ONE

Quint Erickson is late.

Again.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m not surprised. I’d be more surprised if he was actually on time for once. But really? Today? Of all the days?

I’m simmering in my seat, my fingers drumming against the presentation board that’s folded up on our lab table. My attention is divided between watching the clock over the classroom door and silently repeating the words I’ve been memorizing all week.

Our beaches and coastal waters are home to some remarkable species. Fish and mammals and sea turtles and—

“Sharks,” says Maya Livingstone from the front of the room, “have been severely mistreated by Hollywood over the decades. They are not the monsters that humans have made them out to be!”

“Plus,” adds her lab partner, Ezra Kent, “who’s eating who here? I mean, did you guys know people actually eat shark?”

Maya glances at him, frowning. “Mostly just their fins. To be clear.”

“Right! They make soup out of them,” says Ezra. “Shark fin soup is, like, a super delicacy, because they’re, like, chewy and crunchy at the same time. Wrap your head around that! But I mean, I would totally try it.”

Some of our peers pretend to gag in disgust, even though it’s obvious Ezra is trying to get this exact reaction. Most people call him EZ, which I used to think might be a reference to numerous sexual escapades, but now I think it’s just because he has a reputation for being a jokester. Teachers at our school have learned not to seat him and Quint together.

“Anyway,” says Maya, trying to bring their talk back on point. She goes on about the horrible methods by which hunters catch the sharks and cut off their fins, then release them back to the water. Without their fins, they sink to the bottom of the ocean and either suffocate or get eaten alive by other predators.

The whole class grimaces.

“And then they turn them into soup!” Ezra adds, just in case anyone missed that part before.

Another minute goes by. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, trying to calm the nerves twisting inside of me. The same frustrated rant begins to repeat in my head, for the eight millionth time this year.

Quint. Erickson. Is. The. Worst.

I even reminded him yesterday. Remember, Quint, big presentation tomorrow. You’re bringing the report. You’re supposed to help me with the introduction. So, please, for the love of all things good and righteous in this world, this one time, don’t be late.

His response?

A shrug.

I’m a busy guy, Prudence. But I’ll do my best.

Right. Because he has so much to do before 8:30 a.m. on a Tuesday.

I know I can handle the introduction on my own. I’ve been rehearsing without him, after all. But he’s supposed to bring our papers. The papers that the rest of the class can then stare at while we talk. The papers that will keep their bored, disinterested eyes off me.

The class starts to applaud half-heartedly and I snap back to attention. I bring my hands together for one, two claps, before dropping them to the table. Maya and Ezra gather up their presentation board. I glance at Jude, in the first row, and though I can only see the back of his head, I know his gaze hasn’t left Maya since she stood up, and won’t leave her until she’s sitting back down and he has no choice but to either look away or risk drawing attention to the staring. I love my brother dearly, but his crush on Maya Livingstone has been well-documented since the fifth grade, and—if I’m being honest—has started to seem a little bit hopeless.

He has my sympathy. He really does. She is Maya Livingstone, after all. Pretty much the whole sophomore class has a crush on her. But I also know my brother. He will never have the guts to actually ask her out.

Hence, hopeless.

Poor guy.

But, back to poor me. Maya and Ezra are dropping into their seats and there’s still no sign of Quint. No sign of the papers that he was supposed to bring with him.

In an act of desperation, I fish my red lipstick from my bag and quickly apply a new layer, just in case it’s started to wear off since I put it on before class. I don’t like to wear a lot of makeup, but a bold lipstick is an instant boost to my confidence. It’s my armor. My weapon.

You can do this, I tell myself. You don’t need Quint.

My heart has started to warble inside my chest. My breaths are quickening. I tuck the tube back into my bag and snatch up my index cards. I don’t think I’ll need them. I’ve practiced so many times, I talk about habitats and environmentalism in my sleep. But having them with me will help calm my jittery nerves.

At least, I think they will. I hope they will.

Until I have the sudden fear that my sweating palms might make the ink bleed, rendering it unreadable, and my nerves kick up into high gear again.

“That brings us to our last presentation of the year,” says Mr. Chavez, giving me a look that’s almost sympathetic. “Sorry, Prudence. We’ve delayed as long as we can. Maybe Quint will join us before you’ve finished.”

I force a smile. “It’s fine. I planned on doing most of the talking anyway.”

It is so not fine. But nothing can be done about it now.

