As they move into the C section, I give myself a moment to remember why I love this band. Sure, they need shepherding to make sure no one wanders off before rehearsal, and they need monitoring to make sure they don’t spend all their rehearsal time choreographing dance routines to Broadway musicals. But these guys can play. They know what they’re doing. And instead of leading them through the music I know they can play, I’ve been stressing them out and strangling their talent. It’s a rookie mistake, and the exact thing I was trying to avoid when I decided to keep the secret of the budget cuts. And it stops now. Huck was right. I’m letting Demi get to me. We’ve never operated like the Athenas, and we’re not about to start now.
The rest of the rehearsal is one of the smoothest we’ve had, even though I have to pass Nicole’s solo off to Rachel, the second-chair flute player. Without me breathing down their necks, the music flows. I make note of a few adjustments, but decide to save them for our next practice. If I’ve learned anything during this rehearsal, it’s that sometimes you need to step back and let everything breathe.
As we pack up and store our instruments, everyone chattering on about plans to hit the pool or the sundae bar in the karaoke lounge, I can’t silence the one critical voice in my head that’s telling me how much better everything sounded … without Huck. I love him, but he never met a key signature he couldn’t butcher, and that’s not taking into account the fact that a tone-deaf kid like Huck picked one of the hardest instruments to tune. His oboe is almost always squawking sharp or flat, and even though I was bitchy to have said it to him like that, he is always missing his cues. A sharp oboe played at the wrong time is like cats tap dancing on a chalkboard, and without it, the band’s whole sound improved.
Just thinking it sends a sharp stab of guilt through my gut. It’s completely treasonous to our friendship. There’s no way I could ever do anything about it.
Then again …
Be a leader, Huck said, and maybe he was right. But being a leader sometimes means making choices, like taking a step back and letting everything flow … or deciding when someone else needs to take a step back. Someone like Huck. It’s not like band is his only thing. He’s always trying to juggle his roles in the musicals with rehearsals. I’d be doing him a favor.
Still, I can’t shake the guilt that’s growing from a pang to a full-on fireworks show in my stomach.
I need to talk this out. I’ve been so crazy these past few days that I don’t trust myself to make this decision on my own. And being a leader also means knowing when to ask for help.
I knock on Mr. Curtis’s door. It swings open, but my relaxed, perpetually calm band director is not the person who greets me. Instead, I find myself staring at a flowing red gypsy skirt over a vintage black bathing suit, wild blond curls falling over the face of Ms. Haddaway. It’s clear from the terror that flashes across her face that she was expecting room service, not a student.
“Oh my! Hello, Liza!” Her voice jumps an octave or two as her hands rush to tame her curls. “Having a good trip?”
Uh, no, you see, I’m on the cruise from Gilligan’s Island while you’re aboard the Love Boat. But I know better than to let that one out of my head. Before I can formulate a more teacher-appropriate response, Mr. Curtis practically hip-checks Ms. Haddaway out of the doorway. He steps into the hall and pulls the door shut behind him. I notice an unusual tension in his shoulders, and his eyes are laser-focused on me, as if he’s willing me to forget what I saw in there. I wish. Apparently Huck got one thing right. From the flush spreading across Mr. Curtis’s cheeks, it’s clear he’s distracted from his surveillance-video mission.
“What can I help you with, Liza?”
Okay, so we’re skipping right over the explanation as to why our rumpled home ec teacher is hanging out in his cabin. Fair enough. Frankly, I have no interest in getting any of those images stuck in my brain. Instead I talk to him about Huck’s effect on the band’s performance, managing to avoid explaining how we came to be in possession of extra practice time. I also leave out the part where our star flautist walked out of rehearsal and quite possibly the band.
He nods along with the story, arms crossed, a bit of his trademark sleepy Zen coming over his face. This is what I love about Mr. Curtis. When he’s not panicking about death at sea, I can count on him to be a careful listener. And since his chief philosophy has always been everything is gonna be fine, I can usually count on him for a boost of positivity. He’s fair and reliable, which is exactly what I need right now.
