The Trouble With Destiny (22 page)

“That wasn't it at all!” she says, her voice breaking again. She reaches for an old cardboard box nearby, one with the corner peeling upward from moisture and age. She starts to pick at it, tearing the brown paper into tiny bits that rain down on her black character shoe. “Y'all had all these inside jokes. You were always having parties or sleepovers or whatever. I wasn't in the band, so I wasn't included. You pushed me out.”

It's not the version of events that I remember. But the more I think about it, I can see it from her side. It's not like I made any attempt to invite Demi into my world. I just assumed she wouldn't be interested. And after a while, it all became a foregone conclusion. We weren't friends anymore.

Unless maybe we always were. We just both didn't realize it.

“I'm sorry, Demi,” I say. I hear the words come out in a whisper, and then I say it louder: “I'm sorry.” It feels good to say out loud. I still have a mountain of problems to climb, but somehow this feels like a good start.

We step back and blink at each other.

“So what, are we like, friends now?” Demi asks, giving me a tiny shrug.

I give myself a second to think about it, about all the time and distance, all the snubs and dirty looks, and even the occasional downright nastiness. There's a lot of good history there, but there's also a lot of not-so-good stuff in between then and now. I shrug, hands in the air.

“I don't know,” I say. “I guess we could give it a whirl.”

She sniffles and nods, her ponytail bobbing. “That could be cool,” she says.

And just like that, my mortal enemy might just be my friend again. Without looking back, without pausing, just moving forward, like Sofia said.

“Okay, fine, sounds like a plan,” Demi says. She kicks at the floor begrudgingly, but there's the start of a smirk on her face. She sticks out her hand like we're negotiating a mob deal, so I take it and give her a jerk toward me until we're enveloped in a hug.

As we step apart, twin smiles on our faces, I remember two things. First, we're standing in a walk-in cooler and it's
cold.
And second, the band has probably started already, and if I don't hurry, I'm going to miss it. I tell Demi I need to get out there to watch.

“Yeah, go for it,” she says. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I mean, we choked, so you might actually stand a chance!”

It's exactly what Enemy Demi would have said, but this time her hip cocks out dramatically, and there's a twinkle in her eye. Her nose scrunches up in a teasing grin, and I give her a light shove on the shoulder.

She steps aside and lets me reach for the door handle. But before I go, she tells me, “Don't give up on Russ. I'm sure he doesn't hate you. Russ doesn't hate, like,
anyone.
”

“No, I think I messed this up really good. I was too busy swooning over Lenny to realize that Russ was the good guy all along.”

Demi wrinkles her nose. “Lenny? Gross. He's totally hot, but oh my
God
what an ass. He told me that picture he took of you was all about getting me over Russ, which, okay, breaking up with Russ sucked, but I don't want him
back.
And there's no way I'd go for a guy who thinks immature games like that are the way to go. Anyway, like I said, I'm sure you haven't scared Russ off yet. He's stubborn as hell.”

I can't hide the smile that springs up on my face, and I immediately brace for the explosion. But Demi shakes her head at me.

“Russ broke up with me. He said we weren't right for each other. And deep down, I knew it was true,” she says, and sighs. “I just hate to lose. You know that.”

“Do I ever,” I say, and she gives me a shove through the door.

“Maybe I need to pull a Liza and throw myself into my friends instead,” she says, and I gape at her.
Pull a Liza?
That's a first, for sure. I watch Demi as her eyes sweep over the storage room, from the boxes of fruits and vegetables to the toddler-sized bags of sugar and flour. Then her eyes come back to mine. “Whatever, it's fine. You better go, or you're going to miss the band.”

“Thanks, Demi,” I say. She answers with a grin straight from our elementary school slumber parties.

We've got some work to do before we're back to braiding each other's hair and singing along to
Fame,
but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to getting there.

I've missed my friend.

I duck out of the cooler and disappear through the door Demi emerged from. As soon as the door closes behind me, shutting out the clatter and buzzing of the kitchen, I can hear that the band has begun. The smell of garlic lingers, but it's mostly replaced by the musty smell of the velvet seats of the auditorium and the floral notes of old-lady perfume wafting from the audience.

