Once Upon a Cruise

by Anna Staniszewski

  Before I know it, she’s yanking off my apron and pushing me toward the door. And then I’m off to do a favor for my mom. Again.

  As Katy and I rush toward the laundry area on the bottom deck, I try—and fail—to pull off my hairnet. Even though I’ve only been wearing it for a few minutes, it seems to have fused to my ponytail. I eventually give up and leave it flopping around on my head.

  “Your mom was so panicked,” Katy says. “She kept asking everyone where you were. Finally, she remembered you were on dinner duty, so she asked me to find you.”

  “But why? What happened?”

  “I don’t know, but she said you were the only one who could help her.” Katy gives me a puzzled look as we dash into an elevator, and my stomach flops as we plunge down toward the laundry room. “Are you some kind of laundry genius?”

  “What? No!” Granted, I do all the laundry at home these days. It used to be Dad’s job since Mom refuses to go into our spider-infested basement. Now that he’s gone, I’m the one who gets to dash in and out of the cellar while imagining little spider babies nesting in my ears.

  “It’s so sweet how much your mom depends on you,” Katy says. “Like yesterday when she asked you to double-check all her notes for the show. I wish my parents trusted me like that. They’re still mad at me for blowing off summer college prep classes to go work on a cruise ship, even though it’s always been my dream to do this!”

  I shrug. “My mom likes having a second opinion, that’s all. She used to run everything by my dad, but after they split up, I guess that kind of became my job.”

  When the elevator doors open, the hallway is in total chaos, with people running around as if the ship is sinking. Katy and I hurry toward the laundry room (it’s so big they should call it the laundry cavern) to find my mom standing in the middle of a mound of wet pool towels. Every single one of them is pink—not cute, baby pink, but gross, dirty laundry pink. It’s the same color that I managed to dye my mom’s favorite white blouse after I accidentally washed it with one of my red sweaters a few months ago.

  “Ainsley, there you are!” Mom cries. “Look at all this!”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  Mom glances at one of the laundry ladies, who shakes her head miserably. “I honestly do not know,” the woman says in a thick accent that instantly makes me think of castles and vampires. Her name tag informs me that her name is Adelina. “Everything was okay, and then the water turned this color and all the white towels came out like this.” She gives my mom a pleading look. “Please do not fire me.”

  Mom’s face softens. “At least it’s only the pool towels,” she tells Adelina. “Maybe—”

  Before she can go on, a voice booms from out in the hallway. “What in the world is going on here?”

  Mom’s eyes widen, and both her nostrils start to twitch. There’s only one person on the ship who could make her this nervous. And sure enough, a second later, Captain Hook sweeps into the room.

  Even though he’s short and thin, he seems to fill the entire space.

  “Captain Thomas,” Mom says.

  Okay, his name isn’t actually Captain Hook, but I swear he wants us to think he’s a pirate. If he just had a pointy beard and a hook hand, no one would think twice about it. But his custom-made hook has a compass built into the wrist—a compass!—and he always has one of those old-timey spyglass things tucked under his arm. I bet he’d carry around a sword too, if it wouldn’t totally freak out the passengers. Of course, no one would ever call him Captain Hook to his face.

  “I’ve been hearing nothing but panicked messages coming from down here. What is all this?” he demands.

  “A bit of a mishap, sir, but we’re taking care of it,” Mom says.

  He turns to glare at Adelina. “Can you explain how this happened?”

  She looks down at her hands and shakes her head. “I cannot, Captain.”

  “Lydia?” he says, turning back to my mom. “How are you going to fix this?”

  Everyone in the room seems to be holding their breath.

  “We have people checking the pipes,” Mom says weakly. “And after that, I suppose …” I can see her wracking her brain, trying to come up with an answer. When she doesn’t say anything else, the captain lets out an annoyed sigh.

  “Lydia, you were hired to make everything on this ship run smoothly,” he says. “We’ve only been at sea a few hours, and already I’m getting complaints about the staff. And now this?”

