I swear Caleb looks right at me as he mentions that one. Clearly he hasn’t forgotten.
“Are we doing a relay?” Jules squeaks enthusiastically as she trots up the stairs. Everyone looks at Matthew.
“Does it involve alcohol?” Matthew asks.
“Losing team takes a shot?” Steven offers.
“Make it two and I’m in.”
“Matthew, you can’t be serious,” Patricia scolds. “Arthur, are you even listening to your son? It’s nine A.M.!”
“Trust me, mom,” Harry reminds her, “it’s a lost cause?—“
“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Arthur pipes in, physically stepping between Patricia and Harry to block their eyeline. “How soon can we get it up and running?”
Caleb shrugs. “An hour?”
“Thirty minutes,” Arthur corrects him, and I get the distinct sense it’s not a request. “What do you say, Olsens? Are you ready for a good old fashioned water war?”
Jules whoops, and my stomach clenches a little. Normally my sister doesn’t have an aggressive bone in her body, but when it comes to games, we’re both borderline ruthless. I can’t remember a single game night growing up that didn’t end in tears, flipped gameboards, or an array of silver monopoly pieces flying at someone’s head.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I ask Jules as we walk through the salon. “Istillhave a scar on my shin from the last time I played twister with you.”
“Stella, that wasyearsago. And it’s not like we can refuse. Even Patricia seemed excited about it.”
“Jules, Patricia has the emotional range of a grumpy housecat. What about her reaction seemed excited to you?”
I soon learn that when Arthur says thirty minutes, he means it. I barely have time to slather myself in enough sunscreen and give myself a half-hearted mirror pep talk before the blare of the ship’s horn rings through the halls. I trot upstairs to find Gia passing out colored handkerchiefs as we file out to the back deck—blue for Jules, Harry, and Steven, and red for Matthew, Arthur and me.
Patricia, I notice, hasn’t even bothered to change out of her funeral wear.
“I’ll referee,” she tells Gia as she tries to hand her a scarf.
“You’ll be my rally girl,” Arthur winks at her, bumping her with his hip. I can feel the ice queen’s eyes rolling even through her dark glasses.
“Arthur, if you get tanning cream on my blouse, I will throw you from the bridge deck myself.”
We join Caleb and Jim, our team captains, on the swim platform. I’m relieved to see that Jim, and not Caleb, is championing team Red. After our little incident upstairs last night, I don’t think I can look at him again without combusting into a puddle of sea jelly.
“Welcome to the winning team!” Jim greets us as we huddle beside a large whiteboard. The relay legs are each listed beside one of our names: Jim on the kayak, Arthur on a jet-propelled diving scooter called the Seabob, and Matthew on the trampoline battle. It’s the first listing that scares me most: Stella—high jump.
“Everything look good here?” Jim asks. I look up to the top deck and cringe. I may be working on my crippling altitude aversion, but jumping under pressure? With the whole family watching? You might as well ask me to hit a bullseye blindfolded.
“Stella on the jump?” Matthew cringes too. “Please, we’ll bestanding here til morning. Switch her with Dad—she can Seabob.”
“Absolutely not,” Patricia calls from her chair above. Apparently her ears have aged as well as her wrinkle-less face. “You want to throw your aging father off a four-story drop?”
Arthur butts in, “I’m not dead yet, Pattie. I’m perfectly capable of?—“
“Matthew, you do the jump,” I interrupt the ensuing battle Royale. “I’ll take the trampoline.”
I look over to the opposing team’s whiteboard to see who it is I’ll be fighting, and my stomach drops.
Trampoline Battle: Caleb
“You want to foam battlethat?” Matthew looks back and forth between me and Caleb, whose arm muscles look liable to rip free from his white polo. I narrow my eyes at Matthew.
“I’m scrappier than I look.”
