The Trouble With Destiny (18 page)

“And that's not even the best part,” Huck goes on, his devious grin back. “I found out that more than half the ship's security cameras are fakes! Just for show, to make people
feel
safe. They're not even plugged in. The only ones that work are up near the luxury cabins and around the ship's railings. I guess so they'll know who to arrest if anyone gets thrown overboard.”

I hear the words, but they don't mean anything to me. The security cameras are fake? Okay. How about the fact that thanks to a series of random and weird events that could only happen to me, it looks like I'm dating the star of the football team. Because
that
would happen. Seriously, Huck, security cameras?

When I don't respond, he spells it out for me. “Which means
if
the bowling ball did cause the engine problem, there's no way for them to know it came from us! We're free and clear,
and
we can get away with whatever we want!”

I nod, relaxing for a bit. “That's great, Huck,” I say. “Good work.” And then I steel my shoulders. I have to do it. I have to tell Lenny that Russ and I are in no way an item. It's going to be awkward and weird, but maybe then, he will stop avoiding me.

“Are you still thinking about the picture?” Huck asks, searching my face for signs of panic.

“Yeah, but it's going to be fine,” I reply, my voice full of steely resolve. I see Huck cock an eyebrow at me, not expecting strength in the face of this moment. I rise from the table. Maybe I can get Lenny to sit with me, have a bite, and I can straighten this all out.

“I have to go,” I say. I snatch my plate off the table and head toward Lenny's table. I keep my head down to avoid answering any questions and scurry off as fast as I can without looking like I'm making a run for it. With my head down, I won't see the sideways glances or the giggling, or the picture plastered on phone screens in cupped palms or hidden under tables.

Lenny's at a table by himself near a window, a beam of sunlight turning his strawberry-blond hair a rich coppery color.

As I walk up, I'm beset with a sudden urge to turn tail and run far away, but looking at his camera on the table, the old tapestry-style strap in a tangle next to his fork, I know what I have to do. If I stand any chance with Lenny, I have to make sure he knows I'm not with Russ.

“Um, hey, Lenny,” I say, then clear my voice so it's not so rattling. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

He glances up at me, head cocked to one side, and I can see his gray eyes giving me the once-over. With one hand in my pocket, I cross my fingers and run a silent
please oh please
through my head.

“Yeah, no problem,” he says, an easy smile spreading across his face that makes the tension dissolve out of me like air rushing from a balloon. “But do you mind if we do it later? I'm supposed to meet up with my dad.”

“Oh yeah, totally, of course. Later is great. I'll talk to you later,” I say, then bite my tongue to keep my nervous babbling from taking off in earnest. I give him a bright smile and step aside as he stands and winds his camera around his neck.

As I watch him disappear into the hall, I hope that it's a good sign, and that later I'll still have the guts to say what I need to say.

With Lenny queued up for later, the next item on my list of things to make my life not so disastrous is to get Nicole back in the band. Our progress the other night was great, but I know once she's back, we really have a shot at that $25,000. Rachel, our second-chair flute player, is good, but she just doesn't have Nicole's expressive phrasing or her impressive vibrato. And those fine details are what we need to really impress the judges.

The Island Oasis spa boasts facials, mani-pedis, hot stone massages, mud baths, and pretty much every other bizarro treatment designed to help your skin glow and your Zen release. Between the stone water feature in the corner of the lobby, the copious potted palms, and the semi-soothing sound track of birds and crickets piping through a set of invisible speakers, I feel like I'm in a tropical rain forest when I enter looking for Nicole, who, as far as I've heard, has been basically living here. I'm sure there are some people who must find this place soothing, but I'm not one of them.

“Can I help you, ma'am?” a smiling attendant asks from behind the bamboo counter.

“I have a friend in there. Can I just look—”

The attendant, still smiling, shakes her head. “No entry beyond this point unless you are here for a treatment.”

I was hoping Nicole would just be sort of, I don't know, hanging out in the lobby, but no dice. It looks like I'm going to have to do some undercover work if I'm going to find her. I realize this is exactly what Huck was probably planning anyway when he suggested I go look for Nicole at the spa. He was hoping I'd “chill out” for a bit. Hoping the spa would do me some good. And you know what? Maybe he's right.

“I'd like a massage, please,” I say, figuring if I have to, I'll just go with whatever is lowest impact. Maybe they have those ones where you sit up in the chair like at the mall. I could probably deal with that. It'll give me a little more time to figure out what I'm going to say to Nicole, anyway.

