The Trouble with Destiny

by Lauren Morrill

  The frenetic sounds of steel drums pause as First Mate Kevin’s voice crackles and whistles through the speaker. “We won’t let a few clouds get in the way of our destiny,” he chatters, his voice filled with double meaning. But for anyone who missed his pun, he hooks his fingers in the requisite air quotes. “And that destiny is, of course, fun! To get this funfest started, we’ve got a special treat in the form of a little intraschool rivalry we need to take care of. Would the Holland High Athenas and Style Marchers please grab your hoops and join me up on the stage!”

  I glance over toward the ship’s railing and give myself just a moment to imagine what it would feel like to fling myself into the sea. Huck clears his throat, nudging me with his shoulder.

  “The executioner beckons,” he says, stepping aside and gesturing for me to lead us to what I’m sure will be one of the most humiliating and miserable experiences of my life. Hula-hooping? In front of a crowd? Against the Athenas? God, the indignities just keep piling up. But I can fight only so many battles, so I fall in behind Ryan and Hillary, who have come out of the crowd to join the band in our death march toward the stage.

  “Who in the what, now?” Hillary says over her shoulder.

  “Just go with it,” I reply. “Please.” If this is what it’s going to take to distract Mr. Curtis from our various shenanigans so far this week, then so be it. I’ll hula, dammit. But screw the competition. Demi can have this one. I can’t bring myself to care. I’ve got bigger competitions to worry about.

  Hillary gives me a two-fingered salute and an “Aye, aye, Captain.” When we get to the stage, there’s a big wire bin full of multicolored hula hoops. I grab a purple one and climb up behind Hillary onto the risers that form the makeshift stage. The Athenas are falling into the mix too, and they look just about as happy about this forced fun as we do. It’s a sea of scowls climbing onto the stage.

  First Mate Kevin skips the stairs and leaps straight from the deck to the stage like some kind of coked-up gazelle. He lands, executes a wild spin, then faces the competitors.

  “Band on my starboard side, Athenas take port!” he singsongs into the mike, but when everyone just stands in a cluster blinking at him, he mouths “band” and points to his right. We all shuffle into place. I take a spot near the front, ever the leader, and ready my hula hoop on my hips, holding it out to the sides. I glance out at the crowd, an equal mix of whatever students aren’t barfing their guts out and whatever oldsters have skipped their afternoon naps, those oversized eye-doctor sunglasses taking up practically their whole faces. I can see Mr. Curtis and Ms. Haddaway standing as close as they can without actually touching, matching grins on their faces as they watch education in action.

  I scan the crowd once more, and just offstage I see a flash of buzzed strawberry-blond hair. Lenny is hanging away from the crowd on the starboard corner of the stage, his camera poised to capture every embarrassing moment for eternity. I feel a phantom twitch on my lower lip, the memory of the kiss flooding back. Without thinking, I raise my hand to my lips, sending one side of my hula hoop clattering to the deck. I look to see if Lenny noticed, but I can’t see him, because a tall, broad-shouldered blond guy is blocking my view.

  “Russ, what are you doing?” Demi snaps, asking the very question on the tip of my tongue.

  “I’m with the band,” he says, as if duh, and I don’t have the energy or interest to get in the middle of the argument. Those two can have each other. Sooner rather than later would be ideal.

  Demi shoots me a withering look and says, “You won’t beat me. You never will.”

  And now I care about hula-hooping. I care very much. Any plans to let Demi take this one are gone. Because I’m a great hula-hooper. Demi’s about to be very sorry she made us spend hours in her backyard practicing circus tricks. She may be a great juggler, but I kick ass at hula-hooping. I’m going to win this. And when I’m done with that, I’m going to wipe the floor with her and take home the $25,000 check at the end of the week. This time I’m the winner, Demi.

  This contest is no longer some kind of miserable detention. Now I can’t wait to start. I hold my hula hoop in my fingertips, balanced at my hips, ready for instructions. My waist feels itchy and twitchy, ready to get this show on the road.

