The Trouble With Destiny by Lauren Morrill Read Free Book Online Page A

looks at me, their fearless leader, for instructions. I’m tempted to call it a day, but that means I give Demi another in a series of wins. This is
my
band, and
I
decide when we practice. Maybe not
where,
but
when.
    “All right, guys, here’s what we’re going to do,” I announce loudly, and tell them to unload their instruments and stack their cases by the door. Then I direct all the section leaders to gather their players into groups so that we can do a standing rehearsal like we would out on the practice field during marching season.
    Everyone gets to work. Russ has stacked the cases carefully to make them all fit in a complex jigsaw-puzzle formation, with the smallest instruments at the top. This means that our tiny woodwind girls are having to practically scale a mountain to grab their stuff, and then, in order to make space for others, move out into the lanes. Andrew, a lanky baritone player whose vision is partially obscured by a dark mop of curls, loses his footing on the greased-up floor. His baritone case hits the lane and careens toward the pins at the end just as he hits the floor with a thud. His girlfriend, Clarice, the clarinet player, yelps and rushes to his aid, but is blocked by Russ, who is standing over Andrew.
    “Strike!” Russ laughs. He offers a hand to Andrew, who stares at it suspiciously before ignoring it and pushing himself gingerly to his feet. I don’t blame Andrew. It wasn’t long ago that the defensive line mistook him for a tackling dummy as he crossed the practice field to our rehearsal and sent him skidding butt-first across the wet grass. I had to help him sew up his jeans so his jack-o’-lantern boxers wouldn’t be on display during his European history presentation the following period.
    “This is a nightmare,” I mutter to Huck, who is clutching his oboe case and trying to contain his laughter. Across the alley, Ben and another trumpet player named Nate, both of whom fancy themselves the jocks of the band, have started a game of catch with a hot-pink bowling ball.
    “Put that back!” I call, but in all the commotion, they either don’t hear me or pretend not to. I set off through the crowd, climbing over a bass drum and a tuba. Russ has already joined in, and has the pink bowling ball hoisted for a toss.
    “Put that back!” I bark at full volume.
    Russ jumps, and the ball drops out of his hand and lands on the floor with a crash. It rolls—slowly at first, then faster—straight toward the open duct in the floor.
    “Oh God,” I whisper. I watch its path, my rolling stomach picking up speed with the ball.
    “Get it!” Russ shouts, and all three boys spring into action. The slick floor sends them all skidding headfirst after the ball just half a second too late. It drops through the duct in a flash of pink.
    The entire room goes silent while we wait to hear it land. It feels like we wait for three eternities. Finally, there’s a loud
crack,
a crash, a clang…and then a long, low hissing sound, like the air being slowly let out of a balloon.
    “What’s that?” Russ says, wrinkling his nose.
    Before I can answer, a stream of white smoke begins pouring out of the duct. It rolls low over the floor, curling around our ankles, then begins to rise until we’re fanning our faces just to see. There’s a hot, damp smell that makes my eyes water and my heart pound.
    “Oh my God!” Clarice the clarinet player shrieks. Images of lifeboats and a sinking ship flash before my eyes, making me break into a cold sweat. Nicole Mauser clutches her flute case and looks like she’s seconds away from throwing up or passing out—or both. Russ uses his huge arms to try to fan the smoke away from the opening, but it’s like sticking a teacup underneath a waterfall. The smoke is getting thicker, and it’s rolling toward the back of the alley.
    I have to do something before…I don’t know what. We sink? We get in trouble? We get disqualified from the competition?
    Suddenly death