I raced downstairs, no longer worrying about the sounds of my footsteps. Nobody was on these stairs—they weren’t fabulous enough. It would be impossible to Make an Entrance on a back staircase. I plunged into the engine room of the lower deck and looked around. Nobody here, either. The circuit breaker box was there, though. It was time to take care of that.

I scurried into the storage room next door and looked around until I found a toolbox. Inside were the usual—screwdrivers, wrenches, nails, a hammer. I picked up the hammer and went back into the engine room.

My skin buzzed in silver squiggles. Bubbling and burbling yellows and oranges burst up into rusty splats. Beneath it all was a field of bumpy gray and black. I had to take a few deep breaths to stop the kaleidoscope from spinning.

As soon as I felt stable, I threw open the circuit box and smashed it with the hammer. The first hit sent a jolt of neon green up my arms, but I didn’t let that stop me. I swung again and again, even after I was bathed in darkness, pieces of plastic flying around me and skittering across the floor.

Satisfied, I dropped the hammer and walked out.

I HAD GONE to school with overdramatic rich girls long enough to know what kind of mayhem was going to ensue. People would scream in fear—dainty little squeals that they would later pretend to be embarrassed about. They would cluster together, all talking over one another. They would suppose this and suppose that, and nobody would have the first clue what to do, because there was always someone else hired to know how to take care of these kinds of things. I remembered thinking during one of our many fire-alarm pranks that I would be the only person to survive if there was actually an emergency at our school. The rest of them would die, in the most lovely, photogenic poses they could think of.

It wasn’t much different on a dark ship full of actors in the middle of the ocean.

For the first time, I was able to waltz right through the main deck without turning a single head. I wound my way through, listening to the ridiculous theories and complaints and the occasional couple who didn’t seem to really even notice anything was going on. I paused every time I came across anyone who even remotely resembled Luna, the boiling oranges and yellows licked ragemonster and drained into a sea of ink, until I realized it wasn’t her. Also, no Peter Fairchild, who would make a very satisfactory runner-up in the Who Becomes Nikki’s Punching Bag First contest.