LITMIR.BIZ

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to plan as we inched our way to the security scanner. Nary a peep from the tote bag. I was beginning to think I was going to get away with my stowaway scheme when the toddler in front of me shrieked:

      “Kitty cat! Kitty cat!”

      I looked down, and to my horror, I saw that Prozac had wriggled her head out of the tote and was looking around, surveying the scene. I promptly shoved her back down again.

      “Mommy! Mommy! Kitty cat!”

      The kid tugged at his mother’s jeans, getting her attention. She turned around, a harried brunette with an armful of tour books.

      “What is it, Devon?”

      “Kitty cat!” he screeched at the top of his lungs, in case anybody didn’t hear it the first seven times.

      “A cat?” his mom asked, looking around. “Where?”

      “Oh, that was Snuffles,” I said, with a moronic giggle. “My stuffed animal. I never go anywhere without Snuffles. It’s a security thing. I’m working on it in therapy. My therapist says I’m making very good progress, especially with my new meds….”

      I tend to babble when I’m nervous.

      “Now, Devon,” the kid’s mother murmured, wheeling the stroller as far away from me as possible, “don’t bother the crazy lady.”

      Okay, so she didn’t call me crazy, but I could tell she was thinking it.

      By now we’d reached the security scanner.

      Holding my breath, I put my tote bag on the conveyor belt.

      I cringed as I saw it moving from within. I fully expected a zillion alarms would go off and I’d be arrested as a cat-smuggling terrorist. But thankfully, nobody else seemed to notice.

      Now it was my turn to walk through the human scanner. I pasted a sickly smile on my face and stepped inside, my heart racing at Indy 500 speed, guilt oozing from every pore.

      But the security guy just waved me through with a bored flap of his hand.

      My heartbeat returned to normal as I retrieved my tote bag and headed outside. I was just about to cross the threshold to freedom when I felt someone clamp my arm in an iron grip.

      “Just a minute, miss.”

      I whirled around to face another security guard, a beefy Brunhilde of a woman with biceps the size of volleyballs.

      The jig was clearly up. Man overboard. Time to walk the plank.

      “You forgot your crossword puzzles,” she said, handing me my Giant Book of New York Times Crossword Puzzles.

      I took it from her, my hands trembling with relief.

      “Have a good trip,” she said, with a big-toothed smile.

      “Thanks so much,” I managed to sputter.

      Then I stepped outside to the dock, where I got my first glimpse of the Holiday Festival, a sparkling white behemoth of a ship trimmed with gleaming wood railings and lavish balconies.

      Wow, I thought, gazing up at the beautiful vessel. This was the life!

      Down below I could see workers loading crates of food supplies. I only hoped some of them contained chocolate.

      I headed for the gangplank, where two ship’s officers, handsome Scandinavians clad in white, wanted to see my passport. It was my one final hurdle, and I passed it with flying colors, if you don’t count the nasty scratch Prozac gave me when I reached into my tote for my passport.

      Operation Stowaway was a success!

      At last, my carefree vacation at sea about to begin, I scooted up the gangplank.

      Of course, if I’d known the hell that was in store for me, I would’ve scooted right back down again.

      According to my ticket, my cabin was on the Dungeon Deck. Okay, technically, it was called the Paradise Deck, but it was so deep in the bowels of the ship, I practically got the bends riding down in the elevator.

      But I didn’t care. I was thrilled to have made it past security.

      I was making my way along the corridor, looking for my cabin, when Prozac, clearly irritated at having been cooped up in a tote bag with nothing for company but my hair dryer, sprang out of the bag and began prancing down the corridor.

      “Stop this instant!” I commanded in vain, bolting after her.

      Then, just as I was about to catch her, a woman came out from her cabin, an attractive blonde with the statuesque good looks of a Vegas showgirl.

      Of all the rotten timing.

      “What do we have here?” she cooed, scooping Prozac up in her arms.

      Instantly Prozac shot her one of her wide-eyed Adorable looks. Somehow, when it comes to strangers, Prozac always manages to turn on the charm.

      “Oh, god,” I started babbling, “she snuck out of my apartment when I was looking for my crossword puzzles and it was too late to bring her back home so I had to hide her in my tote bag because I couldn’t give up seven days in the sun with a 24-hour buffet and it was all going so smoothly until I found her in the trunk of my car. The last thing I need on this cruise is Prozac.”

      “I don’t know about that, honey. You might want to take one of those Prozacs. Sounds like you could use one.”

      “No, you don’t understand. Prozac is my cat.”

      “What a sweetheart,” she said, scratching the little monster behind her ears.

      “You’re not going to tell anyone about her, are you? They’re sure to quarantine her in some horrible cage, and even though that’s just what she deserves, I couldn’t bear for that to happen.”

      “Don’t worry, hon.” She flashed me a friendly smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

      “Thank you so much!”

      “I’m Cookie Esposito. I sing with the band in the Sinatra Lounge.”

      “I’m Jaine Austen. No relation,” I quickly added, to forestall the question I’ve been asked 8,756 times in my life. “I’m one of the ship’s lecturers. I’m teaching a course in Writing Your Life Story.”

      “A writer! How wonderful! Welcome to the Paradise Deck, Jaine. This is where they put all the hired hands. C’mon, I’ll walk you to your cabin.”

      “It’s right here,” I said, spotting my cabin number.

      “Great! Right next to mine,” she grinned. “We’ll be neighbors!”

      What a stroke of luck. At least I’d have one neighbor who wouldn’t get suspicious if she heard meowing in the middle of the night.

      “If there’s anything you need, just knock on my door. Bye, snookums.”

      This last endearment was addressed to Prozac, whom she reluctantly handed back to me and then headed off down the corridor.

      I took the keyless entry pass card I’d been given and put it in the electronic door lock. A green light flashed, and I turned the handle.

      Because I was traveling for free, I wasn’t hoping for anything lavish in the way of accommodations. I’d kept my expectations low. But apparently not low enough. I blinked in dismay as I stepped into a windowless cubbyhole of a room with all the charm of a broom closet. There was barely room for me and my suitcase, which had been jammed between two narrow twin beds.

      Prozac surveyed the scene.

      For this I spent forty minutes in the trunk of your car?

      With that she leaped up onto one of the beds and began sniffing around, no doubt hoping to uncover some minced mackerel on the bedspread.

      Somehow I managed to jam my clothes

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