  “Okay, rules! When your hoop hits the floor, you hit the deck!” First Mate Kevin gestures a thumb toward the crowd. “I’ll be calling out challenges to shake things up a little, as if there won’t already be plenty of shimmying!” He pauses for laughter, but since he didn’t give that instruction to everyone in front of him, the only response is the shuffling of feet and the sound of whipping wind from another far-off (but growing ever closer) storm. Ever the pro, First Mate Kevin gives an enthusiastic nod and charges on. “Okay, then. DJ, crank up those funky beats!”

  At that, the silence is filled with a hip-hop-reggae remix from hell. “Hula!” he shouts into his mike like a dictator of fun, causing the speakers to shriek in protest. In a whirl of activity, multicolored hoops start to spin. Almost immediately, about a dozen band members and two Athenas are out. They were standing too close to one another, and when they started, their hoops bumped each other and bounced to the floor.

  “Hit the deck!” Kevin calls, taking far too much glee in the failure of teenagers. But I guess when your job is to be an overcaffeinated camp counselor at sea, you take your kicks where you can get them.

  The first song wraps up, leaving just a brief moment of silence before a more frenetic remix begins. I adjust the swirl of my hips to match the new beat, which basically allows me to completely zone out. I’ve got this. While I imagine myself to be anywhere else, the rest of the brass and half the percussion section lose their hoops, along with a fair number of the woodwinds. We may be able to march, but I clearly should have been handing out hula lessons at practice. Jared, who I know for a fact has excellent rhythm, is barely hanging on to his hula hoop with some kind of full-body spasm. It lasts about six more counts before he loses the hoop, and he looks genuinely disappointed. The Athenas, who are no strangers to coordinated hip shimmies, are faring much better. Three songs in and half the band is gone, but only two Athenas are out. I can’t worry, though. I plan to be the last woman standing, so whatever’s going on around me doesn’t matter. I keep swirling, the hoop spinning to the beat. It only takes one to win, and I plan on it being me.

  As the fourth song cranks up, the crowd starts to look elsewhere. There’s only so long you can watch a bunch of strangers hula-hooping, so Kevin takes the opportunity to “crank it up a notch.” He instructs us all to spin in a circle as we hula, which fells about half the remaining band members and a third of the Athenas. When Kevin doesn’t tell us to stop spinning, Huck gives up and lets his hoop clatter to the deck. He shrugs an apology, but I don’t care. I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere. I crank my swirling up to double time as a small act of defiance, my hoop whizzing at a dizzying speed.

  When that song ends, First Mate Kevin halts the spinning and barks at everyone to stand on one foot. I bend my leg slightly, just like we do on the field, to keep my knees from locking and maintain my balance. I’m still in rhythm, so I have no problem with it, but nearly all the rest of the band members are gone. In fact, as I glance around, I realize that only Russ and I are left standing, holding it down for the marching band. His hula-hooping isn’t nearly as fast or coordinated as mine, and in fact he’s having to execute a sort of full-body swirl, his upper half moving in one direction while his lower half moves in reverse, to keep his hoop going. His eyes are narrowed, sweat forming at his brow, as he gives the same focus to this as he does to calling plays. The quarterback is on deck, and I let myself forgive him, just for now, for hitting Lenny.

  Things are getting tight on the Athenas’ side as well. Missy’s hoop falls almost immediately. I see Demi glare at her and mouth something in her direction that I can’t make out. I don’t have time to figure it out, becaus
e Evil First Mate Kevin has another instruction.

  “Hop!” he says, his voice practically cracking with the enthusiasm.

  Demi glares at Russ and me, and we glare back, all of us seeming to dare the other to go first.

  “C’mon, kids, you heard me! Hop!”

  And so we do, each of us bouncing just once. And surprisingly, all three hoops keep spinning.

