Take It Off by J. Minter

looking probably more crazed than I’d meant to. The woman stared at me for a moment, and then turned back to Suki.
    â€œBueno. Treinta euros, señorita.”
    Suki nodded and put the money on the counter. The woman handed her a key and her change and said,
“Numero dieciocho. El piso tercero. Buenas noches.”
    I turned the edges of my mouth upward in Suki’s direction, doing my best to convey relief. She sighed disgustedly, and we headed up to see what La Cucaracha had in store for us.

There’s always a party at Patch’s
    â€œEverything’s going to turn out fine.” Patch said this more for Greta’s benefit than out of any personal conviction. He did have to smile a little at the irony of the crew losing Jonathan, when Jonathan was usually the one going on about how they’d lost him, Patch, and how stressful that was. But Patch also just sort of knew that Jonathan cared more about comfort, and, well,
things
, and that it was going to be really tough for him being out there in the world.
    They were walking through the halls of the ship at night, heading for Patch’s cabin. The floor shifted with the water underneath their feet. They’d turned the ship upside down looking for Suki—computer lab, late-night snack bar, every corner of the deck. They’d combed the halls of every level and knocked on every door they could think of. Nobody had seen them.
    Greta nodded at Patch’s reassurance, but she still looked pretty worried. Patch realized that the onlytimes he’d seen Greta, she’d been with Suki, or looking for her.
    â€œListen, at least they’re not alone. I’m sure they ran into each other on the dock. We’re not going to land in Barcelona till the day after tomorrow. They can probably get a ferry, or maybe even a flight by then. J probably has his dad’s credit card and cash, which should cover it no problem. They’ll figure it out.”
    â€œBut maybe Barker could do something …?”
    â€œIf we tell Barker, he’ll kick them off the trip. This way, maybe they can still get back on. Nobody’ll know the difference.”
    â€œI guess.”
    They were coming to one of the remote, upper level cabins and they could hear music. It smelled a little like smoke, too, which was weird.
    â€œIsn’t that Prince?”
    â€œUm …,” Patch said as he reached for the knob of his door. By this time, it was pretty obvious that his cabin was the source of the music.
    Greta lowered her eyes sheepishly. “I think Suki might have mentioned something about you having a party tonight. She might have, uh, mentioned it to a couple of other people, too …”
    Patch pushed through the door and into what would surely go down as
the
party of Ocean Term 2005. Hisbathtub had been filled with ice and this strange Spanish beer that someone had bought a truckload of in Mallorca. Some kid had whipped out his iBook and was now perched on Patch’s desk playing the role of self-appointed deejay. Everyone was dancing, except those couples that had slipped off to the corners to discreetly hook up. And Mickey Pardo, God bless him, was on the bed singing along to “Little Red Corvette,” and pretending to drive. This mime was (not surprisingly) both convincing, and somewhat perverse.
    â€œMickey!” Patch hollered over the crowd. The music was really loud, and Patch wasn’t sure Mickey would even hear him.
    Mickey turned to them, pretending to shift into a faster gear and sort of slap the imaginary steering wheel. “Move over, baby, gimme the keys,” he mouthed at them, “I’m gonna try to tame your little red love machine. Little Red Corvette! Baby, you’re much too fast …”
    Mickey jumped off the bed and came over to them. He looked Greta in the eyes and shrieked, “Yes, you are …” along with the song. Then he cackled and threw his head back. When he