Most of the pieces we've already performed on the ship were pieces Mr. Curtis picked out, ones that we've practiced since marching season. But for the final competition, I vetoed his John Philip Sousa medley and picked a selection of movie themes. I knew the band would like playing them more than the bouncy, patriotic marches, which would mean a better final performance. When I step into the wings, they're already starting the
Pirates of the Caribbean
theme, which means they're almost halfway through the performance. I pause just before I reach the edge of the curtain and close my eyes, letting myself just listen to the music. The percussion on this one is pretty epic, and the boys in the back are working overtime to get their timpani rolls and bass drum beats. As I count along, picturing the score and tapping my toe, I'm pleased to hear that they're hitting every cue. The brass are also spot-on, evoking the rolling ocean and fast-approaching ships from the movie theme.

It's only when the cymbals crash and the instruments transition into the lilting melody of the
Jurassic Park
theme that I think to open my eyes and take a peek at the conductor's stand. I half expect to see Mr. Curtis in his polo shirt waving the baton, but he's not there. No, it's Huck waving the baton, eyes going from the music on the stand to the performers in front of him. He's marking every breath, every dynamic, every fermata, with this perfectly relaxed intensity. And the band is responding to every direction.

When they transition again, this time into the
Titanic
theme, a tall, smiling flute player rises from the first chair and tosses back her newly highlighted hair. She raises her flute and out comes the familiar theme that most of the time makes me cringe with the sheer amount of cheese involved. But Nicole manages to bring all the emotion back to it, and watching her play nearly brings me to tears, just like the song did when Demi and I first saw Leo sink to the bottom of the ocean during one of our slumber parties. I see why Nicole got accepted to Juilliard. Technically, she's perfect, but it's more than that. Her artistry is incredible, and the band is much better with her in it.

Huck, who's had his eyes closed for most of the flowing melody of “My Heart Will Go On,” suddenly stiffens. His arms jump with a renewed intensity, and they transition into the final song of the medley. The trumpets tout the intro, then the bass drum joins in the march. My eyes go to the back row, where Russ has the mallet in his hand and a grin on his face. He's pounding along with the music in a way that tells me there's a bit of a nerd inside that jock after all.

The crowd sits up straighter at the intro to the
Star Wars
theme, which never fails to have audiences of all ages bouncing along. I take a peek at the judges, and I see a tiny smile on the man at the end of the row, his head bobbing along to the beat. It's the best performance I've ever heard out of the Holland High Style Marchers.

And leading it all is Huck. He's got them in the palm of his hand, the band and the audience both. From the pleased looks on the judges' faces, we might actually have this thing in the bag. I can't believe I spent even a second thinking he was bringing the band down. He
makes
the band, he just needed to find the right place for his talent. He's everything I'm not: relaxed, in tune with the music and the performers, and just having fun.

When they hit the final notes of the
Star Wars
theme, Huck keeps his hands raised for a brief moment. There's a second of silence as the audience holds their breath, then Huck drops his hands and they all thunder to their feet. My palms sting from the strength of my applause, but it's only a drop in the bucket of the admiration coming from the audience. The band rises and takes a deep bow, then another. Then Huck gives them a wave with his baton and they collect their music and start to move offstage, on the opposite side from where I'm standing.

I'm so proud of them I could burst, but I'm still not ready to see them yet. I don't want to ruin their moment of triumph with the mess of my leadership. I don't want their questions to distract from what they did out there. I want them to have that moment. They deserve it. Huck deserves it.

And I don't.

I lean back against the wall and close my eyes, letting my mind wander back over the performance, every high point and quiet moment. I can't hear a single mistake. I'm so proud that I start to feel a tickle in the back of my throat. I clench my eyes shut to keep them from welling up.

WHOOP! WHOOP! BEEP-BEEP-BEEP! WHOOP! WHOOP! BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!

The sound is abrupt, and loud—it cuts right through the Mechanicals, who have started their production of
West Side Story.
Emergency lights on the wall begin to flash and my eyes go toward the ceiling, as if I'm anxiously awaiting a message from our alien overlords.

And I half expect one when a crack of static and a squeal comes through some kind of shipwide speaker system.

“Attention, passengers,” a voice drones, “please report to your emergency locations. Please report to your emergency locations.”

The double doors of the auditorium fly open, and the audience starts to stream out. It'll only be a matter of time before my bandmates and Mr. Curtis show up, so I quickly wedge myself into the crowd and duck low as I follow the surge toward the emergency exits.

Up on the deck, at stations all around the pool, white-clad crew members with clipboards and checklists are directing the various student groups to their designated corners. I round the deep end of the pool, and that's when I see what everyone's standing in front of. It's the lifeboats, which until this moment have been covered with some kind of white material that makes them fade into the background of the ship. The covers are now pulled back, and neon orange life vests dot the rows of seating, just waiting to be filled and lowered into the ocean.

