EVERYTHING’S NOT LOST
Chapter Six

"Well, Antoinette!" Molly Brown’s voice echoed across the dining hall just as she brushed past me towards her chair. "Looks like you’ve got yourself a date," she laughed when she saw Harry sitting to my right. She then gestured to him. "You treat her well, sonny, her father knows people." She chuckled as she went to find her seat and Harry shot me a look of fright after glancing at my father, whose too busy writing in that small notebook of his to even notice. I’m sure he noticed—He never misses a trick.

"She’s kidding," I told him. I watched, without making eye contact, the others take their places at the table, including the woman-less William Murdoch, who still looks like a defeated ten year old. I still feel awful for him, I have to admit. I do care about him—He seems nice enough, but I couldn’t have just told Harry I changed my mind. He would’ve saw me with Will. Damn it. I rubbed my forehead. I’m confusing myself.

When Ismay came to sit down at the table, he, as usual, gave me the once-over, but then had a look of shock on his face when he realized Harry was kind of, sort of like…my date. My escort is more like it, but I don’t have an "escort." He asked me to be his arm candy for dinner, he seemed sweet enough—end of story.

As the caviar began being served, Harry touched my wrist to get my attention. I practically jumped, not expecting it. I took in a deep breath. Antoinette Andrews, calm yourself. My mother would not be approving of this. "Are you as bored as I am?" he whispered into my ear as I placed my napkin onto my lap. I managed a nod, as the chatter at the table got louder and louder as each second passed. Ismay really can talk! Someone ought to sew his mouth shut and hide the scissors from him.

"I’m ready to spoon my eyes out," I responded. He laughed.

"Alright, well, maybe we should play this game."

"A game?" I smiled at him. "What kind of game?"

"Well, I always play this with Will and Lightoller, which drives both of them crazy. You pick an object in the room and tell the other person what letter the object begins with. If you guess it right, it’s your turn to pick something." He paused. "Make sense?"

"I suppose. How about an example?" He gestured to the linen-clothed table we’re sitting at.

"I’d say the object started with a T, and I picked the table. See, T, table…?"

"You’re awful at explaining things," I decided. He nervously laughed, moving his hat over on the other side of his plate, as if this was a barrier keeping us apart. "How about you go first?" I suggested.

"Alright." He paused, looking around the large dining hall. "C." C? I began to search the room and—

"Chair?" I asked.

"No, try again."

"Uh…" I bit down on my lower lip in thought as I rested my head in my palm. "Candle?"

"Do you see any candles here?" he asked, with a laugh.

"No, I guess not." I looked about and my eyes fell on the chandelier. Chandelier.

"Chandelier."

"That’s it. Alright, now your turn." I began to search the room, unsure of what to choose. Earring! Earring would work. Granted, he may not guess it, but who knows at this point.

"E."

"E…Hmm…" He looked around for what felt like minutes and then finally shrugged. "Okay, I have absolutely no idea." I touched my earrings.

"Earrings."

"Now, why didn’t I think of that?" he asked, laughing slightly. I smiled. "I guess it’s your turn again." Hmm—now what will I pick? I glanced around the table and saw a waiter rolling the cigars and matches into the smoking room for after dinner.

"It starts with an M."

"Mantle?" I shook my head. "Mirror?" There aren’t even any mirrors in here, my friend. "No?" I shook my head. "Alright, this should not be this difficult…" He stifled a laugh. "Money?"

"Although I’m sure there’s plenty of it in here, no." He smiled.

"Alright—You know, I should be beating you at this game—"

"But, you’re not."

"I know. Practice does not make perfect." I raised an eyebrow.

"Apparently." That was off-topic. "Remember, the letter M. Focus." He searched around the table. Harry then gestured to a piece of, what is that, lamb, being served to someone in a table away from us?

"Meat?"

"Oh, you are grasping for straws, my friend."

"Mask?" I’m sure many of the guests tonight are wearing masks, but I can’t say that out loud. I didn’t respond. "I’ll take that as a no."

"Mouse?" I giggled under my breath.

"Something you see in this room!"

