useless walkie into a pile of wall debris and pulls from his pocket what must be the sweetest-lookingphone I’ve ever seen. It unrolls like an LED readout, but snaps into place when it’s extended. “Shit,” he growls, punching at it with his fingers. “I’m not getting a signal.”
I pull out my own phone to see if I’ll have any better luck. Nope. Instead of the weak signal I usually get, there’s nothing. Which makes me suspect that the ship’s transmitter isn’t operating at all. So much for getting in touch with my dad or Ducky and filling them in about my day of happy fun time.
I’ve got to admit, I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself. What I want to be doing is channeling my father, figuring out what he would do in such a situation. Instead the only thought that seems to be running through my brain is a pitiful Why me? But I’m ripped away from my pity party by the most annoying sound in the cosmos.
“Cole, baaaay-beeee !” It is Britta, of course, moaning from the other side of the hallway. Probably in despair over the fact that she hasn’t been the center of attention for the past minute and a half. She’s sitting with her back to a crushed control panel, massaging her ankle like she thinks it’s going to pay for dinner afterward. “Cole, I think it’s broken ! I think I broke my ankle !”
Cole, who’s been sifting through the debris, hesitates for a second, but then heads back over to Britta, just like she wants. I fold my arms across my chest and totally don’t watch. What do I care if Cole hasn’t even bothered to ask how I am yet? Why would I care about that?
I narrow my eyes and observe from behind a curtain of eyelashes as Cole takes Britta’s ankle in his hands—those hands that once pulled me in close for a kiss, his breath warming myskin—and puts slight pressure on it. “Does that hurt?” he asks. Britta gives a melodramatic little squeak of agony, and sets her ankle delicately into his lap. And is it just me, or has the ankle that he sprained, like, fifteen minutes ago healed remarkably quickly? “I’m going to wrap it,” he tells her. “That will relieve some of the pain. Hey!” he calls over his shoulder. “Is there a med kit? I need something to wrap Britta’s ankle!”
“I can help!” comes a call. And then this girl named Carrie—who, even on a ship full of unwed expecting teen girls, has managed to get herself dubbed “the slutty one”—comes bounding over. She’s wearing a sleeveless gray tee and a skirt so short it makes her look like the head counselor at tramp camp. “Let me just . . .” From the debris she pulls a shard of aluminum and worries at the hem of her skirt. Once she’s got a tear going, she yanks all the way around until she’s pulled off a swath about twenty centimeters wide. She hands the strip of material to Cole and smoothes her now 100 percent ho-approved mini-mini over her thighs. “For Britta’s ankle.”
“Uh,” Cole says, his brain clearly unable to process such X-rated altruism. “Thanks.”
Cole ogles Carrie’s tuchus just a little too long as she walks away, causing Britta to cough loudly. He turns back to her and shakes his head as if to clear the image, then begins to wrap her foot. Britta preens.
God, I think while watching them, how did I ever fall for that dinkus? Sure, he’s hot. Sure, when he holds you, the entire universe disappears.
But he’s just such a turd.
I vow, right then and there, that when I get back home, right after I finish French kissing the soil we land on, I’m going to call Ducky, tell him to come find me, and give him a giant bear hug that’ll make his eyes pop out. Because I cannot, at this moment, think of a single person I want to be around more.
There is a loud ka-CHUNK! sound, and a mild vibration rocks the floor. The hissing stops, and I breathe a sigh of relief. But Other Cheerleader starts whining.
“Oh, God !” she wails. “Another explosion ! The whole ship is going
I pull out my own phone to see if I’ll have any better luck. Nope. Instead of the weak signal I usually get, there’s nothing. Which makes me suspect that the ship’s transmitter isn’t operating at all. So much for getting in touch with my dad or Ducky and filling them in about my day of happy fun time.
I’ve got to admit, I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself. What I want to be doing is channeling my father, figuring out what he would do in such a situation. Instead the only thought that seems to be running through my brain is a pitiful Why me? But I’m ripped away from my pity party by the most annoying sound in the cosmos.
“Cole, baaaay-beeee !” It is Britta, of course, moaning from the other side of the hallway. Probably in despair over the fact that she hasn’t been the center of attention for the past minute and a half. She’s sitting with her back to a crushed control panel, massaging her ankle like she thinks it’s going to pay for dinner afterward. “Cole, I think it’s broken ! I think I broke my ankle !”
Cole, who’s been sifting through the debris, hesitates for a second, but then heads back over to Britta, just like she wants. I fold my arms across my chest and totally don’t watch. What do I care if Cole hasn’t even bothered to ask how I am yet? Why would I care about that?
I narrow my eyes and observe from behind a curtain of eyelashes as Cole takes Britta’s ankle in his hands—those hands that once pulled me in close for a kiss, his breath warming myskin—and puts slight pressure on it. “Does that hurt?” he asks. Britta gives a melodramatic little squeak of agony, and sets her ankle delicately into his lap. And is it just me, or has the ankle that he sprained, like, fifteen minutes ago healed remarkably quickly? “I’m going to wrap it,” he tells her. “That will relieve some of the pain. Hey!” he calls over his shoulder. “Is there a med kit? I need something to wrap Britta’s ankle!”
“I can help!” comes a call. And then this girl named Carrie—who, even on a ship full of unwed expecting teen girls, has managed to get herself dubbed “the slutty one”—comes bounding over. She’s wearing a sleeveless gray tee and a skirt so short it makes her look like the head counselor at tramp camp. “Let me just . . .” From the debris she pulls a shard of aluminum and worries at the hem of her skirt. Once she’s got a tear going, she yanks all the way around until she’s pulled off a swath about twenty centimeters wide. She hands the strip of material to Cole and smoothes her now 100 percent ho-approved mini-mini over her thighs. “For Britta’s ankle.”
“Uh,” Cole says, his brain clearly unable to process such X-rated altruism. “Thanks.”
Cole ogles Carrie’s tuchus just a little too long as she walks away, causing Britta to cough loudly. He turns back to her and shakes his head as if to clear the image, then begins to wrap her foot. Britta preens.
God, I think while watching them, how did I ever fall for that dinkus? Sure, he’s hot. Sure, when he holds you, the entire universe disappears.
But he’s just such a turd.
I vow, right then and there, that when I get back home, right after I finish French kissing the soil we land on, I’m going to call Ducky, tell him to come find me, and give him a giant bear hug that’ll make his eyes pop out. Because I cannot, at this moment, think of a single person I want to be around more.
There is a loud ka-CHUNK! sound, and a mild vibration rocks the floor. The hissing stops, and I breathe a sigh of relief. But Other Cheerleader starts whining.
“Oh, God !” she wails. “Another explosion ! The whole ship is going
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