Tiffany’s eyes brimmed with tears. A heavy mask of abject panic and profound misery weighed her down. Her head sunk between her shoulders. She barged past the crowd that had formed on the back deck to gawk at the scene. She plowed past, into the living room, then made her way down the narrow staircase beside the kitchen.

You could’ve heard a pin drop, the crowd was so silent. The sound of a door slamming downstairs shattered the silence momentarily, but it returned as everyone gaped wordlessly at each other.

I hoped Tiffany would stay locked in whatever room she’d retreated to for the remainder of the trip.

Why did I have the sinking feeling that whatever Tiffany did, tonight or in the days to come, she would make sure that someone’s voyage ended up at the bottom of the sea?

I just prayed it wouldn’t be mine.

SAMANTHA

When the commotion died down, and I reassured Christos that I was okay, we all rejoined the crowd inside. Because the alcohol had been flowing for awhile, it didn’t take long for everyone to rekindle the party atmosphere. Conversation picked up, and soon the main room filled with celebratory laughter and good cheer.

The dark haze I’d felt after Tiffany’s outburst faded from my memory. A few more drinks helped push away the bad vibes. I was in a saucy mood.

“You ready to snoop around the rest of the boat,” Romeo asked mischievously, “while the wicked witch is asleep?”

I giggled. “Why not? Maybe we’ll find her magic mirror or her bubbling cauldron.”

“Or mermen trapped in the cargo hold,” Kamiko slurred, then hiccupped. “Mermen are hot. I require the services of my own personal merman right now,” she said lustily.

“Have you been drinking, Kamiko?” Romeo gasped.

Kamiko’s eyelids were at half-mast and her cheeks glowed red. Frowning, she said, “So fucking what? It’s New Year’s Eve, you vag hag, and I’m not the one driving the boat.”

Madison and I burst out laughing.

“Goodness gracious!” Romeo feigned offense. “Who knew Kamiko was such a mean drunk?”

We made our way down the cramped spiral staircase beside the kitchen. A number of closed doors encircled the downstairs hallway.

“How many frickin’ rooms does this yacht have?” I whispered.

Knowing Tiffany was down below somewhere had me vaguely worried. I suddenly felt like I was in one of those trapped-at-sea monster movies, and some creeping deep-sea Tiffany might burst through one of the cabin doors any second, roaring and raging like a spurned she-shark. We’d all be trapped belowdecks while she rampaged and bit everyone’s heads off.

“It’s really quiet down here,” Kamiko mumbled. “Do you think Tiffany’s dead?”

“We can hope,” Romeo said.

A doorway at the end of the hall stood open a crack. I peeked inside, expecting to see Tiffany sprawled out on the bed, either dead or sleeping off her drunk. Nope, the room was empty.

The four of us crept inside. I closed the door and fumbled for the light switch. The room was beautiful. It must have been the master suite.

“This is nicer than most of the hotels I’ve stayed at,” Madison said.

Romeo flipped on the lights in the bathroom.

“OMG,” Kamiko said. “They have a bidet on their boat.”

“That bidet is bigger than my bathtub,” Madison said.

“My dorm doesn’t even have a bathtub,” Kamiko said longingly.

“Tiffany is scary rich,” Madison said. “You’d think she’d be less of a bitch with so much money, but I guess it doesn’t work that way.”

I stuck my head in the bathroom. “We should go, you guys. No one else is down here.”

Romeo turned and squeezed out of the bathroom first. “Would you look at that,” he said, staring at the large painting over the queen-sized bed. “It’s that painting of Tiff the Quiff.”

“The one Christos sold at Brandon’s gallery!” Kamiko blurted.

I’d totally forgotten about it. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d told us it was going in her yacht. The painting depicted Tiffany in a bikini, lounging beside the infinity pool behind her dad’s mansion. The night of Christos’ show, Tiffany had bragged that her dad had paid $25,000 for it.

Romeo stepped up onto the bed, heedless of the fact he still wore his shoes.

“What are you doing, Romeo?!” I gasped.

The bedspread bunched around his feet. “Whoops!” he said, giving the covers a wrinkling twist with his shoes.

“You know Tiff’s going to make the servants fix the bed,” Kamiko said dryly.

Romeo considered. “Maybe it will piss them off enough that they decide to poison her in her sleep.” He ran in place several strides, tearing the covers up.

“Get off the bed, Romeo,” Madison said.

He ignored her. “I always thought this painting needed a finishing touch. A final flourish, if you will.” He pulled a black marker out of his pocket.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked, worried.

“What, the pen? An artist is always prepared.” He uncapped the black marker and leaned toward the painting, one arm resting on top of the picture frame.

“Romeo,” I warned, “you should stop now.”

Kamiko and Madison were both wide-eyed, but no one seemed to be jumping in to save Tiffany’s painting. I couldn’t blame them.

“Don’t, Romeo!” I pleaded half-heartedly. Well, make that quarter-heartedly.

“Worry not, dearest Sam,” he said. “It’s water-soluble.”

“But what if it doesn’t come off?” I asked.

Kamiko suddenly went vicious. “Tiffany has been a total bitch to you all night, Sam. She was trying to claw your eyes out and throw you in the ocean. She totally deserves it,” Kamiko argued. “Do it Romeo,” she goaded, “Unless the meatballs between your legs have turned into cotton balls.”

Romeo was never one to be outdone in a comic standoff. “Very funny, Kamiko. I’m sure your gargantuan lady balls swing between your legs like a gorilla’s musty nutsack. Anyway, I don’t see the pen in your hand, Zorro.”

Kamiko parried, “You’re the Gay Blade around here, not me.”

There was a pregnant pause before Madison, Kamiko, and Romeo snickered their way into boozy belly laughs.

Wow, they were all drunk. This situation was now officially out of hand. I was surrounded by intoxicated idiots.

Romeo was about to resume his penmanship practice when I grabbed for his arm. He dodged clear, almost falling off the bed, but caught himself. “Careful, Sam, the artist is at work.” He tilted his head from side to side, examining the painting in preparation. “That Tiffany is such a total bitch—”

I couldn’t disagree with him there.

“—she’s like one of those train-track melodrama villains,” Romeo continued, “but Christos’ painting doesn’t quite capture that.” He leaned forward and drew a small, twisty black line.

“I don’t know Romeo, maybe this is too much,” I said nervously, certain we’d be caught. I reached for his arm again, but he shrugged me off.

“Wait,” he whined. “I need to get the twirliness just right.” Romeo squeezed his monocle into his eye socket. His tongue jutted from the corner of his mouth as he scrawled the other half of a mustache onto the painting of Tiffany’s face. “There. Perfect.” He stood back to admire his work and let his monocle swing free from its button-string.

“Oh my god, Romeo,” I said. I couldn’t decide if I was horrified or mortified, or maybe just a bit satisfied.

Tiffany had been a Bitch On High to me at every turn since day one. No matter what I did, she hammered me down with obvious delight. A little temporary water-soluble disfigurement of her treasured painting might do her some good. Remind her that she wasn’t permitted to walk through life hurting people, free from consequence. Maybe I’d been cutting her too much slack all along, and she needed a wake-up call.

“It captures her inner spirit, don’t you think?” Romeo asked joyfully.

I had to agree. Twirly-mustached Tiffany was definitely an improvement. “But it needs one more thing,” I said. I stepped onto the bed, took the marker from Romeo, and drew Where’s Waldo glasses on Tiffany. Wow, that felt really, really good. I smiled at my handiwork.