I stand up slowly, tuck the notes into my pocket, and pick up the presentation board and the tote bag I brought full of bonus materials. My hands are shaking. I pause just long enough to fully exhale, to squeeze my eyes tight, to repeat the refrain that I always tell myself when I have to speak or perform in front of people.

It’s just ten minutes of your life, Prudence, and then it will be over and you can move on. Just ten minutes. You can do this.

Opening my eyes, I square my shoulders and make my way to the front of the class.

It’s not that I’m terrible at public speaking. I actually think I’m quite good at it, once I get started. I know how to project my voice so everyone can hear me. I always practice ad nauseum beforehand so I don’t trip over my words, and I work hard to be lively and entertaining.

It’s just the moments before I begin that are dreadful. I’m always convinced that something will go wrong. My mind will go blank and I’ll forget everything. I’ll start to sweat. I’ll turn bright red. I’ll pass out.

But once I get started I’m usually okay. I just have to start … and then, before I know it, the whole thing is over. And I’ll hear what I always hear: Wow, Prudence. You seem so natural up there. You’re such a great presenter. Nicely done.

Words to soothe my frantic soul.

At least, my teachers usually say stuff like that. The rest of my fellow students rarely bother to pay much attention.

Which is perfectly fine with me.

It takes me a few seconds to get set up, balancing the presentation board on the whiteboard tray and tucking my surprise bag of goodies off to the side. Then I pull over the small rolling table with the model I brought in before class started, still draped with a blue sheet.

With my index cards in one hand, I grab the stick that Mr. Chavez uses to point out details on his PowerPoint slides with the other.

I smile at my peers.

I try to catch Jude’s eye, but he’s doodling in his sketchbook and not open to incoming messages.

Gee whiz, Bro. Thanks for the support.

The rest of the class stares back at me, practically comatose with boredom.

My stomach twists.

Just begin.

It’s only ten minutes.

You’re going to be okay.

I take in a breath.

“I was going to have supplementary materials for you guys to look at,” I start. My voice pitches high and I pause to clear my throat before continuing, “So you could follow along with the presentation. But Quint was supposed to bring them and … he’s not here.” My teeth grind. I want to call out the unfairness of this. Everyone else’s partner showed up! But mine simply couldn’t be bothered.

“Oh well,” I continue, swiping the stick dramatically through the air. “Here we go anyway.”

I pace in front of the presentation board and exhale a clipped breath.

Just begin.

Beaming, I launch into my prepared introduction.

“One thing we’ve learned in regard to marine biology, thanks to the exceptional tutelage of Mr. Chavez”—I pause to point enthusiastically at our teacher. He points back at me, with markedly less emotion—“is that we are so lucky here in Fortuna Beach to have access to such thriving marine life. Our beaches and coastal waters are home to many remarkable species. Fish and mammals and sea turtles and sharks—”

“Sharks are fish,” Maya says.

I tense and shoot her a glare. Nothing can throw off a well-rehearsed presentation like an unnecessary interruption.

Interruptions are the enemy.

I reaffix my smile. I’m tempted to start over, but I force myself to get back on track. Fish and mammals and sea turtles and sharks … “Straight down to the rich ecosystems of plankton and plant life found in Orange Bay. These resources are a gift, and it is our responsibility not only to enjoy them, but to protect them. Which is why, for our semester project, Quint and I decided to focus our efforts on”—I pause for dramatic effect—“marine conservation by way of ecotourism!”

With a flourish, I take hold of the blue fabric and whisk it off the display, revealing my handcrafted model of Main Street, Fortuna Beach’s tourism hot spot that runs parallel to the beach and boardwalk.

I can’t resist glancing around to see my classmates’ reactions. A few in the front rows are craning their heads to see the model, but a fair number are staring blankly out the sun-streaming windows or trying to discreetly text with their phones hidden beneath the lab tables.

Mr. Chavez, at least, looks intrigued as he studies the model. And Jude has looked up, knowing firsthand the long, tireless hours I’ve put into crafting this presentation. He catches my eye and gives a subtle yet encouraging thumbs-up.