“So, I think I need to ask Huck to sit out the competition,” I say, the words sitting on my tongue like lead weights. I feel almost sick saying it out loud, but it’s the truth. I can’t hide from it. “What do you think?”
Mr. Curtis gives one final nod. “Well, Liza, here’s what I think,” he says, and I feel the relief of a forthcoming solution wash over me. But before he can continue, the sound of squeaking wheels draws his gaze down the hall. A porter in all white is pushing a room-service cart, and when he sees Mr. Curtis, he breaks into a Sail Away Cruise Line signature smile and stops the cart right next to us.
“Delivery for Curtis?” he says. I glance at the cart, on top of which sits a silver bucket, a bottle of champagne, and two glasses. A single long-stemmed red rose lies on top of a crisp white napkin, and all I can think about is using one of the thorns to gouge out my eyes. It seems like the only sensible way to halt the avalanche of truly horrifying images that are now filling my brain.
Gross.
Suddenly the relaxed Mr. Curtis is gone, and the flush is back with a vengeance. He takes a step back, crashing into the door of his cabin. He reaches behind him and fumbles with the handle. The porter, who is probably trained to ignore such theatrics, pushes the cart through the door without a word, though the smile on his face betrays a hint of a smirk. Yeah, easy to laugh when it’s not your teacher performing sexual Cirque du Soleil in your mind.
Double gross.
“Um, I think that sounds like a good plan, Liza,” Mr. Curtis says, trying to station his tall frame in the door so I can’t see the flash of red skirt disappear into his cabin bathroom. “I trust you to do what’s right!”
The door slams, and I’m left standing in the hall with the answer I needed, but not in the way I needed it. And now it’s on my shoulders to throw down the hammer.
Huck’s plan definitely worked. Maybe too well.
Chapter 11
The grand dining room, with its gold-painted molding and floor-to-ceiling windows, is abuzz with chatter. All around us, tables full of diners are feasting on prime rib, pumpkin ravioli, and plump, bright assortments of fresh steamed vegetables. They’re slurping spoonfuls of tomato bisque and passing heaping cheese plates while they replay their day aboard the Destiny.
All the tables except mine, that is. My normally boisterous band is curiously quiet, talking in low tones, mostly focused on the food in front of them.
I take a golden-brown roll out of the silver basket in the middle of the table and crack it open, steam rising from the center of the freshly baked bread.
“Pass the butter?” I say, nodding toward the plate topped with pats of butter molded into tiny seashells.
John reaches for the plate, his eyes purposely avoiding mine.
“Yes m—” he says, his eyes growing wide as the “ma’am” dies on his lips.
Seriously? John is my age. He tutored me before our last chemistry exam in Mr. Roop’s class. And now he’s ma’am-ing me? Huck was right. I’ve not only turned toward crazy town, but I’m also en route to becoming its despotic dictator.
A few seats down, I hear Hillary suppress a snort, and I lean past Huck to give her a look. She shrugs.
“Hey, dude, you did a scary-good impression of Demi at practice,” she says. “You can’t blame everyone for wanting to avoid the wrath.”
I sigh. I’ve known them long enough
to know that pretty soon this will morph into some kind of in-joke, and I’m okay with that. I deserve it. Until then, I just need to wait them out. And not explode again. Hopefully a strong performance tonight will ease that along.
As we finish our dinner, I notice the cruise director nodding at me from the small stage at the front of the dining room. I signal to everyone to finish up their meals and meet at the stage.
Of course, we’re still down one flute player. Nicole refuses to speak to me, and I’m not sure I blame her. Huck says she went straight from rehearsal to the spa. She’s had a hot-stone massage, manicure, pedicure, and mud mask. Huck claims she’s not leaving until she’s found inner peace or worked her way through the entire spa menu, whichever comes first. I know the fastest way to solve the Nicole-quitting problem would be to go to Mr. Curtis, but that would involve a whole lot of explanation I don’t want to give. I’d rather wait her out and hope she finds peace in a mud bath. Until then, we can make do without her and her superior vibrato.