  Mom’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. I can see the defeat creeping into her shoulders, all the doubt she’s been hiding from everyone but me. I can’t stand to see her like that. It reminds me too much of how she was right after Dad moved out.

  I keep waiting for someone else to say something, but they’re all silent. “Um, excuse me, sir,” I finally say, taking a tiny step forward.

  The captain turns to size me up. “Yes?”

  “Hi, sir. Um, I think only the pool towels are pink, and only the ones that were used today.” I turn to Adelina. “That can’t be that many, can it?”

  “About one fourth of them,” she answers.

  “Can we get by with the ones we have until we get back to Florida next week?”

  Adelina hesitates. “After we fix the machines, it will be hard to manage with only the regular towels … but not impossible.”

  I turn back to the captain. “And if we do have to use the pink ones,” I say slowly, my brain churning, “maybe we could make it part of a theme. You know, um, like Pink Fairy Day at the kids’ pool or something! I met a couple little girls this morning who would love that.”

  The captain seems to consider this for a moment. Then he waves his hand—his regular one—as if brushing it all aside. “Whatever the solution is, just make it happen. I don’t have time to deal with this nonsense when I have a ship to run.” Then he looks back at me and says, “Is that seaweed in your hair? Remember, we have standards on this vessel.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain Hook!” I say, trying to claw the hairnet out of my ponytail.

  There’s a collective gasp as I realize what I’ve said. Did I really just call him Captain Hook out loud?

  I wait for him to erupt, to order me to walk the plank or something. Instead, the captain’s eyes narrow, and he looks at my name tag.

  “Ainsley,” he reads. “That makes you Lydia’s daughter, right?”

  I gulp and manage a tiny nod.

  He looks back at my mom. “Well,” he says. “Well.” Then he turns on his heel and strides out the door.

  The minute he’s gone, everyone sighs in relief. Everyone except for me. I can’t believe it. What did I do?

  “Good thinking, Ainsley,” Katy says. “I would love to dress up as a pink fairy!” She’s the only one who seems totally oblivious to what a huge mistake I just made.

  I glance over at Mom who’s still standing in the middle of the room looking a little shaken. When our eyes meet, she gives me a tight smile.

  “Mom, I’m sorry. I was trying to help!”

  “I know you were, and I appreciate it. He’ll … he’ll get over it. And we’ll be fine, okay?”

  I nod, but I can’t help thinking that she’s trying to convince herself more than she’s trying to convince me. We’ve only been at sea for less than a day, and already I might have ruined my mom’s chances for a fresh start. Not to mention our whole summer.

  I’m usually a morning person—that’s the best time to photograph animals in the wild, after all—but I am definitely not ready to handle half a dozen rabid little kids at eight a.m. Their parents dumped them here right after breakfast and ran off to grab spots by the pool, so I don’t even have any adults around to back me up. On other cruise ships, there would probably be a few people manning the kids’ activities, but we’re pretty understaffed here. That’s why all the crew members have to juggle multiple jobs all week.

  The kids range in age from three to six, but they all have one thing in common. They clearly don
’t want to be here.

  “Where’s Elsa?” a little girl keeps asking me as she tugs on the hem of my shorts. “Why isn’t Elsa here?” I wonder if her parents got her here by promising a visit with her favorite Disney character and then left me to break the bad news. Cowards.

  “She might come later,” I tell her. Yup, I’m a coward too.

  I ask all the kids to gather in a circle. Five minutes later, we’re in something that resembles a triangle. Good enough.

  “When do we get to make a dragon?” asks a boy in an enormous blue sun hat and a long-sleeve shirt and pants that look way too hot for this humidity. He’s probably the oldest kid in the bunch, and I can already tell he’s going to be a handful. The minute he came into the room, he informed me that his name was Nathan and that he was from Washington, not the state but the nation’s capital. “I had a dragon on my bed this morning, and I want to learn how to make one.”

