep my body from staging a rebellion. If this is what a hangover is like, I don't know why anyone drinks. Ever.

Nothing—and I mean
nothing
—has gone right on this trip. Spilling my guts to Russ and falling asleep on the deck is just another symptom of whatever misery has overtaken my life this week. I can only be thankful that I didn't do or say anything totally stupid last night, and that nobody saw us. At least I got out of there in one piece, my embarrassment confined to Russ and that deck chair. And if what he said about the reason for his breakup with Demi is true, then he has no interest in being the center of attention.

It's entirely possible that I had Russ all wrong. And I don't know how to make sense of that in my still-hazy brain.

When I get to my room, I find the door propped and see Hillary on her bed, a multicolored gypsy skirt gathered around her knees as she paints her toenails a deep hunter green.

“Hey there, party girl, do I want to know where you were last night?” Hillary asks, capping her polish and flashing me a crooked smile.

“No, you don't, which is good because I don't want to talk about it,” I reply. I don't mention the fact that I'm not entirely clear on the facts myself, and not sure I want to be. The details may be just fine where they are, buried in a deep, dark corner of my brain. I pick up the Tylenol bottle from her bedside table and shake it. “What I
do
want to know is what's in here.”

“Oh, those are like, over-the-counter sleeping pills,” Hillary says. “I don't really have insomnia, but sometimes I have trouble falling asleep. Those make me drowsy enough that I can finally drift off.”

I put the bottle back down on the table with enough force that I feel it in my hand. “So it was definitely a good idea that I took three of them last night.”

“Good lord, were you comatose?”

“Not exactly,” I say, though I have to admit that once I was on that deck chair staring up at the sky, I did end up sleeping like a baby.

I quickly change out of yesterday's cutoffs and into a fresh pair, with a clean tank top and my marching band zip hoodie over it, then gather my hair into a high ponytail. When I look in the mirror, there are no dark circles under my eyes, and just a little red in my otherwise tanned cheeks. My life may be in shambles, but at least I look well rested. I rub on a smear of my favorite cherry-vanilla lip gloss, then follow Hillary to the upper deck for breakfast.

She moves to the nearest table, which appears to be the cold-breakfast area. The table is topped with heaping bowls of strawberries, pineapple chunks, fat red grapes, shiny apple wedges, and perfectly rounded melon balls. There's a massive crystal bowl of what looks like freshly made whipped cream and a small bowl of powdered sugar. By the time I get to the end, I have an entire fruit salad on my plate, topped by a dollop of whipped cream.

“Dude, save room. There's two more tables, and the french toast is a dream,” Hillary says, nudging me in the ribs with her fork.

“This is all you can eat, right?” I reply with a wink. “Multiple trips, lady!”

“Ah, a professional,” Hillary says. “I like how you think.”

I gulp—behind her is Lenny. His strawberry-blond hair catches the morning sunlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows and he's got a pair of sunglasses on, so I can't tell if he sees me or not. But the way he spins back toward the buffet when his gaze passes over me tells me that he's avoiding me. Whatever was there is gone, because I've managed to ruin it. Awesome. As if this day couldn't get worse. And it has barely started.

I hear a whisper coming from behind me, and I turn to see Brianna and Maya, two freshman Athenas, quickly direct their eyes from me to their plates, which are empty, save for a few apple slices and a handful of grapes. Brianna purses her lips to suppress a grin, and Maya drags her to the Athenas' table in the corner.

“What was that about?” I ask, my plate suddenly feeling way too heavy.

“Who knows,” Hillary replies, barely paying attention to them. “They're probably just starving.”

Something doesn't feel right, and the flutter in my stomach doesn't let me drop it. As I pass their table, I hear a harmonized series of giggles all suppressed behind perfectly manicured hands. My stomach has gone from fluttering to full-on somersaults. I scan the heads for Demi, but I don't spot her. I only see Missy at the end of the table, her eyebrows rising up to her hairline while her cherry-red lips form an O.

Something is up.

Hillary pokes me in the back with her fork again, and I realize I've slowed to a crawl as I try to listen in for an indication of what has the Athenas all aflutter. I double my pace to pass them and drop down in the first chair I see at the end of the band table. Hillary takes the seat across from me. Clarice and Andrew are next to me, their heads turned to each other, bowed over something in Andrew's hand. As soon as I sit, their attention whips to me, and whatever Andrew is holding disappears into his pocket. I see a flush of scarlet creeping up the back of his neck and winding its way around his ears. He can barely make eye contact with me.