"Antoinette, I have no idea."

"Matches." I gestured to the cart where a waiter was trying to fix a pile of cigars that must have fallen over.

"This game is over," he decided as our empty caviar dishes, which we had been conveniently trying not to choke on, were taken away.

"It’s only been what, five minutes? You’re already giving up?"

"You could say that."

"Miss Andrews, what would you like?" a strange voice asked me. How did this voice know my name? I looked up and it’s the waiter who had been serving that awful caviar. Everyone knows who I am, I suppose, even though I’ve never seen this particular waiter before. Why not just pass a photograph of me around for all to see?

Oh, what did he ask? What would I like? What would I like for what? Oh, food! Food. Had everyone been ordering and we’ve just been talking? I quickly glanced around the table and sure enough, here I am—the center of attention again. Fantastic.

"What would you suggest?" I asked, smiling at him.

"Well, the lamb seems to be a favorite—"

"Then, that’s fine. I trust your judgment." He smiled widely at me, almost proud of himself for offering something and me actually telling him I trust his judgment. I think I just made a waiter’s day. I could never imagine being a waiter, by the way. You must suggest food after food to so many different people, and maybe if you’re extremely lucky, someone will agree with your suggestion. What a frustrating position that must be!

"How about you, Sir?" he asked Harold as I handed him my, as usual, unread menu.

"What she’s having."

"Of course." He walked past us and I glanced at him, trying not to laugh. He was acting all serious, for one mere moment—and it was, for some reason, hysterical in my mind.

"Here, I’ve got a question for you," I said within only his earshot.

"What?"

"What starts with an M, and it’s at this table, and this table only?" He looked at me, sort of puzzled as he looked among the chattering people.

"Molly Brown?" he asked.

"What?" We both looked up from the covered table, since we were acting as if we were barely speaking, to Molly. "You say my name, sonny?"

"No, ma’am," he blatantly lied.

"Well, then, I must be hearing things!" she said, laughing. I took a large sip of my champagne. It could be a long night.

"Would you like some more, Miss Andrews?" a young waiter asked me, holding the champagne bottle. I almost started laughing. These people have perfect timing! Whoever trained them ought to get a freaking medal.

"No, thank you," I said, trying not to choke on the liquid. Harry glanced at me, bursting into a smile.

"Alright, I need you to tell me what starts with an M," he concluded. "Before I lose my job with the White Star Line." I glanced over at the Captain, who does not look to be too pleased. I managed a smile.

"Ismay’s moustache." We both looked to our right at Ismay, who always has this ridiculous handlebar moustache waxed up to the tenth degree and we busted out laughing!

Everyone in the entire dining hall turned their attention on us and Ismay looked over his shoulder, wondering why we were laughing. Harry was laughing so hard that he slammed his elbow onto the table, exactly where his spoon was to his right. The spoon, for some strange reason, went flying across the room, almost decapitating a woman before hitting the wall, beside a window leading to the freezing outdoors.

"Oh my God—" I was laughing so hard I was crying. I took my napkin from my lap and wiped my eyes, trying not to smear my make-up. Harry was laughing so hard, he was practically sobbing. My father, his nose out of his notebook for a change, started laughing and Molly Brown, having seen the entire escapade for what it was, began to giggle. The whole table erupted with laughter, from the other officers, Captain Smith and even woman-less Will began to laugh.

"What’s so funny?" asked the clueless Ismay, refusing to unlock his eyes from me. Minutes passed and as the laughter died down and I wiped my eyes again from my salty tears.

I shot a look at Harold, holding in my fit of giggles. My mother never would’ve approved of that laughter fit, I know it. She would’ve dragged me out of the dining hall, and resisted the urge to slap me. "Antoinette Andrews!" she would’ve felt the need to say, before repeating herself, this time merely including my middle name. "You are shaming your father!" I always just shame her—my father doesn’t really care. Speak of the devil, he leaned into my ear, still trying not to laugh as he closed that notebook.

"Antoinette, it’s so nice to see you smile. You haven’t smiled like that in months." I realized, at that moment, how right he was.

Chapter Seven
Stories