  “Keep hopping!” Kevin shouts, and the crowd is finally on his side. They’re shouting and cheering, a few of them bouncing along with us as we continue to bob on the stage. When Demi realizes that the spotlight is on her, she flashes a wide smile at the crowd. Suddenly her determined shimmy takes on a more seductive swirl. She looks like she’s not just competing, but performing. A whistle rises from the crowd, followed by another. Her grin grows wider, and that’s when I see it. The hoop, which has been riding just above the strings of the cherry-red bikini poking out of her board shorts, is now riding a little bit lower. Demi realizes the slip just a moment too late to get it back, and the hoop falls.

  She freezes, a look of abject horror crossing her face, her eyebrows knitted together in fury. On the band’s side of the stage, Russ and I have realized we’ve won before First Mate Kevin can screech it to the crowd. We let our hoops fall, and the crowd, which now includes all of my fallen bandmates, starts cheering. But my eyes go immediately to Lenny. He’s just off the side of the platform, clapping and cheering, his head bobbing in an Oh yeah! nod. Then he reaches for his camera, which is hanging around his neck, and raises it to snap a moment of victory. I grin right at the lens, imagining him looking at this picture later, and I’m so lost in the vision that I don’t notice Russ rushing in from my left. I don’t know if he’s going for a hug or a chest bump, but either way I miss the cue entirely. I start to tumble backward, and Russ’s strong arms encircle me, keeping me from bouncing off him and instead wrapping me up in another fiercely tight hug.

  “Oof,” I grunt, the air escaping from my lungs with a squeeze of his arms. I try to get my breath back, taking in the fresh and homey smell of his detergent and deodorant on the tissue-soft tank he’s wearing.

  “Winners!” First Mate Kevin yells, scurrying up the stage and grabbing Russ’s and my hands and thrusting them over his head, Rocky-style. “And now it’s time for your prizes!”

  At the mention of prizes, I can’t help but get excited. Maybe some kind of monetary prize? At this point, even fifty dollars would help get the band closer to keeping it together. I grin in anticipation as First Mate Kevin turns to one of the high-top café tables off to the side of the raised platform. It’s not until the tiny plastic trophy is shoved into my hand that I realize just how wrong I was. The golden replica of the Destiny sits on top of a black plastic base, and a small plaque on the front reads destiny hula hoop champion!

  I shake my head in confusion, blinking at the plastic trinket. Seriously, all that for this?

  I look up at Russ, who doesn’t seem to care one way or another about the trophy. Victory is victory, and that’s one thing he’s used to on our state champion football team. He throws his arm around my shoulder and hoists his tiny trophy like it’s the Stanley Cup.

  My eyes go to Demi, who looks furious. And then she leans over to the tall, tanned figure next to her, who is no longer chanting my name. She rises up on her tiptoes and whispers into Lenny’s ear, her lips brushing his cheek as she pulls away. He studies Russ and me onstage with a confused look on his face, and when I glance back at Demi, she’s snaking her arm through Lenny’s and throwing me a venomous smirk. I pull myself away from Russ, but it’s too late. They make their way through the crowd together.

  The wind picks up and I have to shield my face from my out-of-control hair. The sky has gone from a dull gray to a menacing dark slate, with black clouds bruising the sky. It looks like it’s going to open back up at any second, and before I can change my mind, I grab Russ and yank him offstage, through the crowd, and around a corner to a bench outside the sundeck. We’re alone, except for a white-clad crew member who’s taking down the surrounding umbrellas in preparation for the second round of storms the ship’s captain is expecting. When he doesn’t leave, I decide I don’t care. I pull Russ down onto the bench next to me.

  “You have got to stop this,” I say, trying to mask the quaver in my voice. I’m angry, but I don’t want him to know. I don’t want him to ask any questions, I just want him to leave me alone.

  “Stop what?” His face is a blank page. I can’t tell if he’s playing with me, or if he’s genuinely oblivious. Either option infuriates me.

  “The hugging. That’s twice now, just in time for Demi to stare us down. I don’t need to be pulled into your drama.”

  Russ glances out at the ocean, which is now so dark it looks like it’s not even on the same planet as the crystal-blue water from the other day. He runs his hands through his wind-tossed blond hair. He squeezes his eyes tight, as if the view is too much. Then he opens them and turns to face me, his big blue eyes boring into mine with such force I nearly lean back. “I swear to God, Liza, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  My resolve falters only for a moment. For the first time in my life, I charge on, saying the thing I know I’ll want to say later, when I’m alone and regretful that I’ve rolled over.