I move behind the table so I can stand over the diorama and point out the most notable features. My adrenaline has kicked in and I no longer feel like I’m going to crumple into a ball of panic. Now I’m energized. “Our new central tourism hub will be the Orange Bay Resort and Spa, which will cater to high-end clientele. Visitors who appreciate luxury, yearn for adventure, but—gosh darn it!”—I cheekily snap my fingers—“also care about protecting our environment.” I tap the stick against the high-rise building. “Featuring recycled building materials and numerous water-conservation and energy-saving features, this resort will be the talk of the town. But our tourists don’t just come here to sleep. They come here to explore. Which is why Fortuna Beach needs new electric bike rental stations positioned at both ends of the boardwalk”—I thunk the stick down on the little bike stands—“and electric boat rentals that jet off right from the resort’s private dock.” Thunk. “But what’s really going to draw in the clientele, what’s really going to set Fortuna Beach apart as a must-see destination for our eco-conscious travelers—”

The classroom door swings open, banging hard against the wall.

I jump.

“Sorry, Mr. C!” comes a voice that makes the hair prickle on the back of my neck. My surprise vanishes, replaced with barely restrained rage.

My knuckles clench around the pointer as I slide my gaze toward Quint Erickson. He strolls between the tables and accepts a high five from Ezra, their usual daily greeting.

Part of me wishes he would have stopped by the front first and offered me a high five in greeting. It would have been a perfect opportunity to smack him with the stick.

I grit my teeth, scowling at the back of his head as he reaches our shared lab table in the back row and drops his backpack on top of it. The zipper is as loud as a jet engine. He starts to whistle—whistle—as he digs through the chaos of papers and books and pens and nine months of accumulated junk he keeps in that thing.

I wait. Someone in the class coughs. From the corner of my eye, I can see Jude beginning to fidget, uncomfortable on my behalf. Except, for some reason, I’m not uncomfortable. Normally, an interruption as enormous as this would turn me into a flustered mess, but right now I’m too busy strangling the pointer stick and pretending it’s Quint’s neck instead. I could stand here all day, awkward silence or not, waiting for Quint to realize what a disruption he’s caused.

But, to my endless frustration, Quint seems blissfully unaware. Of my annoyance. Of stopping me right in the middle of our report. Of the awkward silence. I’m not sure he even knows what awkward means.

“Aha!” he announces victoriously, pulling a neon-green folder from the bag. Even from here I can see that one corner is bent. He opens it and starts taking out the reports. I can’t tell how many pages. Three or four, probably double-sided, because who wastes paper on a report about environmentalism?

At least, he’d better have made it double-sided.

Quint hands out the reports—stapled pages for our classmates, and a three-ring binder for Mr. Chavez. He doesn’t do the efficient take-one-and-pass-it-on method that I would have done, possibly because he is the most inefficient human being on the planet. No, he walks up and down the aisles, handing them out one by one. Grinning. Being grinned at. He could be a politician, wooing the masses with that casual saunter, that laid-back smile. One of the girls even flutters her lashes at him as she takes the report, mumbling a flirtatious Thanks, Quint.

My knuckles have gone white around the stick. I imagine Quint stubbing his toe on one of the table legs or slipping on spilled lab chemicals and twisting an ankle. Or no—even better—I imagine that in his tardiness and haste, he grabbed the wrong folder and has just passed out thirty-two copies of an impassioned love letter he wrote to our principal, Mrs. Jenkins. Even he couldn’t be immune to that sort of embarrassment, could he?

None of this happens, of course. My dreams of cosmic justice never do come true. But my nerves have calmed somewhat by the time Quint makes his way to the front of the classroom and finally deigns to look at me. The change is instant, the defensiveness that comes over him, the lifting of his chin, the darkening of his eyes as we prepare for battle. Something tells me he’s been bracing himself for this moment since he entered the room. No wonder he took his sweet time handing out the papers.

I try to smile, but it feels more like a snarl. “So glad you could join us.”

His jaw twitches. “Wouldn’t miss it. Partner.” His eyes swoop toward the model and, for a moment, there’s a hint of surprise on his face. He might even be impressed.

As he well should be. Impressed, and also ashamed that this is the first time he’s seeing it.

“Nice model,” he mutters, taking his place on the opposite side of my miniature Main Street. “I see you’ve left out the rehabilitation center I suggested, but—”

“Maybe if I’d had more help, I could have catered to gratuitous requests.”

He lets out a low groan. “Caring for the animals who get injured as a result of tourism and consumerism isn’t—”

Mr. Chavez loudly coughs into his fist, interrupting the spat. He gives us both a weary look. “Two more days, guys. You have to suffer each other’s company literally for just two more days. Can we please get through this presentation without any bloodshed?”

“Of course, Mr. Chavez,” I say, in unison with Quint’s “Sorry, Mr. C.”

I glance at him. “Shall I continue, or do you have something to contribute?”

