The Trouble with Destiny

by Lauren Morrill

  Hillary steps out of the group. “Liza, we know,” she says. I glance up at her, and she crosses her arms over her chest, the edge of her tattoo peeking out from beneath the sleeve of her concert dress. “We know,” she says again, one eyebrow raised.

  I look around at the group and notice their smiles are wider than a regular win would suggest. Molly and Ryan have their arms around each other, and Andrew is behind Clarice, holding her tight. The percussionists are all bobbing their heads, and the flutes have their hands clasped in a long chain.

  “You knew?” I ask, and they all nod, a few “duhs” rising from the crowd. “But how?”

  Hillary swings around next to me and bumps my hip with hers. “Well, we knew something was up when you went all psycho over needing to win first place in the competition,” she says.

  “And then that Lenny guy told us at breakfast the other day,” Ryan pipes up from the back. “By the way? That guy’s an ass.”

  “So I’ve heard.” I laugh, and Russ gives my hip a squeeze. “I thought if I kept it from you guys, you’d be more natural. You wouldn’t freak out.”

  “And how did that work out for you, Liza?” Huck asks, tipping the trophy until the little gold band director on top bops me on the nose.

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re the boss now,” I say, shoving it playfully back at him.

  Huck glances around the crowd, shoving the envelope deep into his pocket. “Only thanks to your letter.” He takes a pause and we look into each other’s eyes and I know, even if I don’t deserve it, that he has forgiven me. “So now that we’ve had our after-school-special moment,” he says, hoisting the trophy, “how ’bout we go party?”

  A cheer rises from the group, and the grins grow wider. As we file out of the auditorium, Sofia pokes her head out of the banquet room across the hall. A sculpted gray curl falls out of her elegant updo and lands in her face. She blows it away with her lower lip out, and then turns to us. “I hear there’s cause for celebration?” she asks.

  “There is,” I reply, pointing at Huck and the trophy.

  “Well, this is the place for celebrations!” she says. She pops the door open with her hip and gestures us in. Through the doorway, I can see that the room has been converted into a giant wedding venue.

  As my bandmates gather around me, Sofia’s eyes go to Russ, who’s waiting, still dripping. His blue eyes are trained on me, a wide smile on his face.

  “So I take it from the moony smile that strapping young man is giving you that everything worked out?”

  I grin at her. If I weren’t still soaked from the pool, I’d throw my arms around her and give her a hug. “You were right after all,” I say. “Are you sure you want a bunch of high school kids to crash your wedding?”

  First of all, in a sea of stiff black fabric, we’re all more dressed for a funeral than a wedding. Plus, I’ve seen these guys at a buffet. They can eat. She may need to order a second wedding cake.

  “Darling, the more the merrier!” she says with a wink. “That’s life lesson number two.”

  With Russ on one side of me, my hand clasped in his, and Huck and the trophy on the other side, I know I have every reason to heed Sofia’s advice. So I tug Russ through the door behind me, gesturing for everyone to follow.

  Chapter 24

  Sofia’s party-planning skills apparently took a page right out of her own personal philosophy book, because there’s more than enough food and cake to feed the marching band, the Athenas, and probably an entire football team. The room is filled with elegantly dressed partygoers in pastel silks and chiffons and crisp dark suits, the ladies with elegant floral arrangements on their wrists or pinned to the front of their dresses. Some are scattered about the various round banquet tables, munching on wedding cake and sipping from champagne flutes, but most of the guests are gathered on the parquet dance floor just to my left. They’re paired off, swaying to the sounds of a gentle jazz band. A few of the more ambitious couples perform more elaborate box steps, spins, and dips, but all wear wide, sparkling grins, heads thrown back in laughter as they move about the floor. In the center of the crowd is a group of women who seem to be elbowing and jostling for position while trying to act nonchalant. Sofia stands on a raised platform in front of the jazz band, a circle of white and pale pink roses atop her head.

  The band stops, and all the couples turn toward the front with a round of applause. The lights all dim save for the ones over the stage, casting Sofia in a swath of warm light. When the crowd quiets, she looks around, raising a bouquet of roses that match the ones on her head.

  As soon as Sofia spots me standing just inside the door, she gives me a wink and a smile. Then she turns her back to the crowd and tosses her bouquet. Only it’s a bit more than a toss. It’s a full-body, two-handed heave, and the bouquet soars high over the crowd. It’s coming straight at me, so I raise my hands to block it from beaning me in the face, and it lands right in my grasp.

  Rose petals rain down onto my sneakers, and about forty well-coiffed heads whip around to see who stole the bride’s bouquet.

  I peer through the flowers at the looks that start as confusion and soon turn to frustration. You do not mess with a single woman’s bouquet, apparently, but I was only trying to keep from getting smacked in the face with a floral arrangement. I make an oops face at the crowd and attempt a shrug.

  “Ah, my dear young friend Liza here is the lucky catcher of the bouquet!” Sofia chirps into the microphone perched in front of a saxophone player. “And now it is time for a dance! Who will dance with our lovely Liza?”

  I turn to Huck. “Ready to cut a rug?”

  Huck is still in his concert tuxedo, so he fits right into the crowd of wedding reception guests. In my frayed cutoffs and T-shirt, still sticking to my body from the pool, we’re an oddly matched pair, but I don’t care. I fling my arms around his neck. The bouquet smacks him in the back of the head, and I hear him chuckle.

  “No need to resort to violence, Liza,” he says, pulling away just enough to settle me into a slow-dance pose. “I’ll dance with you.”

  “Thanks, Huck,” I say, my words drowned out by the jazz band moving into a version of “At Last” by Etta James. I lean in to whisper an apology. “I never should have talked to Curtis about cutting you. You’re the heart and soul of the band, and even if you weren’t, you’re my best friend. And friends don’t do that to friends. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “I get it,” he says, his eyes downcast. “I suck at oboe. That’s not news. I just never thought I’d hear it from you.”

