Free The Trouble With Destiny by Lauren Morrill Page A

boss,” Russ says. He gives one of those corn-fed-farm-boy
aw shucks
shrugs. “My training kicked in a little there.”
    I feel an instinct kick in, too, only mine involves my foot and his ass.
    “I don’t know if you realize this, but this week, you’re not a football player,” I say, my voice rising like steam from a kettle. “You’re not the quarterback or All-American or Captain America or whatever the hell else you fancy yourself to be.” My words send Russ’s all-star grin melting right off his face. “You are here because you were screwing around, and now you’re being punished. You’re here to
work
for me, which is ironic, since all you’ve done is
cause
work for me. From the moment we stepped onto this ship you’ve acted like a prize jerk.”
    Someone behind me snorts. I spin around, feeling as if my anger is going to sizzle out through my eyeballs. “And you guys! You’re just as bad! It’s like you don’t care whether we win or lose. Like it doesn’t mean anything to you, when it means
everything.
It means
everything
!” My voice is rising as fast as my blood pressure. Everyone is staring, even Russ. The expression on his face has morphed past embarrassment into something else. Shock? Terror?
    The room is silent. Huck is staring at me like I’ve gone bonkers. Hillary clears her throat.
    “Dude, when did you get so obsessed with winning?” she says. She gives me a look that tells me I’ve gone full loon. “It’s spring break. You need to chill out.”
    “Seriously, Liza, what’s going on?” Huck’s voice is low, cautious—and suspicious.
    As much as I want to explain, I can’t. I won’t tell them—any of them—how close we are to losing the band. I
need
them, which means I need to keep quiet.
    I press my fingers to my temples, where a monster headache is beginning to throb.
    “I’m sorry,” I say, grasping for an explanation, anything that might make sense. “I’m just, um, really…not feeling well. Maybe it was the coconut shrimp…or the mango shrimp…,” I sputter, hoping no one will realize I didn’t actually eat any of those things.
    Everyone is still staring at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Without another word, I turn and bolt for the door.
    “Guys, meet back here for our afternoon practice time, okay? This practice is over,” Huck calls, even as I hurtle into the hall. Then: “Liza, wait!”
    But I don’t wait. I zigzag down the hall and up the stairs to the mezzanine, dashing past the gallery full of surf gear and miniature plastic replicas of the
Destiny,
up another set of stairs and past the casino, where a bunch of blue-haired ladies are hunched over the slot machines shaking plastic cups of nickels, and at last burst into the sunshine on the main deck. The sun is high and bright in the sky, and I have to blink and shield my eyes to keep from seeing spots. When I drop my hand, Huck is standing in front of me, staring me down, panting slightly.
    “Nice try,” he says, leaning against the railing of the ship, the open water over his shoulder. His voice is light, but his sunglasses are crooked on his nose, one end of the neoprene leash hanging down onto his chest. “Do you want to tell me what
that
was about?”
    Once again, I have no excuse to give him. I
never
yell like that. Raise my voice? Sure, who doesn’t in a group of sixty teenagers? Use my stern, grown-up voice? Of course. But yell? Never.
    I don’t lie to my best friends, either.
    My braid feels too tight, like it’s going to pull my hair straight from my scalp. I reach up and pull the rubber band out of the bottom, running my fingers through my hair and shaking my head into the wind. The breeze catches it, blowing it into my face and out over the ocean.
    “I told you. I’m just not feeling well.” I place a hand on my stomach, hoping that will convince him. It’s not even that much of a lie. Increasingly, I feel like I might throw up.
    He makes a face. “If you’re gonna yak, please do