Down the hall over the attendant's shoulder, I spot Nicole. She strides out of a frosted-glass door just off the lobby, clad in a fluffy white terry-cloth robe and those flimsy spa sandals on her feet.

“Nicole!” I say. I let my eyes gaze over her, from her newly highlighted hair to her tanned skin to the way she stands at full attention, tall with her shoulders back. For as long as I've known her, Nicole has carried herself low, curling her shoulders, rolling her back, and dropping her head, as if she's constantly running through a rainstorm and trying not to get wet. It takes her from five feet tall to practically garden gnome–sized. But now, with her shoulders back and her chin up, she looks like she's grown a foot. Despite her diminutive stature, it looks like she's ready to strut the catwalk in Milan or stroll down the Champs-Élysées on a sunny spring day. I call her name again, but she either doesn't hear me or doesn't want to, because in a flash, she disappears through another door.

The attendant smiles and hands me an appointment card, then gestures for me to follow her. I stuff it into my back pocket and follow her down a pristine white hallway with soft glass lighting and the sound of gently rushing water coming from hidden speakers. She leads me into a small room with a massage table in the middle. Panels of silk hang from the walls, and lush potted plants peek out from every corner. She shows me where to put my clothes, then hands me a towel so fluffy it feels like it should have a marshmallow center.

“Just undress, drape yourself with the towel, and hop up on the table. The masseuse will be in in a moment with the menu.”

The mention of a menu has my stomach growling. This morning's fiasco at breakfast kept me from the plate of waffles, and now all I can think about is food. Well, food, and the fact that my crush thinks I'm sleeping with someone else, and according to my friends, that someone else is the enemy. And pretty soon I'm going to have to tell him that's not happening, which is pretty much going to be me saying,
Uh, hi, Lenny. I'm not dating Russ. I'm telling you this because I like you. Do with that what you will. Ack.
Maybe I do need a massage. But the attendant is gone before I can ask what she means by “menu.”

The door clicks shut quietly behind me, and I figure I have only a few minutes before the masseuse comes in. The last thing I want is for her (or him!) to walk in while I'm half naked, so I set about undressing as if there's a million-dollar prize at the end. I shove my underwear into the pocket of my jeans, throw them on the wooden bench against the back wall, and then leap onto the table. I fling the towel around my front, tucking it under my butt so I don't feel quite so, well,
naked.

But with the NASCAR pace at which I threw off my clothes, I'm left sitting naked on the table for what feels like forever. Of course there's no clock in a room meant for relaxation, but I can't help myself from counting off seconds. I shudder to think what this massage could be costing me, so instead I start passing the time figuring out how I can get this bill to go to Dad.

The door opens with a whispered whoosh of air, and my thoughts are put on pause by the masseuse, who looks like she travels with her own makeup artists and lighting director. The soft light bounces off her high cheekbones and full lips, and her ice-blond hair is in one of those twisty braids that looks as if it's effortlessly wound around her head, but that would take me thirty-six bobby pins, a can of hair spray, and three extra hands to achieve. A gold name tag pinned to her chest reads
ILSA
, a name as exotic as she is, and beneath it, in smaller type,
BRUNNA, SWEDEN
.

“ 'Allo,” she says, her Nordic accent thick. “I am Ilsa. 'Ow are you?”

“Um, fine,” I reply, wondering how long this small talk is going to continue. I kind of just want to zone out for a bit and then find Nicole, not trade meatball recipes with the Swedish goddess.

She flashes a grin that temporarily blinds me in the otherwise dim room. She walks over to a wooden stand and plucks a heavy piece of cardstock off the top. She hands it to me.

“Zis ees our manu,” she says, and it takes me a moment to translate in my head. As soon as I see the listing on the page, I realize she means “menu.” Each service is listed in a loopy bold script, and like a fancy restaurant, there are no prices anywhere to be found. Nor are there descriptions, only euphemistic titles like “Ultimate Bliss” and “Rejuvenated Relaxation.”

I squint at the page as if maybe by looking a little harder, the thing will just talk to me.

“You 'ave question?”

I can feel the knot of tension beginning to retie itself inside me, so instead I shake my head and jab my finger at a title near the middle of the page. I get another dazzling smile from my masseuse, who directs me to lie facedown on the table (using gestures, thank God). I settle in as she adjusts the towel low on my back. Within minutes, I feel warm, firm hands working out the knots in my back.

