And then everything changes.

Everything shifts.

Out of nowhere, a karaoke machine almost magically appears. Patrick is whisked away by his friends, ordered to don his headdress, and the Village People put on a show. I'll admit, when they start belting out "Macho Man" while simultaneously flexing their muscles, I get a little breathless. Who wouldn't? Even Bridge grows silent by my side.

But then Patrick's friend Dan, the leader for the night, starts pulling people up from the crowd. A couple dressed as Sunny and Cher. A girl who came as Britney during her "I'm a Slave for You" years. And I don't see it coming, I really don't, when suddenly a hand grabs my arm, yanking me toward the makeshift stage in the corner of the room.

"What? No!" I protest.

And in the confusion the buzz of alcohol has caused in my brain, it takes a second for me to process that the fingers wrapped around my wrist belong to Blythe. And even longer to realize that this could only be something bad. But by then it's too late. And I know what I'll see before my eyes fully focus.

Ollie.

Or not Ollie—Danny. Danny Zuko. As in, Sandy and Danny, up on stage for a duet.

Stupid karaoke.

"Oh no," I say, turning around to flee.

But the crowd has become an impenetrable wall and no one will let me through. They sense my weakness and they pounce. Someone says it once, and then all of a sudden everyone on the yacht is chanting, "Grease! Grease! Grease!"

And I'm stuck. Trapped without an escape. Just like I knew at some point tonight I would be.

Ollie places his hand on my elbow, tugging gently, offering up a comforting smile before handing me the second microphone. The opening strains of the song begin. And suddenly I feel like a shy girl playing a character. I am Sandy—all dressed up with no clue what to do and an entire crowd of people watching.

I'm having an out-of-body experience. Ollie starts to sing, shrugging off his leather coat in a mini striptease and tossing it into the crowd. He screeches that I'm electrifying and then falls face first to the floor as my victim. And I know it's my turn next, but I have no idea what to do.

I turn. Searching for a solution, a clue.

Bridget's there, just like the girls in the movie, placing a fake cigarette in her mouth, dropping it to the floor, instructing me on my next move. And I do it. Then I put a foot on Ollie's chest, pushing him up, and his smoldering teal eyes land on mine. A shock travels through my system, a bolt of lightning igniting my every nerve on fire.

After that, the words come easily.

Because he is the one that I want. And right now, I have him.

I don't think we break eye contact for the entire song. We both know the lyrics by heart. At one point he grips my hipbone, twirling me around, moving my body in steps to match his, as though we're one person. I'm laughing for no reason, caught up in the moment and in the heat of his gaze.

Then it all ends.

As slow as a sunset, yet as sudden as a car crash.

The music dies out and we're face to face, inches apart, breathing heavily, unsure who is going to pull away first. I don't see the other people. I forget the rocking of the boat. All I see is Ollie. Time stretches, slows, so the second passes in what feels like an hour.

And then sudden. Snap. The moment races forward, faster than the speed of light. Ollie turns. Looks away first, bowing to the applause. The boat rocks and I stumble. But he's already walked away, stepped off the stage. And I'm falling, with no one there to catch me.

I've never been to the hospital. Well, I guess except when I was born. But that doesn't really count, right? I've never had any broken bones or emergencies or anything. Or, at least I hadn’t. Because, well, crap—there goes my perfect record.

When I say falling, I mean literally, falling.

But my mind is so caught up with the Jell-O shots and that other more figurative falling, that the ground catches me before I catch myself. And by catches me, I mean rams into me like a freight train at full speed.

As soon as I can breathe again, I scream, and I mean scream, at the top of my lungs, in one long extended sound, a word I haven't said in years. Because it's vulgar, and I don't like it, and because too many yearly viewings of A Christmas Story have drilled the lesson home after so long. But I can't help it, it just pops out—a foghorn cutting through the party, reverberating around the walls of the yacht, echoing in my ears again and again.

"Fuck!"

And screw it, I mean it.

But then I stop.

Pause.

My mind catches up to the pain, and I realize I just fell in front of the entire party. And not like a graceful tumble, but a full-on faceplant, a total wipeout. And I'm still lying on the ground in a heap of confused limbs. My butt is definitely straight up in the air.

Crap.

Nobody saw that, right?

I close my eyes, and all I hear is silence. No music. No conversation. Heck, no laughter even. There's only crickets and the slap of the wind against the side of the boat. Well, the crickets might be in my head, but they may as well be real. Slowly, I turn my head to the side, wincing as my forehead scratches against the wooden floor of the boat.

Eyes.

A hundred eyes all on me. At this point there aren’t even bodies connected to them, they're just enormous bulbous pupils staring at me, judging me, illuminated with contained laughter and a shade of pity.

I scramble to sit up.

"Ow. Ow. Ow," I murmur over and over, clutching my wrist to my chest, smiling and cringing at the same time, trying to play it cool. My entire body screams at me to stay still, but the embarrassment burning my chest is stronger, and it's all I can do not to run from the room. The crowd divides, letting me pass easily, and somewhere in the middle, I finally find familiar faces.

"Are you okay?" Bridget whispers, stepping next to me, wrapping an arm around my waist.

"Mentally? No… Physically? Yeah, still no." I sigh.

Patrick appears out of nowhere, putting a hand on my arm. "Skylar, are you hurt? That was, uh, quite the fall."

We finally make it to one of the smaller living areas on the yacht, a place that is gloriously empty. I collapse on the couch, still cradling my limp wrist. "My hand is on fire."

Patrick looks down, wincing. "Do you think you broke it? It's starting to swell."

"Oh, good god," I murmur, letting my head fall against the back of the seat. Only I could break my wrist during karaoke. Let me just repeat that for emphasis…karaoke! I mean, karaoke night is my grandmother's favorite event at her nursing home—she even ditches her wheelchair to perform and has a dance routine. I've seen it! But I can't get through one measly song. What is wrong with me?

A high-pitched snicker makes its way to my ear.

I drop my head to the side, meeting Bridget's eyes. Her mirthful eyes. Great. She's laughing at me. My best friend is laughing at my shame. Then again, if the roles were reversed, I'd probably already be rolling around the floor, so I can't really judge.

"I'm sorry, Skye," she says, and then stops because now that she opened her mouth, a stream of uncontrollable giggles has filtered through.

I glance at Patrick, and Bridge has set him off too.

And now they're both cracking.

I turn my gaze back up to the ceiling, rolling my eyes. "Really, guys? I'm in serious pain here."

Patrick stands, shaking his head and sighing. "I'll go find you some ice and see how far away from port we are."