  “We’ll get to that,” I tell him, slapping on my patented fake smile. “But today, we’re going to be making … magical serpents!” I pull out my pathetic excuse for a snake and wave it around, as if pretending that it can fly will somehow make it look more impressive.

  Nathan glares at me. “I made one of those when I was still in diapers,” he informs me. “I told my parents this class would be below my ability level. Do you have any paper? I’m going to do origami.”

  I checked the kids’ activity room—aka the Fairy Fun Zone!—when I first got here, but the drawers and cabinets were mostly empty except for some random knitting posters and brochures. The stack of towels was already waiting for me when I arrived. I couldn’t help smiling when I saw all of the towels were the pink-tinged ones. I guess Adelina liked my idea of finding non-swimming uses for them.

  “Sorry, kiddo,” I tell him. “No origami. Just towels today.”

  He scowls again and grabs his towel as I turn toward the only other boy in the class, who’s demanding to know why we’re making “pink girl serpents.” When I glance back at Nathan, he’s already made a perfect towel snake, just like the one I saw in the book.

  “Okay, take your towel and smooth it out on the floor like this!” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic while ignoring the little girl who’s pulling at my shorts again and chanting Elsa’s name. “Then roll up one end like this!”

  The kids follow my lead, and a couple of them do it right. Even Extreme Elsa Fan gives her towel a little bit of a roll. But Jorman, the other boy in the class (whose name sounds totally made-up), just sits in the corner and shakes his head. “I’m not making a pink snake,” he says. “Snakes can’t be girls.”

  “There are plenty of girl snakes!” I tell him. “And just because it’s pink doesn’t mean it’s a girl.”

  “Yes, it is!” he cries. “I want to make a truck!” Then he opens his mouth and lets out a scream as if he’s being murdered. All I can do is stare. I’ve never heard anything—not even a teakettle—make that sound before.

  Instantly, the other kids start screaming too. The room fills up with so much sound, it’s a miracle the window doesn’t explode.

  For a second, I consider sitting on the floor and screaming too. Why did I ever agree to this? What do I know about making towel sculptures or taking care of little kids?

  Suddenly, the door to the activity room swings open. I whirl around, terrified that it’s one of the kids’ parents rushing in to save their distressed angel. Instead, it’s even worse. Ian the Pig is standing in the doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest.

  “Need some help?” he says. Even though he’s not wearing his costume, his smirk makes him just as piggish as he was yesterday.

  “Nope! I’m fine!” I cry as Jorman kicks his towel clear across the room.

  Ian raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

  Before I can say anything back, something catches my eye.

  I suck in a breath as I stare out the window. It’s Cute Dwarf! He’s walking by with another guy I recognize from the show. They’re in waiter uniforms that are probably way too hot for this weather, but Cute Dwarf actually makes his look good.

  “Pretty obsessed, aren’t you?” Ian says. “You’ve had drool coming out of your mouth since you saw Neil yesterday.”

  Neil! His name is Neil! That fits him a million times better than Smith. I wish I could pump Ian for more info, but that will only prove his point.

  Instead, I do my best to shrug and say, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ian doesn’t look convinced.

  “You sure you don’t want some help?” he asks as the wailing gets even louder. “I’m pretty good with kids.”

  “I’m good with kids too,” I insist, even though it’s obviously not true. Just because I’m working on a fairy tale cruise, though, doesn’t mean I need to act like a helpless maiden in need of rescuing. “I can handle it. I don’t need your help.”

  “Geez,” Ian says. “Whatever happened to ‘thanks for the offer’?” He frowns, then turns and leaves the room. And I’m alone with a bunch of screaming kids again.

  Okay, I can do this.

  “Listen up, everyone!” I call.

  No response. But the crying has to die down soon, right? Once the kids wear themselves out?

  After another minute, I’m pretty sure the answer to that question is no. I have to do something fast or risk the parents coming back to find their precious snowflakes covered in tears and snot.

  “If you don’t want to fold towels, we don’t have to fold towels!” I call. “We can do anything you want! Just name it!”