Something is
definitely
going on.

Suddenly the entire table rattles as Huck flings his lanky body into the empty seat next to mine. “What is
up
?” he says. A butter knife skitters off Clarice's plate and lands on the wood floor beneath the table.

“Nothing,” I reply. I try to spear a grape with my fork, but I miss and the grape shoots across the table into Hillary's lap. She picks it up and flicks it back at me, but I just watch it whiz past my cheek.

Huck looks over at Andrew and Clarice, who are trying to pretend they're focused on their waffles and not on the conversation we're not having.

“Eyes on your own paper,” Huck snaps, and they quickly slide their plates down three seats, still not making eye contact with me. “Okay, now for real. What happened last night?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, but my voice cracks and croaks.

“Liza, knock it off. Everyone's seen the picture.”

Picture?

All the blood rushes from my head, leaving my cheeks feeling icy cold. The pineapple in my stomach feels like it's made of lead. Or possibly a living creature that's now trying to crawl its way back up. I barely remember the events of last night, but what I do remember tells me that if there's a picture, it's of something embarrassing. Like maybe me eating off a discarded room service tray? Or me looking totally wasted hanging off Russ?

The memory alone turns my stomach.

Huck takes one look at me, and the playful grin melts from his face, replaced by a sort of wide-eyed seriousness. “So there's good news and bad news.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, with a large spiderweb of a crack spreading across the screen. He taps a few buttons, and the screen fills with a picture. At first glance, I breathe a sigh of relief. The picture shows an expansive, inky-black sky lit by an incredible half-moon that's hanging low over the glittering ocean. It's a pretty impressive picture to have been taken with a phone.

“Uh, okay, so is this the good news or the bad—” And that's when I see it. In the corner of the picture, just barely in the frame, is a sleeping form, cuddled up in a fetal position, brown hair spread out in a cascade of curls on the blue lounge cushion. The glowing moon casts a beam of light over the face, making it crystal clear, even if it's not the focus of the photo. And draped on the end of the deck chair is a blue-and-black Holland High sweatshirt, one sleeve extended so the viewer can read what's printed down the length of it:
QUARTERBACK
.

And the person sleeping peacefully, a slight grin playing at the corner of her mouth?

It's me.

The room starts to tilt to the left, and I have to place both my palms flat on the white tablecloth to keep from falling right out of my chair. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I press my cool hands against them to block the rising blush.

“Please tell me that was the bad news,” I whisper, “and there isn't anything worse.”

“Well, that was bad. But not
that
bad. I mean, you're not naked or anything. You weren't naked, right?”

“Huck!” I say, and he nods.

“Of course not. So see? It could be way worse.”

“How did you get that?”

“Uh, well, I guess that's the bad part. Now that we're close to Nassau, we've got cell service again, so the picture is…” He trails off, giving his phone a spin on the tabletop.

“Everyone got it?” My voice is coming in breathy gasps, and I can feel Andrew and Clarice staring at me, even from three seats away.

“Not exactly,” Huck says. He clicks the screen, so the picture disappears and is replaced by his home screen, a picture from freshman year of Huck and me dressed as Harry and Hermione. “One of the Athenas, probably Missy, texted it and it went viral.”

I glance back around the dining room, where it suddenly feels like everyone I know is bent over screens and sliding phones across tablecloths. Even up in the buffet line, Jared is balancing a plate of bacon and eggs on one hand while scrolling through his phone with the other.

So that's why Lenny is trying to avoid me.

Of course he thinks I'm with Russ. Russ has done everything but fly a banner over the ship that says
BACK OFF, LENNY!
From his high fives and tackle hugs to the picture, it could make
me
think we're dating, when it's the last thing I'd want to do. But Lenny doesn't know that. And what's worse, he's got Demi in his ear telling him it's all true.

I take a deep breath, because unlike the photo going public, this is one problem I
can
solve. And I can solve it right now. I start to rise from my chair, but Huck throws his arm around my shoulder to keep me from bolting.

“The good news! You need the good news,” he says. “While you were snoozing on the Starlight Deck, I talked my way into the crew's nightly poker game. Apparently the Sail Away Cruise Line has been a bit negligent when it comes to inspections and repairs. A jerry-rigged engine repair blew, requiring a visit from a repair boat with replacement parts. The engine is powering back up as we speak, which means full power should be restored by nightfall.