Read The Trouble With Destiny for Free Online Page B

to be fine.”
    I nod, letting out a breath so Huck will see that I’m relaxing. But he’s totally wrong. It’s not the legacy
speech
I’m worried about.
    It’s our
actual
legacy.

“I did not realize there were so many ways to prepare shrimp.” Huck rubs his belly with a muted groan.
    “Well, maybe sampling them all wasn’t the best idea.” I’ve avoided seafood since my oyster incident, preferring to stick to a burger and fries for lunch. Since the ship set sail only two hours ago, we’re still working on picking up speed. This means that while feasting on the largest buffet known to man or beast, we’re simultaneously working to develop our sea legs. For some, a lethal combination.
    “If you need one of these, let me know,” Hillary says. She lifts the sleeve on her I ONLY DATE BEATLES FANS T-shirt to reveal a three-inch square stuck to her arm just above her tattoo of the opening notes to “A Day in the Life,” which was her eighteenth-birthday present to herself. “Seasickness patch. I bought the family-sized box at Costco.”
    Hillary is a senior and off to Northwestern this fall to study journalism. She sort of adopted me as her little sister back when I was a freshman. Huck has always been my best friend, but Hillary has been there when I needed a girl on my side, like when I needed a roommate for band camp or that time I started my period during the first quarter of a playoff game and Hillary produced a tampon she’d wedged between the valves of her tuba. Her self-styled pixie cut makes her the Queen of the Home Haircut, and she can often be found before rehearsal giving out free trims in the tiny restroom in the corner of the band room. Thanks to Hillary, my bangs are always the perfect length.
    “I read in the brochure that the first few hours are the worst,” I reply, thankful that my stomach appears to be cooperating with the motion of the ship. At least one thing is going right for me. “Once we hit full speed on the open ocean, we’ll barely feel the waves.”
    “Ugh, then full steam ahead,” Hillary says, bumping my hip with hers.
    The three of us make our way down a mirrored hallway toward our practice room, a space called the Copacabana Canteen. When we arrive, we find band members gathered outside the door. The clarinets are sitting in a circle playing some kind of hand-slapping game, while the trumpets kick around a Hacky Sack while trying to avoid beaning the head of Susan Bryan, a french horn player sitting against the wall nearby. Behind them, the drum line practices an impromptu step routine.
    “Is the door locked or something?” I ask the waiting crowd.
    “Or something,” a skinny freshman saxophone player named Alex says, tossing her impossibly long red hair over her shoulder. She points to the door. I peek through the porthole window and see Demi leading the Athenas through a dance routine that involves knee bends and a shoulder shimmy.
    Without a word, I burst through the door, sending it clanging into the wall behind it. The dancers halt midshimmy, and a tall brunette in the back row actually lets out a small shriek.
    “Excuse me, rehearsal in progress,” Demi snaps as if she’s the dance teacher from
Fame,
a role she’s been dying to play since we were kids.
    “Yeah, it’s supposed to be
our
rehearsal in progress,” I reply. I reach into my bag and produce my blue folder. I flip it open to the page with the schedule First Mate Kevin handed out and shove it under Demi’s nose. It clearly shows that the Copacabana Canteen belongs to the Holland High band. I cross my arms and tap my foot theatrically on the parquet floor. Not the best venue for a loud band rehearsal, but at least the cavernous room will be big enough for all of us and our instruments. It practically dwarfs the twenty Athenas and their rump shaking.
    “Oh, sweetie, didn’t anyone tell you?” A mocking pout spreads across Demi’s red lips, and she cocks her head in faux sympathy. “There’s