Read Online The Trouble With Destiny by Lauren Morrill - Free Book Online
Authors: Lauren Morrill
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the shoulders. “This is
not
your fault. You heard that first mate guy. This is nothing to be worried about.”
“Well, Kevin needs to work on his poker face, because one look at him tells me we’re going
down.
”
Huck gives me a slight shake. “Liza, the man’s a glorified babysitter, not an electrician. So stop taking cues from a grown-up in a sailor suit and chill out.”
But the longer we sit in semidarkness, the less I believe it. I try to block images of Bahamian jail cells and shark-infested waters, but it doesn’t work. I suddenly feel like it’s roasting in here, and not just because the power outage caused the air conditioning to click off. Pricks of sweat are starting to form on my forehead, under my arms, and down my back. I try to swallow, but my tongue feels like it’s made of steel wool.
“What’s going on over there?” Huck points toward the audience. Near the stage, First Mate Kevin, his mouth set in a straight line, is nodding at Mr. Curtis, who keeps flinging his arms around, as if to say
Look at this disaster.
Behind them both is a greasy-haired, pudgy man I don’t recognize, and he looks even more unhappy than Kevin and Mr. Curtis. Lenny is nowhere to be seen.
Mr. Curtis turns and scans the stage, where he sees me. He waves me over with a hard flip of his hand.
“Do you need backup?” Huck whispers.
I shake my head. “I’m okay,” I say, which is a total lie. I can’t tell if it’s my imagination, or if the ship is rocking more violently than before, but it’s definitely harder to walk a straight line. Never have I felt more like I was walking the plank.
Please let me not be in trouble.
“What’s up, Mr. Curtis?” I say, trying for a smile and managing only a grimace.
Mr. Curtis doesn’t even attempt a small grin. Instead, he turns to Kevin and the greasy-haired man. “Liza,” he says, pointing to the walking garlic knot of a man. “This is Raoul Ferengetti. The cruise director.”
I feel the floor swaying beneath me. The room spins. Mr. Ferengetti scowls.
Goodbye, band,
I think fleetingly.
I’ll write to you from prison….
I am the kind of girl who always seems to be working ten times as hard as everyone else for about 0.06 percent of the credit. Even I, despite being terrible at math, know that those odds suck. I can seriously count on one hand the number of times in my life I have truly gotten off easy. There was the time in fourth grade when I called Ethan Kline a four-letter word, and when he tattled, my teacher said I was a nice girl and didn’t believe him. And then there was the time sophomore year that I convinced my history teacher that my computer ate my midterm paper, when in reality, I fell asleep watching an eighties movie marathon on TV. I got an extension for the weekend. That’s it, a list so short I can’t help but commit it to memory.
But as Mr. Curtis continues talking, and I notice that Mr. Ferengetti appears to be frowning
in general
instead of specifically
at me,
it occurs to me that this moment might in fact be one I can add to my list.
“I will
not
have the students in my care put in danger,” Mr. Curtis is saying now, his voice stern. I notice that his hands are clenched into fists so tight his knuckles have turned white. The collar of his HHS polo is sticking up on one side, and his hair looks like it has suffered through an accident at the gel factory. The only time I’ve seen him even close to this upset was when he caught the flute players twirling their instruments like batons on the last day of band camp. “I want to know
exactly
what’s happening. Why are the engines in trouble? How could this happen? I demand a full report. And what’s this I’m hearing about a storm coming? Are we adequately prepared for this?” All sense of Mr. Curtis’s trademark calm is gone, and questions continue flying from his mouth. He waves his phone in Mr. Ferengetti’s face, the weather app on the screen showing little cartoons of clouds
not
your fault. You heard that first mate guy. This is nothing to be worried about.”
“Well, Kevin needs to work on his poker face, because one look at him tells me we’re going
down.
”
Huck gives me a slight shake. “Liza, the man’s a glorified babysitter, not an electrician. So stop taking cues from a grown-up in a sailor suit and chill out.”
But the longer we sit in semidarkness, the less I believe it. I try to block images of Bahamian jail cells and shark-infested waters, but it doesn’t work. I suddenly feel like it’s roasting in here, and not just because the power outage caused the air conditioning to click off. Pricks of sweat are starting to form on my forehead, under my arms, and down my back. I try to swallow, but my tongue feels like it’s made of steel wool.
“What’s going on over there?” Huck points toward the audience. Near the stage, First Mate Kevin, his mouth set in a straight line, is nodding at Mr. Curtis, who keeps flinging his arms around, as if to say
Look at this disaster.
Behind them both is a greasy-haired, pudgy man I don’t recognize, and he looks even more unhappy than Kevin and Mr. Curtis. Lenny is nowhere to be seen.
Mr. Curtis turns and scans the stage, where he sees me. He waves me over with a hard flip of his hand.
“Do you need backup?” Huck whispers.
I shake my head. “I’m okay,” I say, which is a total lie. I can’t tell if it’s my imagination, or if the ship is rocking more violently than before, but it’s definitely harder to walk a straight line. Never have I felt more like I was walking the plank.
Please let me not be in trouble.
“What’s up, Mr. Curtis?” I say, trying for a smile and managing only a grimace.
Mr. Curtis doesn’t even attempt a small grin. Instead, he turns to Kevin and the greasy-haired man. “Liza,” he says, pointing to the walking garlic knot of a man. “This is Raoul Ferengetti. The cruise director.”
I feel the floor swaying beneath me. The room spins. Mr. Ferengetti scowls.
Goodbye, band,
I think fleetingly.
I’ll write to you from prison….
I am the kind of girl who always seems to be working ten times as hard as everyone else for about 0.06 percent of the credit. Even I, despite being terrible at math, know that those odds suck. I can seriously count on one hand the number of times in my life I have truly gotten off easy. There was the time in fourth grade when I called Ethan Kline a four-letter word, and when he tattled, my teacher said I was a nice girl and didn’t believe him. And then there was the time sophomore year that I convinced my history teacher that my computer ate my midterm paper, when in reality, I fell asleep watching an eighties movie marathon on TV. I got an extension for the weekend. That’s it, a list so short I can’t help but commit it to memory.
But as Mr. Curtis continues talking, and I notice that Mr. Ferengetti appears to be frowning
in general
instead of specifically
at me,
it occurs to me that this moment might in fact be one I can add to my list.
“I will
not
have the students in my care put in danger,” Mr. Curtis is saying now, his voice stern. I notice that his hands are clenched into fists so tight his knuckles have turned white. The collar of his HHS polo is sticking up on one side, and his hair looks like it has suffered through an accident at the gel factory. The only time I’ve seen him even close to this upset was when he caught the flute players twirling their instruments like batons on the last day of band camp. “I want to know
exactly
what’s happening. Why are the engines in trouble? How could this happen? I demand a full report. And what’s this I’m hearing about a storm coming? Are we adequately prepared for this?” All sense of Mr. Curtis’s trademark calm is gone, and questions continue flying from his mouth. He waves his phone in Mr. Ferengetti’s face, the weather app on the screen showing little cartoons of clouds
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