  “I know you still like Demi!” I say, the power of the truth fueling my fire. “And you’re using me to make her jealous, so you can get her back.”

  Russ blinks once, twice, his eyes blank. Then his brows knit together, his nose wrinkling in total confusion. “What?”

  “You still want Demi, and you’re using me to get back at her. Just stop it. It’s messing everything up and giving people the wrong impression.”

  He takes a step back, his head cocked to the side. “People like Lenny?”

  At the mention of his name I feel a catch in my throat. I don’t even want to imagine the damage Russ could do if he knew Lenny liked me. “Just stop using me,” I say, my tone final. I want to end this conversation. Now.

  But Russ doesn’t take the hint. He shakes his head, studying me like I’m a mental patient. “You think I’m using you?” The words hit me like a glass of ice-cold water tossed at my face. I jerk back, blinking at him, and something flashes across his face that I can’t read. His face softens, but his words don’t.

  “Open your eyes, Liza,” he says.

  “Shut your mouth, Russ,” I reply. I stand up and brush past him with my shoulder, but he barely moves. He’s practically a stone wall of muscle and frustration. I ignore the feeling of his rock-solid chest and go straight to the ship’s railing. I lean over and look down, past the lifeboat waiting on the side of the ship, straight down to the swirling gray water below. Behind me, I hear him pivot, but he doesn’t come near.

  “I can’t believe this,” he says. “Seriously, I can’t believe it.”

  I turn to see him shaking his head at me, a look of something—Disgust? Anger?—across his tanned cheeks. I can’t tell what it is, but it infuriates me. He’s acting as if the idea that Lenny could like me is about as normal as me growing wings and flying back to Nassau, which really hurts. I didn’t think we were friends or anything, but I definitely didn’t think he thought so low of me.

  I watch the dark clouds race across the sky with the whipping wind in what would be a really impressive photo. And that’s when I remind myself that Russ is wrong. It’s not crazy to think that Lenny likes me. Because he does. I knew it when I was twelve and he kissed me behind the curtain, and I knew it when I listened to him talk about his photography and sat on the beach looking at pictures. We have a connection that’s based on something other than popularity and hotness, which is something Russ could never understand.

  “Just stay away from me,” I reply.

  Now it’s Russ’s turn to look like he’s been slapped. His eyes widen, and then his face goes blank. “Whatever,”
he says, throwing his hands in the air. “I give up.”

  Russ turns and walks away, his usual lazy gait gone. His shoulders are tense, and I see the muscles of his arms flexing.

  I look back down at the water, where whitecaps are forming on the ever-darkening waves. Suddenly my stomach is rolling again. I turn and bolt in the opposite direction, taking the long way through the ship back to my cabin.

  When I get back to my room, I rip off my two seasickness patches, leaving angry red welts that match the feelings coursing through me. I slap on two new patches and swallow a Dramamine for good measure. And because my head is now pounding at the base of my skull as if it’s about to rocket right off my shoulders, I take the Tylenol bottle out of Hillary’s bag and wash two down with the remainder of the flat ginger ale on my bedside table.

  When I go to fluff up my pillow, my eyes fall on the little golden mike trophy Huck stole from Demi. I totally forgot about it, and now I get a moment of sick satisfaction imagining all the ways Demi is going to freak out when she finds it’s missing. But that only leads to dread over what she’s going to do to me when she finds out I have it. Crap. I’ve got to get it back before she realizes it’s gone.

  Chapter 14

  When I planned this cruise, I had lots of ideas about how it would go. I’d hoped we’d win the twenty-five grand to save the band, first of all. After that, we’d stuff ourselves silly off the buffets scattered around the ship. Huck and Hillary and I would hang out on deck, making one another laugh until our sides hurt. Maybe I’d even get a sunburn. I guess I knew it wouldn’t really be that easy, but I never imagined it would be this hard.