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turns.
    She’s got strawberry-blond hair that’s coming out of some kind of braid up-do. She’s pretty. Not too skinny at all. Her face is covered in freckles and her skin …
    Her skin is green.
    â€œHow do you like the view?” I ask.
    Then blondie hurls.
    She pukes up her lunch all over the deck and all over my feet.
    Tamara says, “Cut.”

 
    LAUREL
    DAY ONE
    IF ONLY I COULD JUMP OFF the boat and become a mermaid and swim out into the sea.
    Or sprout gossamer wings? Take to the air like a vomity fairy? Or keel over and die?
    Anything to not have to look up from the puke-covered, really-nice leather loafers of my childhood TV crush into the incredulous, really-gorgeous hazel eyes of my childhood TV crush.
    But there’s no magic I can call to power and so I just have to look up.
    Baby Tom-Tom is horrified.
    His cameraman has dropped the camera down to his side.
    â€œWow! This is—I’m so—God, Laurel—” Viv is mortified (for me or by me?).
    â€œSeasick,” I say to Tom, as way of apology.
    â€œYep, I’d say so,” he answers.
    And now the smell is hitting the people around us and, of course, they’re turning to stare.
    I grab Viv and stagger toward the door to go inside.
    So much for mingling.
    *   *   *
    A waiter came up and gave me a linen napkin to dab my puke-face with, and he gently suggested I visit the medical center, which was a very good idea. So, after reassuring Viv, like, a million times that I would be okay and I could find my way to the medical center alone, I set off alone. (She was so excited to mingle.)
    Now I am lost.
    I took the elevator (terrible choice—lurch much?) and now I’m on Deck 4, where the waiter told me I’d find the medical center, but I don’t see it. Just a bunch of doors that look like I’m not supposed to go through them and then some big empty rooms with stuff stored in them like stanchions and deck chairs.
    A leggy, tan girl comes out from a hallway door, holding some costumes covered in plastic dry-cleaners bags.
    She holds the door open for me, looking a bit irritated.
    â€œThanks,” I say softly.
    I should ask her directions, but she seems so crabby.
    But now the whole look of the hallways has changed. The carpeting is plain and the doors aren’t wood—they’re gray painted metal.
    Ugh, the boat keeps doing this slow roll.
    Obviously I’m in the wrong place.
    But, oh, I need to rest. Just for a second. I lean against the wall.
    Don’t want to puke again.
    â€œYou all right there?” a really kind-looking guy asks me. He’s fixing a name tag onto a red vest. He’s slender, has dark skin, doesn’t look much older than me. I think he’s Indian.
    â€œIs this your first cruise?”
    I nod, miserable.
    â€œSeasick?”
    I nod again.
    â€œYou must be a performer,” he says.
    (Okay, how on earth can he tell I play the guitar just by the look of me?! Do they hire psychics on this ship?)
    â€œI’m Jaideep. I’m a waiter. You must be the new singer.”
    â€œNo,” I say. “No.”
    I flush.
    â€œI’m a passenger.”
    â€œOh!” he’s embarrassed. “Excuse me, miss. It’s just—”
    â€œI know, the way I’m dressed. I look like a bum.”
    â€œNo! No. You—you are in the staff quarters. I assumed—”
    The ship tilts slightly and my stomach rolls. I groan.
    â€œLet’s get you back where you belong,” he says. “You’re really not allowed down here.”
    â€œI was looking for the medical center,” I mumble.
    â€œThey need to put a bigger sign on it! Come on, I’ll help you there.”
    He bends down and slides an arm under my shoulder, helping me to stand.
    The voice of that nice lady comes over the PA. In a singsong voice she announces, “Attention, crew members, Code Ingrid in suite 826. Code Ingrid, suite