But as everyone takes their places, I notice another gap, this one in the percussion lineup. I call Ryan up with a crook of my finger.
“Where’s Jared?” I whisper. We have only a few minutes before we’ll need to start, and we’re short a snare drum player.
Ryan looks pained. He glances around, as if hoping to find a hole to disappear through instead of telling me whatever he’s about to tell me. “He was flirting with that blond girl from the Mechanicals. The one with the hair down to her butt?” As soon as he says it, I can picture Jared laying on the charm over dinner, and then disappearing through the dining room door just before the tuxedoed waiters deposited plates of cheesecake on the tables.
I can’t send Ryan to look for him, though, because then I’d be down a timpani player, and half the percussion section would be gone.
“Do you think you can cover?”
“Uh, I can try,” Ryan replies, but the look on his face says Not a chance.
I glance at my watch, a shiny gold gift from my father. Were it not for my obsessive need to be on time and our school’s strict ban on cell phones on campus, there’s no way I’d wear it. And as it tells me that we’ve got about five minutes before we have to start, it feels like a lead weight around my wrist.
I sigh. “Well, finish getting set up. We’ll just have to hope he gets here.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
I look back at the band, thinking about today’s rehearsal. I don’t want to blow up and distract them from the kind of performance they had this afternoon. For the first time since we boarded the ship, I heard the band I’ve been leading all year. They just got their mojo back, and I don’t want to send it running off again. I have to keep my cool. I take a deep breath and focus on the music we’re about to play. “We’ll just have to wing it, I guess.”
Ryan nods, but he doesn’t look like he believes me. His shoulders are tense, as if he’s expecting me to reach out and slap him at any moment, making it even clearer that I can’t lose my cool. He marches back to the percussion section like a soldier headed to the front. War is hell, and sometimes, so is band.
Before I can formulate a plan to recruit a new drummer on the spot, the lights in the dining room dim. I spin around to see the whole space lit by flickering candles, a romantic glow overtaking the room. The energy changes as couples lean into each other, the romance of the room jumping about ten notches. It’s great for them, but as I turn back to my own stand, I realize I can’t see a damn thing. And in front of me, fifty-eight musicians are squinting and leaning into their sheet music.
My blood pressure feels like it’s spiking, the iron grip of anxiety closing tighter around my chest, when I notice a box of stand lights against the back wall. I take a deep breath to reclaim my calm. Tonight’s going to be different. Tonight it will all work out. That’s a thing, right? Just keep telling yourself something until it becomes true? I sure hope so, because it’s the only strategy I’ve got at the moment.
I quickly send the box up and down the rows along with extension cords and power strips. I’m impressed by the speed with which everyone gets the lights clipped to their stands and plugged in. At least my reign of terror did have one positive outcome: they’re awfully obedient right now. Ryan grabs the master extension cord and drags it to the outlet on the wall. I have about 0.2 seconds to wonder if the ship’s backup generators, which are still providing electricity while we wait for whatever is broken to be fixed, can handle this.
Ryan shoves the plug into the wall, and I get my answer. The lights flicker on, illuminating the stands, then promptly click off with a snap and a hiss, a wisp of smoke coming from the outlet accompanied by the acrid smell of sulfur. Ryan yanks the plug, but it’s too late. The fuse, barely hanging on from our first electrical disaster, has now totally given up the ghost. The stands are plunged into darkness, my hope for a good performance going with them.
In an instant, Huck appears at my side. He places a hand on each shoulder and leans in until we’re nearly nose to nose.
“Look, I know I gave you the what’s-up earlier, and you deserved it. But forget all that now, because it’s going to be fine.”
“Huck, no one can see the music! How is that going to be fine?”
“We marched an entire season, playing flawlessly, without music. We’ve practiced this enough that everyone’s pretty much absorbed it. Just trust.”