  “But I didn’t care,” I tell him, giving him a light squeeze at the back of his neck. “The band without you isn’t the band. And you proved that up there tonight. And that’s what I was trying to tell Mr. Curtis when you overheard.”

  “So you snuck out! I wondered if there was a jail cell strong enough to hold you,” he says, wagging a finger at me. “We were good, huh?”

  “Better than good! More like incredible. You were incredible,” I say. I tap him on the chest and feel it puff up in response.

  “Yeah, I didn’t suck,” he says. “Thanks for the encouragement, by the way.”

  I shrug. “You didn’t need it.”

  Huck stops shifting from foot to foot and drops his arm, reaching into his back pocket. He produces my baton and holds it out to me. “I believe this is yours?”

  I shake my head and push his hand back. “No way. That’s all yours now. You are a way better drum major than I was.”

  Huck cocks his head. “You know, if I’m drum major, I’m going to need a partner in crime,” he says. He spins me out with his left arm, then jerks me back in until my back is to his chest, his arms wrapped around my waist. “You game?”

  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  We dance through the end of the song; then the band kicks into Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family,” and the crowd exp
lodes. Anyone left at their table is up and on the dance floor, hands waving and booties shaking. An elderly man who looks like he hasn’t had his own teeth since sometime in the last millennium waltzes by, fingers waving in the air, his head tossed back in a big guffaw. A woman who looks to be his wife, or maybe just an admirer, follows him, flashing a mischievous smile as she gooses him on the behind.

  “Don’t get frisky, Lydia!” he calls over his shoulder, but he turns and winks at her in a way that simultaneously warms my heart and turns my stomach.

  I see Sofia through the crowd getting dipped by husband number four, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look happier in my life.

  Huck follows my sightline, and when he spots Sofia and her husband mid-dip, he grabs me, pulls me in tight, and dips me low, too. I let out a laugh that comes straight from the gut. Huck gives me a tug and I roll back up to standing. I have to stop for a moment and blink through the head rush, and when my vision clears, I find myself staring at a tall blond football player in a tux.

  Huck steps away so Russ can cut in, right as the band moves into a slow song I don’t recognize. Russ grabs my hand and pulls me in with a spin and a dip that practically has our noses bumping. I throw my head back in a full-body laugh. I haven’t felt this happy, this relaxed, in I don’t know how long.

  Russ, it turns out, is quite the dancer. He explains that his dad, in an effort to improve his coordination on the field, signed him up for a ballroom dance class. Russ threads the fingers of one hand through mine and sets the other firmly on my waist. While most everyone else under the age of sixty-five sways from one foot to the other like we’re at a middle school dance, Russ leads me around the floor in some kind of smooth two-step that has me both grinning and swooning.

  “Hey, where did you get a tux on such short notice?” I ask.

  “It’s Mr. Curtis’s,” he says. “Turns out we’re the same size. He brought it in case he needed to conduct, I guess. Luckily he didn’t.”

  I glance over at Huck, who is slow dancing with the enormous trophy. Lucky indeed.

  The jazz band transitions easily into a bouncy Latin rhythm. Huck hoists the trophy in the air and starts dancing through the crowd with a fierce butt waggle. It takes only a few beats for Hillary to join him, her hands on his hips, her head tossed back as she mirrors his booty shake. More and more people join up, band members and Athenas mixed in with the wedding guests. They snake through the crowd, grabbing people. The line makes its way past us, and I see a familiar gray head shaking in time to the music.

  “You moving forward, my dear?” Sofia calls out.

  “Yes, ma’am!” I say, and reach for her waist, pulling Russ along behind me. We shimmy and shake and trot around the dance floor. During the drum solo, I feel Russ lean in and plant a soft kiss on the back of my neck, and I lean into him. But I’m careful that, even in his arms, I keep moving forward.

  Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Destiny, it’s that you never know what’s going to happen next … and it just might change your life.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without the support of the Paper Lantern Lit team, especially Lexa Hillyer, Lauren Oliver, and the tireless effort of Angela Velez. Major thanks to Wendy Loggia at Delacorte Press and to the rest of the Random House Kids team, who make my books great and put them in front of readers. Thanks to my agent Stephen Barbara for always answering my “HELP!” emails, and to everyone at Foundry Lit + Media for their support.

  My books would be nothing without their readers, young and old, near and far. You guys are an awesomely enthusiastic bunch, and I love hearing from you. You’re the reason I do this! I also owe an incredible debt of gratitude to the booksellers, librarians, and teachers who share my books with young readers. Special shout-out to the Little Shop of Stories in Decatur, GA, my favorite indie in the whole wide world. Your store is magical, and I’m honored that you keep giving me a place in it.

  And finally, thank you to my incredibly supportive family, who all own way too many copies of my books and who never hesitate to claim me as their own. But the biggest thank you of all goes to Adam. There aren’t enough movies about swords or Dairy Queen Blizzards in the world to pay you back for all you do for me.

  About the Author

  Lauren Morrill grew up in Maryville, Tennessee, where she was a short-term Girl Scout, a (not-so) proud member of the marching band, and a troublemaking editor for the school newspaper. She graduated from Indiana University with a major in history and a minor in rock and roll and lives in Macon, Georgia, with her family and their dog, Lucy. When she’s not writing, she spends a lot of hours on the track getting knocked around playing roller derby.

  Visit Lauren online at

  laurenmorrill.com

  Follow Lauren on Twitter

  @LaurenEMorrill

  Read Lauren’s other novels:

  Meant to Be and Being Sloane Jacobs.