Quint feigns a bow, flourishing one hand in my direction. “The stage is yours,” he says, before adding under his breath, “Not that you’d share it anyway.”

A few of our classmates in the front row hear him and snicker. Oh yes, he’s hysterical. Next time, you try working with him and see how funny he is.

I bare my teeth again.

But when I turn back to the presentation board, my mind goes blank.

Where was I?

Oh no. Oh no.

This is it. My worst nightmare. I knew this would happen. I knew I would forget.

And I know it’s all Quint’s fault.

Panic floods my system as I pull out the notecards and fumble with them single-handed. Resort and spa … electric bike rentals … A few cards slip to the floor. My face is suddenly as hot as a stove top burner.

Quint stoops down and picks up the dropped cards. I grab them away from him, my heart racing. I can feel the class’s eyes boring into me.

I hate Quint. His complete disregard for anyone but himself. His refusal to ever show up on time. His inability to do anything useful.

“I could also say something?” says Quint.

“I’ve got this!” I snap back at him.

“All right, fine.” He lifts his hands protectively. “Just saying. This is my presentation, too, you know.”

Right. Because he did so much to help us prepare for it.

“What’s really going to set Fortuna Beach apart?” Jude whispers. I go still and look at him, as grateful for him as I am irritated with Quint. Jude flashes me another thumbs-up, and maybe our twin telepathy is working today, because I’m sure I can hear his encouraging words. You’ve got this, Pru. Just relax.

My anxiety ebbs. For the millionth time I wonder why Mr. Chavez had to torture us with assigned lab partners when Jude and I would have been such an awesome team. Sophomore year would have been a walk in the park if it hadn’t been for marine biology and Quint Erickson.

TWO

Thanks, I mouth back to Jude, setting down my notes. All I needed was that reminder, and the words come flooding back to me. I continue with my speech, trying my best to ignore Quint’s presence. At least some of our peers have turned their attention to the papers he passed out, so not everyone is still staring. “As I was saying, what’s really going to draw in a whole new variety of enthusiastic eco-conscious travelers is our phenomenal array of events and adventures. Visitors can go to the bottom of the ocean aboard private-party submarines. There will be kayaking tours to Adelai Island where you can help tag, track, and even name your own seal. And, my personal favorite, we’ll host weekly raging beach parties.”

Some of the glassy-eyed stares of my classmates come into focus at this. Ezra even lets out a hoot. He would, of course.

Bolstered, I forge ahead. “That’s right. Fortuna Beach will soon be famous for its regular beachy shindigs, where you can dine on sustainably sourced seafood and all-organic hors d’oeuvres while hobnobbing with other eco-conscious individuals like yourself. The best part? Everyone at the party receives a garbage bag and a grabber upon arrival, and at the end of the evening, after they’ve filled that bag with litter they’ve collected off our beaches, they can trade it in for a reusable tote overflowing with hand-selected gifts. Things like…” I set down the stick and reach for the bag on the floor. “A BPA-free aluminum water bottle!” I take out the bottle and toss it into the crowd. Joseph barely catches it, startled. “Take-them-anywhere bamboo utensils! A journal made from recycled materials! Shampoo bars with plastic-free packaging!” I throw each of the gifts out. My peers are definitely paying attention now.

Once all the gifts are gone, I ball up the tote bag and launch it toward Mr. Chavez, but it only makes it halfway. Ezra plucks it from the air instead. People are starting to notice that each of the gift items has been branded with the new logo and slogan I came up with.

FORTUNA BEACH: FRIENDLY ENVIRONMENT, ENVIRONMENTALLY FRIENDLY!

“These ideas and many more are outlined in detail in our report,” I say, gesturing at one of the stapled papers on the nearest lab table. “At least, I’m assuming they are. I haven’t actually seen it, as something tells me it was finished about ten minutes before class this morning.” I smile sweetly at Quint.

His expression is tight. Annoyed, but also a little smug. “I guess you’ll never know.”

This comment sends a jolt of uncertainty down my spine, which I’m sure is exactly what he intended. The paper has my name on it, too, after all. He knows it’ll be driving me bonkers to know what’s in it, and if it’s any good.