Okay,
now
I get the spa thing.

Suddenly all sense of time or trouble is melting away like hot butter in a skillet as Ilsa digs the heels of her hands into my muscles. I take deep, cleansing breaths and focus on the sound of the water and the soft piano melody that seems to drift through the room like a fog. But my relaxation shatters as I realize the music is a piano version of a Copland piece we played in concert band last year. It was in our final spring concert, and we totally killed it. And Molly played a clarinet solo that totally
didn't
suck. I wonder if I could find the sheet music online somewhere and get it polished up tonight. I bet we could win with the Copland. I bet if I just run an extra practice or two…

“Turn over, please.”

I open my eyes and stare through the hole in the massage table down to the spotless white canvas of Ilsa's sneakers. She wants me to do
what, now
? Please let that have been a misinterpretation due to her accent.

“Come now, turn over,” she says, her words precise and clear for the first time since she entered the room. There's no mistaking it. And to avoid even a hint of any, she lifts the towel and gives my bare hip a nudge with the palm of her hand.

“Um, I don't think that's, uh, necessary?” I squeak, still firmly planted facedown on the table.

“You ordered full-body package. Ees time for you to turn over now.”

Look, I'm not a prude.

Okay, I am a little bit. I just have no interest in showing all my business to a woman who looks like Anna Wintour custom-designed her in the
Vogue
offices. Why did I think this could possibly be a good idea? Why do I
ever
listen to any of Huck's suggestions?

“Could we maybe, um, skip—”

“Nonsense,” she clucks. “Turn. I weel close my eyes if you are nervous. We keep towel, okay?”

I lift my head slightly and glance up at her to see that, true to her word, her eyes are closed. So quick as a flash, I flip over and jerk the towel back down over me, tucking it under my armpits and pinning it with my arms.

“Good?” I ask.

Ilsa opens one eye and peers down at me. She's a professional, so I can barely see the sigh she lets out.

“You need to relax, my dear,” she says, but she doesn't push me further. She sets about massaging my arms, neck, and shoulders, and the Zen comes creeping slowly back. The massage continues for what feels like hours, but is probably only minutes. I may have even drifted off for a moment. I'm so concentrated on breathing in the warm air and letting it out in deep, cleansing breaths.

Before I know it, the massage is done. I open my eyes to prepare to climb off the table, but Ilsa is coming at me with what looks like a tongue depressor covered in chocolate pudding. I shrink back even though, plastered to the table, there's really nowhere to go.

“Ees mud mask. Part of service,” she says, and before I can protest, I feel the warm goop splat on the side of my cheek. She plops a matching dollop on the other cheek, and one on my forehead, then begins smearing it across my face until I'm covered in a thick coating of mud. She takes a steamy warm towel and wraps it around my face with only a small opening for me to breathe out of. Then she covers my whole body with an airy white sheet, pulling it right under my chin. If I were claustrophobic, this would surely send me over the edge, as the weight of the mud and towel makes me feel like I've been sunk deep into the bayou.

“I leave you now. You relax,” I hear Ilsa say, though her words are slightly muffled by the towel. I hear the door open, and the lights in the room dim by half. Then the door slides shut, and I'm alone.

The door opens, and even though I wasn't counting seconds, I'm surprised Ilsa is back so quickly. But then I hear a shuffle and a throat clearing that is decidedly
not
female. I tense, then realize that almost every inch of my skin is underneath a sheet and towel, and what's not is covered with about a quarter-inch of rock-solid mud.

“Listen, I'm sorry to barge in,” I hear, and even though I can't see his gray eyes or strawberry-colored buzz cut, I can picture them along with the camera that's perpetually around his neck.
Lenny!
“Look,” he goes on. “I feel like I've done everything totally wrong, and I just wanted to clear a few things up.”

His voice sounds slightly edgy, yet still confident. I hear some shuffling that tells me he might be pacing in front of the door a bit. Whatever he's about to say, he's practiced, but is still nervous.

“I really acted like an ass the other night with that kiss. I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking. I should have just been honest and told you that I liked you. Instead I got nervous and was playing stupid games or whatever.”

A sharp intake of breath shoots through my lungs. I try to move my mouth, but the mud has formed a hard crust around my lips. I want to reach up and help crack it, but the same towel that's covering my hands is covering my very naked bod.