I glance around and realize the ship has been surrounded by these big hulking boats all along, just artfully disguised so people won't spend their whole time aboard thinking about what the boats signify: that the ship could sink.

Wait…is the ship sinking?

I see Russ standing by the pool and realize that now is my chance. I have to sort things out. I push my way through the crowd until I'm finally standing in front of him, staring at him in his white tuxedo shirt with his bow tie and his rumpled hair.

“Russ, I—” He dodges me, turning and moving toward the edge of the pool, but I'm not about to let him get away. I reach out and grab his arm, tugging until he spins around to face me. “Russ, I need to talk to you.”

“What about?” He crosses his arms over his chest like he does during pep rallies, glaring with athletic intensity. I've always thought it looked silly, until that intensity was turned on me. Now I have to swallow the massive lump in my throat and steel my nerves for what I know has to come next.

“I was an idiot,” I say, which feels like a good start. I see a tiny chink in his armor, since it was clearly not what he was expecting, and that buoys me to continue. “I was so busy following around this ridiculous idea of a crush that turned out to be totally stupid that I ignored what was right in front of me. I truly had no idea that you liked me, and to be honest, I had no idea that I could ever like you. But I do. And I can't believe I was so dumb after all those times you saved me, like when I was hiding in Demi's closet and you helped me dodge Curtis, or when you punched Lenny, or when that jellyfish that wasn't a jellyfish was attacking me or whatever and you grabbed it.”

As I babble, I can see Russ's eyes soften and the corner of his mouth start to twitch. By the time I'm done, it's all he can do to keep a straight face, especially when I get to the thing about the jellyfish.

“What I'm trying to say is that I treated you like crap, when all you've done this week is be nice to me. I was just too much of an idiot to notice. And for that I'm really sorry.”

Russ stares at me for what feels like forever, his blue eyes now full of a different kind of intensity. I try to stand there, quiet, and wait for him, but it's excruciating.

“Like I said, I'm sorry, and I don't want to bother—”

I start to take a step back. The splash comes, and in an instant all sounds other than my own heartbeat vanish as I sink to the bottom of the pool, my sneakers acting as ballast.

Luckily, my underwater silence is short-lived. Another splash sends waves through the pool. I open my eyes and see Russ, still in his tuxedo, swimming toward me. Once again, I'm gazing into his eyes, which are full of concern. He's always been there to help me. How did I not see it all along?

Russ hooks his hands underneath my arms, and with one powerful kick, we explode toward the surface. We pop out of the water at the same time, and I gasp for a lungful of air, followed by some extremely sexy coughing and sputtering. He gives a few powerful kicks until we're in the shallow end, and when I feel my feet hit the bottom of the pool, I stand to face him.

“Liza, if you wanted to go for a swim you could have just asked,” he says. He gives his head a shake, and his wet hair sprays water droplets across the pool as it settles back out of his eyes. A grin starts to cross his face and a drop of water rolls down his cheek, settling into his dimple. Without thinking, I reach up and wipe it away. The tips of my fingers brush his warm skin, and his smile grows. He tilts his head into my palm so that my fingers tangle into his hair. He reaches up and grips my arm, holding my hand in place, and I take one small step toward him, then another, until I start to sink into him. I reach my hand around the back of his head and tug, rising up on my tiptoes. He dips his head to meet mine, and our lips touch with an intensity that turns my knees to jelly. I start to sink back into the water, and Russ wraps his arms around my waist, keeping them firm on my back, holding me to him. The kiss deepens, our mouths parting. When his tongue meets mine, I gasp, then giggle, feeling his lips turn up into another smile.

I lose all track of time as we kiss. Maybe seconds, maybe minutes, maybe
hours
later, we break apart slightly. He reaches up and pushes back a wet curl that's plastered itself to my forehead. His finger leaves a trail of heat across my face, and I can't help but grin.

“Wooo-hooo!”

The chorus of hoots, hollers, and scattered applause rouses me from my moment of bliss. I turn to see my bandmates gathered at the edge of the pool. Ryan sticks two fingers in his mouth and lets out a piercing whistle, while Huck just applauds and shakes his head.

“Sooooooo,” Russ says, leaning back a bit so he can look at me, “does that mean no Lenny?”

I laugh. “Nope,” I reply, squeezing him tight. “No Lenny. Just you.”

And after a week of false starts, miscommunications, and misdirected emotions, falling into a pool should be right up there in things that have gone wrong. But it's perfect.