“Before we finish,” I say, turning back to the class, “we want to take a moment to say thank you to Mr. Chavez for teaching us so much about this amazing corner of the world we live in, and all the incredible sea life and ecosystems right in our backyard. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I know I want to be a part of the solution, to ensure that we protect and maintain our oceans for our children and grandchildren. And luckily for us, as I think we’ve managed to prove today: By going green, Fortuna Beach can bring in the green!” I rub my fingers together, pretending to be holding a handful of cash. I’d told Quint about how I was going to conclude my speech. He’s supposed to say it with me, but of course, he doesn’t. He can’t even be bothered to hold up the imaginary money. “Thank you for listening.”

The class begins to clap, but Quint steps forward and holds up a hand. “If I could add one thing.”

I wilt. “Do you have to?”

He flashes me a smirk, before turning his back on me. “Sustainability and tourism don’t usually go hand-in-hand. Airplanes create a lot of pollution, and people tend to produce a lot more garbage when they travel as opposed to when they stay at home. That said, tourism is good for the local economy and, well, it’s not going anywhere. We want Fortuna Beach to have a reputation for taking care of its visitors, sure, but also its wildlife.”

I sigh. Didn’t I basically say all this already?

“If you read the report in front of you,” Quint continues, “which I’m sure none of you will, except Mr. Chavez, you’ll see that one of our major initiatives would be to establish the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center as a top tourist destination.”

It takes all my willpower not to roll my eyes. He’s been harping on this rehabilitation center idea all year. But who wants to spend their vacation looking at malnourished dolphins in sad little pools, when they can go swimming with dolphins in the actual bay?

“For people to understand the effect their actions have on the environment, they need to see firsthand the consequences of those actions, which is why we…” He pauses. “Why I believe that any ecotourism plans should focus on education and volunteerism. The report will explain all that in more detail. Thank you.”

He glances at me. We share a look of mutual disdain.

But—that’s it. It’s over. This awful, soul-sucking project is finally finished.

I’m free.

“Thank you, Mr. Erickson, Miss Barnett.” Mr. Chavez is flipping through Quint’s report and I can’t help but wonder if he’s included any of my ideas. The resort, the bikes, the beach parties? “I think it’s fairly obvious, but just for clarification, could you each tell me your contributions to this project?”

“I made the model,” I say, “and the presentation board, and designed and ordered the eco-friendly merchandise. I would also say that I was the project manager throughout.”

Quint snorts.

Mr. Chavez raises an eyebrow. “You disagree, Mr. Erickson?”

“Oh no,” he says with a vehement head shake. “She definitely managed. Soooo much management.”

I stiffen. I can feel the outburst on my tongue. Someone had to! It’s not like you were going to step up and get any of this done! But before it comes out, Mr. Chavez asks, “And you wrote the report?”

“Yes, sir,” says Quint. “And provided the photographs.”

Our teacher makes a sound like this is interesting information, but my lip curls in dismay. Provided the photographs? I’m sorry, but a second grader can cut photos out of National Geographic magazine and glue them to a poster board.

“Great. Thank you both.”

We start to head to our lab table, each of us taking a different aisle to get there, but Mr. Chavez stops me.

“Prudence? Let’s leave the pointer stick at the front, shall we? Would hate for Mr. Erickson to be impaled when we are so very close to the end of the year.”

The class laughs as I walk the stick back to the front and set it on the whiteboard tray, trying not to feel sheepish. With my hands free, I pick up the model and carry it back to the table with me.

Quint has his face cupped in one hand, covering his mouth, watching me as I approach. Or, watching the model. I wish I could read him. I wish I could see guilt there, knowing that he did nothing to help with this part of the project. Or at least shame for being late, on the most important day of the year, leaving me to fend for myself.

I’d even love to see embarrassment as he realizes that my part of the project totally smoked his. Or perhaps some show of appreciation for my carrying our so-called partnership this whole year.

I set down the model and take my seat. Our stools are both shoved to the far ends of the table, an instinct to keep as much space between us as possible. My right thigh has been bruised for months from being smashed up against the table leg.

Quint tears his gaze away from the model. “I thought we decided not to do the boat tours to Adelai, since they could be disruptive to the elephant seal population.”

I keep my attention glued to Mr. Chavez as he takes his place at the front of the room. “You want people to care about elephant seals, then you have to show them elephant seals. And not half-dead ones being bottle-fed on a medical table.”

He opens his mouth and I can feel his response brewing. I ready myself to shoot down whatever inane comment he’s about to make. My fury is building again. I want to scream. You couldn’t be here? Just. This. Once?

But Quint stops himself and gives his head a shake, so I keep my anger bottled in, too.