  Elsa Fan stops crying and looks up at me. “Anything?”

  “Um, well, within reason,” I say.

  “Can I watch TV?” she asks. “Mommy says I can’t watch TV for the whole cruise!”

  “Sure!” I point her to one of the TVs in the corner. “Go ahead and turn it on. Just shut it off before your mom gets here, okay?”

  That sure gets the other kids’ attention. Another girl goes to watch TV too, while the others start bombarding me with requests.

  “Can I spin around in circles on the floor?” Jorman asks.

  “Um, okay,” I say. “Knock yourself out. Just, you know, don’t actually knock yourself out.” All right, I’m not being the model of responsibility right now, but at least no one’s crying anymore. That’s something, isn’t it?

  Soon the kids are occupied all over the room doing stuff their parents don’t want them doing, like saying bad words and picking their noses. Maybe spending every waking second with your family in the middle of the ocean makes you a little nuts.

  The only person who hasn’t asked me for anything is Nathan. “What do you want to do?” I ask.

  He pushes his blue glasses up his nose. “I’m here to fold towels, so I want to fold towels.”

  “Isn’t there anything your parents don’t let you do?”

  “Tons of stuff,” he says. “But my sister always tells on me.”

  I glance around the room. “Is your sister here?”

  “No, but she’ll find out.” He shrugs. “Besides, I like folding towels.” He focuses on re-rolling his towel snake so that it’s even more perfect than before.

  “Well, if you want to make a few more of those,” I say, “then the other kids will have something to take with them when we’re done.” And then I won’t get in trouble, I silently add.

  “Yeah, okay.” Nathan grabs some more towels and gets to work.

  And that’s how we spend the next twenty minutes until the end of the class. The kids manage not to hurt themselves—although Jorman comes pretty close to spinning into the wall a few times—and I’m pretty sure one of the girls knows a lot more bad words than I do. But they all seem happy when I have them gather together again.

  “So you’re not going to tell your parents that I let you do all this stuff, okay?” I say, handing out the towel snakes that Nathan made. “It’ll be our secret.”

  They all nod and give me wide smiles.

  “Will yo
u let us punch the wall if we come tomorrow?” Jorman asks.

  I swallow. For a second, I’d forgotten all about having to do this class again.

  Before I can answer, the door bursts open and a couple of parents who’ve clearly had one too many mimosas with breakfast waltz in to pick up their kids.

  “How’s my little Sophia doing?” Elsa Fan’s mom says.

  The little girl runs over and hugs her. “Good! Look, Mommy. Elsa’s sister is here!” For some reason, she points at me.

  Her mom gives me a puzzled look, and I just shrug. I’m not sure how letting Sophia watch TV turned me into Disney royalty, but I’ll take it.

  “Oh … that’s great, honey,” the woman says. Then she starts cooing over the snake Sophia is holding. “We’ll definitely have to come back tomorrow!” she tells me.

  After that, the other parents bustle in to collect their kids, and before I know it, the room is empty and quiet. Okay, so no one actually learned anything about towel folding, but at least I survived the first class in one piece. Take that, Piggy Ian. I didn’t need your help after all.

  That afternoon before the final run-through for tonight’s show, everyone’s buzzing about some guy in the kitchen named Douglas getting fired.

  “Once we get to Grand Turk Island tomorrow, he’s supposed to get off the ship and fly back home on his own dime,” one of the dwarves says.

  “What did he do wrong?” I ask.

  “I heard he undercooked Captain Thomas’s steak,” Smith says.

  “No, I heard he added too much salt to the captain’s stew,” Gemma whispers.

  “No way,” Neil chimes in, and I can’t help the tingle that runs through me at finally getting to hear the sound of his voice. “I heard he put poison in the captain’s oatmeal.”

  “He’d go to jail for that,” Ian jumps in, his voice flat. “The guy stole from some of the passengers. He gave the stuff back, so no one’s pressing charges, but they still don’t want someone like him on the ship.”

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  Ian only shrugs and says, “It doesn’t matter.”