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“I’m not going to kill anybody,” I say again, but even I have to admit that I don’t sound very convincing.

The elevator doors open, and we head to the Crown Room. Hot-pink-track-suit lady goes speed-walking in the opposite direction, but maybe she’s in one of the other five dining rooms.

The Crown Room has shiny wood floors, with golden suns inlaid into them. There are at least fifty large cream tables circling the space, with navy velvet high-backed chairs, surrounding a black-and-white marble-tiled dance floor at the center of the room. The ceiling is painted dark, almost black, with swirls of stars and crowns creating their own constellations. And hanging down from the ceiling are giant chandeliers, casting the whole room in a warm, dreamy light. I expectedthis all to be kinda cheesy, but even I have to admit that this is pretty cool.

Mom stares up at the ceiling, a small smile on her face, and I find my fingers itching for my camera, but I left it in the room. I wonder for the hundredth time since we’ve walked onto the boat, how is this all on one ship? It all feels too big, too over the top to be floating in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. But my rocking stomach reminds me that we definitely are. I say a little prayer again that this won’t last past tonight. That I’ll wake up tomorrow, miraculously adjusted—and if not, at least we can get off the ship for the day and explore the steady ground of Sicily.

“Welcome! How can I help you?” the hostess asks, her bright green eyes jumping between us.What do you mean, how can you help us? We’re obviously trying to sit down to eat?But luckily Dad has better manners than me. “Five for the Bennett family,” he says, gesturing to all of us.

“Oh, yes, here you are,” she says. “I’ll take you to your table.”

We follow her through the dining room, maneuvering between tables full of people. Some already have a collection of empty champagne glasses, so that dance floor is definitely about to get some action tonight. Finally, we get to a table in the corner, label number sixteen, but instead of five place settings, there are eight.

“This looks a little big for us?” Mom ventures, and the hostess’s face transforms into one of those plastic customer servicesmiles that she’s probably mastered working on this ship. “Yes, sometimes we’re able to seat families privately, if the request has been made far in advance, but typically smaller family groups will join with others for the entirety of the cruise. I’m sure you’re just going to love your dining partners though—some families go on to become lifelong friends!”

She sounds like she’s reciting from theMediterranean Majestymanual, but it seems to be enough for my parents. “Well, all right then,” Dad says, nodding and easing himself down into the seat that has the best view of the dance floor.

“And I have something special for you,” the hostess continues, her voice going up five octaves. She places a pack of crayons and a paper place mat in front of Etta. I can see the brightly colored illustrations of chicken nuggets and cheese pizza from here.

“It seems like you’re making a lot of assumptions about my culinary tastes,” Etta says, looking the waitress up and down. The lady chuckles nervously, mumbles something about our server, Phillip, being with us shortly, and then makes her escape. But as soon as she leaves, Etta grabs the green crayon, and I can see her fingers itching to smash that word search.

“Wally, will you put that away already,” Mom says, swatting his shoulder. “We’re trying to have some quality family time here. You can write your long love letter to Kieran later.”

So, Mom doesn’t know about his breakup with Kieran yet. Hmm.

“Just give me two seconds. It’s something for school,” hesays as his fingers continue to move fast across his phone’s screen. I don’t know what he could possibly be doing because he graduated last month and he doesn’t start law school until August, but his furrowed eyebrows and tight jaw make it look important. That’s probably intentional, though. He’s always trying to act like he’s got to decide between cutting the red wire or the blue wire on a bomb, even if he’s just responding to someone’s comment on IG.

Mom turns to me. “So, have you given any more thought to what we talked about before we left, baby?” No, I’m actively trying to ignore it. “Your major,” she clarifies, as if I’ve forgotten. “I thought that maybe seeing Rome yesterday, all that ancient art, may have inspired you. Do you think you might want to stick with art history after all? There’s so much you can do with that.”

“Yeah, I don’t know—”

“But with a different focus, perhaps,” Dad cuts me off. “The world doesn’t need another person specializing in European art. You could focus on art of the diaspora. I could see you working as a curator at the California African American Museum. Or even better, the National Museum in DC.”

“Wouldn’t that be something?” Mom says, eyes dancing. “You know, when Dad and I were walking around earlier, I’m pretty sure I saw a business center that had computers. On one of the sea days, you could go on NYU’s website and see what specialties they offer within the major. We would be okay withpaying for a couple hours on the internet for that. It might make you more excited about it all.”

“Okay, maybe, I could check—”

“I don’t understand why this is some big thing for you.” Wally is apparently done with his very important task and is zeroed in on me. “Picking a major is nothing. That’s, like, bare minimum compared to what’s on my plate. And you already chose art history, so why do Mom and Dad have to convince you?”

“Wally...” Mom warns, but it doesn’t have the same bite it normally would. Probably because she agrees with him.

“Yes, I was going to major in art history, but now I’m not completely sure. It’s a big decision, and I want to be sure.” I eye Mom and Dad’s wary looks. “And I will be sure. Soon. Before we get home.”

“If you think this is a big decision, wait until you get to the real world,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re going to have a rude awakening soon. You have it easy now, I’m telling you.”

God, Wally’s always been a smartass, but I feel like it’s on a whole ’nother level this summer. I wish he would go back to his stupid phone.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Mom still washes and folds your underwear, so don’t be talking to me about the real world, Wallace!”

“Lenore,” Mom whispers. I know she’s mad, and I’m going to hear it when we’re not in a room full of witnesses. But Wally’scheeks going all burnt sienna is worth it.

“I think this is it, Mom. Table sixteen.”

The voice comes from behind me, and it sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. I whip my head around too fast and the world spins. So I’m swallowing down bile when I see his face.

No.

No, no, no.