Free The Trouble With Destiny by Lauren Morrill

suspect tampering,” she says, but she quickly goes from fanning herself to waving off that idea. “That just seems ridiculous, though. I doubt they’re going to find anything on a video.”
    “Right, exactly,” I say, my voice squeaking, and panic surging through my veins. If the captain looks at a video, what he’s going to see is a bowling ball smashing into, well, whatever it is that’s down there that causes boats to break. And from there, they’re going to find
us.
    “Okay, well, we’ll let you get back to your rehearsal,” Mrs. Haddaway says, smiling. “And like I said, if you need help moving your instruments, let Demi know.”
    Demi shoots me a look that says
Do not let me know.
But Demi is now the least of my problems. All my mental energy is focused on the video. Will it show the band
tampering
by means of a certain pink bowling ball? What will happen if we get busted?
    While Demi and Mrs. Haddaway make their way back down the hall, I shove the door open to Hideaway Hall. Inside I find what looks like a standard-issue conference room, the tables pushed to the edges of the room, all the chairs arranged scattershot across the middle of the floor. A few band members have arrived to set up early, but before I can tell them not to bother, a flying silver object whizzes past my face.
    “Fore! I mean, duck!” Russ intercepts the baritone mute, cradling it in his arm like a receiver heading for the end zone. He fakes left around me and executes a pass toward Huck, who’s sitting on one of the back tables examining Hillary’s new typewriter tattoo on her shoulder. Huck’s reaction to Russ’s throw is to stare helplessly at the metal projectile headed right for his face, so Hillary reaches up and swats it away seconds before it careens into his nose. The mute lands back on the carpet and rolls into the leg of a chair.
    “Dude, you saved me!” Huck wails. He flings his arms around Hillary’s neck like she just threw herself in front of a speeding train for him.
    “Down, boy,” Hillary says, patting his head gently. “It was nothing. You’re just indebted to me forever now.”
    I turn to yell at Russ as the mute comes whizzing back in a tight spiral. “Nice!” Russ calls. He raises his hands for another perfect catch, then wings it toward the clarinets, who are sitting in a circle sucking on reeds and cleaning their instruments. Ray, a sophomore trombone player, darts over at the last second, preventing the mute from colliding with Madeline’s head. He grins and tosses it back.
    Russ reaches around for another catch, so I throw my hands into the air and intercept, a skill I’m shocked I’ve absorbed from simply watching three years’ worth of high school football games. He crosses the space between us in three long steps, arms out like he’s going in for a hug, or—
    Not a hug. A tackle.
    In a flash I’m on the ground.
    “What in the fresh hell?” I shout, but my words are muffled by a gray Holland High Athletic Department T-shirt and a very muscled chest.
    Russ just laughs and attempts to pull himself off me. “Sorry. Instinct.” He puts his hands flat on the floor next to my ears and lifts himself in a push-up, the smell of detergent and spicy deodorant filling my nose.
    “Eeeiii!”
I screech as he lifts himself off me. My gold hoop earring, a gift from Grandma Sanders when I started high school, is caught in the sleeve of his T-shirt. I worry that my ear might actually detach from my body, so I grab a wad of his shirt and pull him back down. He lands with a thud back on top of me.
    “My earring,” I say into his chest. “Hold still.” I reach up and unclasp the hoop, remove it, then shove him off.
    Russ rolls to his feet. He offers his hand to me, but I smack it away and pull myself up. I glance around the room to see that, per usual, all eyes are on me, except for the french horns, who are already whispering behind their hands while they throw glances at Russ and me.
    “Sorry,