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Authors: Lauren Morrill
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and lightning bolts.
I am about to respond when I realize that he is talking to Mr. Ferengetti, not me.
“Of course, sir, of course,” First Mate Kevin chimes in, while the cruise director simply nods, slowly twisting the end of his mustache, which is, if possible, even shinier than the hair on his head.
I lean against one of the oversized Roman columns that frame the stage. My initial relief—he’s angry at the cruise line, not at me—turns just as quickly to dismay. If Mr. Curtis gets the investigation he demands, it might just turn up a hot-pink bowling ball and a certain band practicing in the closed bowling alley. Forget saving the band. I don’t know how much it costs to repair a cruise ship, but I know we’d have to have a whole lot of bake sales to even come close. Like, a million of them.
Over the years, I’ve learned that the best way to avoid panic is to make a plan. Working through steps and organizing your problems keeps you from thinking about all the ways things could fall completely apart. It’s how I got through my parents’ divorce, it’s how I got through drum major tryouts, it’s how I got through the idea of losing the band, and it’s how I’ll get through this.
“Mr. Curtis, can I talk to you?” I say quietly, directing a smile at Kevin and the cruise director that’s meant to say,
Well, what can ya do?
Once we are safely out of earshot, I lean in and gesture for him to do the same. “Everyone’s
really
freaked out about the malfunction,” I begin, glossing over the fact that no one seems more frantic than he is. “We should probably focus on keeping everyone calm, and direct them back to their cabins to make sure they’re safe. I was wondering if maybe you could help me with that.” I smile, channeling Shandy’s acting lessons. Because I may be freaking out right along with him, but I can’t let him see it. I let the smile grow slightly before continuing. “Sometimes you just really need assurances from a grown-up, you know?”
Mr. Curtis seems to realize for the first time that
he’s
the grown-up and that
he’s
supposed to be the calm one. I see him mentally try to get ahold of his horses, and I pretend not to notice the gross sweat rings now forming under his arms.
“Yes, yes of course, that’s a great idea, Liza,” he mumbles. He nods so hard his head looks in danger of rocketing off his shoulders. “That’s a great idea.”
And then, without meeting my eye or uttering another word, Mr. Curtis makes a beeline for the nearby stairwell that leads down to our block of cabins. I’m not sure if he’s going to throw up or cry or take a sedative (though I certainly hope it’s the latter). Whatever it is, it’s taking him away from questions about what happened and any conclusions about what his students may have done to cause it.
Mission accomplished. For now.
I buzz through the auditorium, grabbing all the band members I can find and telling them to spread the word: HHS band needs to get below deck. Once I no longer spot any of our stiff black concert dresses or black suits in the crowd, I head down toward our rooms.
The elevator doors slide open to reveal that the hallways of the Riviera Deck, also known as the lowest floor of the ship not occupied by the crew, have become a mini dance club. Someone’s turned up their iPhone speaker to full blast, but the tinny tunes are drowned out by the voices of my bandmates singing along. Almost all of them are crammed into the narrow space, hands on hips, stepping to the right, executing the Time Warp from
Rocky Horror
. Despite having come extremely close to losing everything and possibly getting sent to some juvenile detention center on a remote island, I still feel a surge of pride that even in the most chaotic of moments, the HHS Style Marchers find a way to make their own fun.
“Liza, come on! It’s the Time Warp!” Hillary shouts over the chorus while waving her arms over her head in full-on jazz hands.
I
I am about to respond when I realize that he is talking to Mr. Ferengetti, not me.
“Of course, sir, of course,” First Mate Kevin chimes in, while the cruise director simply nods, slowly twisting the end of his mustache, which is, if possible, even shinier than the hair on his head.
I lean against one of the oversized Roman columns that frame the stage. My initial relief—he’s angry at the cruise line, not at me—turns just as quickly to dismay. If Mr. Curtis gets the investigation he demands, it might just turn up a hot-pink bowling ball and a certain band practicing in the closed bowling alley. Forget saving the band. I don’t know how much it costs to repair a cruise ship, but I know we’d have to have a whole lot of bake sales to even come close. Like, a million of them.
Over the years, I’ve learned that the best way to avoid panic is to make a plan. Working through steps and organizing your problems keeps you from thinking about all the ways things could fall completely apart. It’s how I got through my parents’ divorce, it’s how I got through drum major tryouts, it’s how I got through the idea of losing the band, and it’s how I’ll get through this.
“Mr. Curtis, can I talk to you?” I say quietly, directing a smile at Kevin and the cruise director that’s meant to say,
Well, what can ya do?
Once we are safely out of earshot, I lean in and gesture for him to do the same. “Everyone’s
really
freaked out about the malfunction,” I begin, glossing over the fact that no one seems more frantic than he is. “We should probably focus on keeping everyone calm, and direct them back to their cabins to make sure they’re safe. I was wondering if maybe you could help me with that.” I smile, channeling Shandy’s acting lessons. Because I may be freaking out right along with him, but I can’t let him see it. I let the smile grow slightly before continuing. “Sometimes you just really need assurances from a grown-up, you know?”
Mr. Curtis seems to realize for the first time that
he’s
the grown-up and that
he’s
supposed to be the calm one. I see him mentally try to get ahold of his horses, and I pretend not to notice the gross sweat rings now forming under his arms.
“Yes, yes of course, that’s a great idea, Liza,” he mumbles. He nods so hard his head looks in danger of rocketing off his shoulders. “That’s a great idea.”
And then, without meeting my eye or uttering another word, Mr. Curtis makes a beeline for the nearby stairwell that leads down to our block of cabins. I’m not sure if he’s going to throw up or cry or take a sedative (though I certainly hope it’s the latter). Whatever it is, it’s taking him away from questions about what happened and any conclusions about what his students may have done to cause it.
Mission accomplished. For now.
I buzz through the auditorium, grabbing all the band members I can find and telling them to spread the word: HHS band needs to get below deck. Once I no longer spot any of our stiff black concert dresses or black suits in the crowd, I head down toward our rooms.
The elevator doors slide open to reveal that the hallways of the Riviera Deck, also known as the lowest floor of the ship not occupied by the crew, have become a mini dance club. Someone’s turned up their iPhone speaker to full blast, but the tinny tunes are drowned out by the voices of my bandmates singing along. Almost all of them are crammed into the narrow space, hands on hips, stepping to the right, executing the Time Warp from
Rocky Horror
. Despite having come extremely close to losing everything and possibly getting sent to some juvenile detention center on a remote island, I still feel a surge of pride that even in the most chaotic of moments, the HHS Style Marchers find a way to make their own fun.
“Liza, come on! It’s the Time Warp!” Hillary shouts over the chorus while waving her arms over her head in full-on jazz hands.
I
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