“T-trust?” I sputter, my breath coming short and gasping.
“Do you need me to slap you?”
And I actually have to think about my answer.
“This is probably not a good time to tell you that I just smashed my reed and my extras are in my cabin,” Huck says with a sheepish grin. “But no worries, I’ll just mime along.”
Huck gives me a pat on the shoulder, then returns to his seat, front row at my left. My brain is spinning. Darkness. Miming. Trust.
Okay.
I force all the words out of my mind except “trust.” I step onto the platform, raise my baton, and count off a whispered “Two, three, four” in case they can’t see me well. Then, with a collective intake of breath, we begin.
Just like the rehearsal earlier, everything flows. Tonight we’re performing a medley of Disney love songs, which are usually a crowd pleaser. In this candlelit room, it seems like we’re primed to be a hit, assuming all goes well. And just like this morning, it does. We start out with “A Whole New World” from Aladdin, a fairly easy opening that’s heavy on our woodwinds. And as I direct, it seems like things are flowing even more smoothly than they did this morning. The woodwinds crescendo into a chorus, and I can hear the chattering behind us die down as diners turn their attention more toward us.
Without me standing over the band members, without the notes on the page distracting them, they’re really listening to one another and connecting. They’re not just playing, they’re actually interpreting the music, and I couldn’t be prouder.
Then we move into “Kiss the Girl,” a fun tune that’s heavy on percussion, which reminds me of our absentee drummer. I hold my breath and say a silent prayer that Ryan’s able to fill in everywhere we need him.
My prayers are answered when a snare roll appears at exactly the right moment, and I glance back at the percussion to find that Jared’s spot has been covered. Only it’s not by Ryan, or any of the other percussionists. No, standing there behind the drum is a tall, broad-shouldered blond guy. I blink, but it’s not a trick of the darkness. It’s Russ. At first my heart leaps into my throat as I wait for the inevitable sonic train wreck he’s certain to produce, but it doesn’t come. His eyes are squeezed shut in concentration, his head bobbing along to the rhythm I’m directing. He fills in at all the right spots, with a few whispered cues from Ryan.
The music swells as we approach the final measures. The trumpets crescendo, the timpani rolls like thunder, and Russ executes a snare roll that’s eve
n tighter than what Jared normally does, though it does go on two beats too long. At the last note, I wave my hands to cut them off, and from the looks on their faces to the feeling of the smile stretched across mine, I know we all feel it.
There’s just a split second of silence before the audience breaks into applause. Not the tentative, pitying kind from two nights ago, but real, honest-to-goodness appreciation. I even hear a whistle or two coming from behind me, so I gesture for everyone to stand, then I turn and lead us all in a bow.
We file offstage and through a side door into a kitchen storage area where our instrument cases are waiting, the energy practically carrying us off like a helium balloon. Everyone is grinning and chattering on.
Lenny is already there, perched on top of a snare drum case, a plate of chocolate cake balanced on his knee. The sight of him whips up a frenzy of mixed emotions, from lust to confusion, as I remember his giggle fit with Demi this morning outside the elevator.
As the band fills up the space around him, Lenny leaps to his feet and strides over. “My dad wanted me to keep an eye on the cases while you guys were performing,” he says, shoveling a forkful of rich chocolate cake into his mouth. He swallows and grins, a bit of chocolate on his lower lip that I can’t stop staring at. “I could hear you through the walls. Y’all sounded great!”
All thoughts of Demi disappear as I grin back at him, basking in his smile and his compliment. It means a lot coming from him, after seeing how talented he is with a camera. He’s certainly got an eye, and I’d bet also an ear, for art. That is, until Demi is standing next to me, trying to edge me out of the circle with her hip.
“Hey, Lenny,” she says, pretending I’m not on the planet, much less in the room. “Listen, we’re going to get a little party going down in the karaoke lounge, and I’d love it if you’d join in. You game?”
The Trouble with Destiny Page 11