We fall silent, the model resting between us, one of the closed and stapled reports within reach of my hand, though I refuse to take it. I can see the cover, though. At least he kept the title we agreed on: “Conservation through Ecotourism in Fortuna Beach,” a report by Prudence Barnett and Quint Erickson. Marine Biology, Mr. Chavez. Underneath our names is a gut-wrenchingly sad photograph of a sea animal, maybe an otter or a sea lion or even a seal, I can never tell them apart. It’s wrapped in fishing line, tangled up like a mummy, with lacerations cut deep into its throat and flippers. Its black eyes are looking at the camera with the most tragic expression I think I’ve ever seen.

I swallow. It’s effective for stirring up emotions, I’ll give him that.

“I see you put my name first,” I say. I’m not sure what makes me say it. I’m not sure what makes me say half the things I do around Quint. There’s something about him that makes it physically impossible for me to keep my mouth shut. It’s like there’s always one more bullet in my ammunition, and I can’t help but take every shot.

“Believe it or not, I know how to put things in alphabetical order,” he mutters back. “I did pass kindergarten, after all.”

“Shockingly,” I fire back.

He sighs.

Mr. Chavez finishes making notes on his clipboard and smiles at the class. “Thank you all for a fantastic group of presentations. I’m impressed with the hard work and creativity I’ve seen this year. I’ll have your grades handed out tomorrow. Please go ahead and pass your final lab reports up to the front.”

Chairs scrape and papers shuffle as my classmates start digging through their backpacks. I look expectantly at Quint.

He looks back at me, confused.

I raise an eyebrow.

His eyes widen. “Oh!” He pulls his backpack closer and starts rifling through the chaos inside. “I forgot all about it.”

Friggin’ figures.

“You forgot to bring it?” I say. “Or you forgot to do it?”

He pauses with a grimace. “Both?”

I roll my eyes and he lifts a hand, his momentary embarrassment already evaporating. “You don’t need to say it.”

“Say what?” I respond, even as a flurry of words like incompetent and lazy and helpless are circling through my thoughts.

“I’ll talk to Mr. Chavez,” he says. “I’ll tell him it’s my mistake and that I can email him the report tonight—”

“Don’t bother.” I open my biology folder, where the final completed lab report rests right on top, neatly typed and featuring a bonus environmental toxicology pie chart. I lean over the table and pass it up the aisle.

When I look back, Quint looks … angry?

“What?” I ask.

He gestures toward the paper, which has disappeared into the stack of assignments. “You didn’t trust me to do it?”

I turn to face him. “And I was right not to.”

“What happened to being a team? Maybe instead of doing it yourself, you could have reminded me. I would have done it.”

“It is not my job to remind you to do your homework. Or to get to class on time, for that matter.”

“I was—”

I cut him off, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Let’s just be grateful this partnership is finally over.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and though I think he’s agreeing with me, it still makes me flush with annoyance. I’ve carried this team all year long, doing far more than my share of the work. As far as I’m concerned, I’m the best thing that could have happened to him.

Mr. Chavez takes the last of the papers as they’re passed to the front. “Now, I know tomorrow is your very last day of sophomore year, and you’re all eager to get on with your vacation, but tonight is still a school night, which means, here’s your homework assignment.” The class releases a unanimous groan as he uncaps a green marker and starts scrawling across the whiteboard. “I know, I know. But just think. This could be the last chance I get to impart you with my superior wisdom. Give me my moment, would you?”

I take out a pen and begin copying the assignment down into my notebook.

Quint doesn’t.

When the bell rings, he’s the first one out the door.

THREE

“I’m not opposed to homework, generally speaking,” says Jude, idly flipping through the pages of his marine biology textbook. “But homework on the second-to-last day of school? That’s the mark of a tyrannical overlord.”

“Oh, stop whining,” says Ari from behind her menu. She spends a great deal of time studying the menu each time we come in, even though we always end up ordering the same things. “At least you get a summer break. Our teachers gave us detailed reading lists and assignment plans to ‘keep us busy’ over vacation. July is Greek mythology month. Hooray.”

Jude and I both give her dismayed looks. The three of us are sitting in a corner booth at Encanto, our favorite spot on Main Street. The restaurant is a bit of a tourist trap, right off the main thoroughfare—you can even see traces of the beach through the front windows—but it only ever gets crowded on the weekends, making it the ideal quiet hangout after school. In part because the fusion of Mexican and Puerto Rican food is mind-blowingly good. And in part because Carlos, the owner, gives us free sodas and as much chips and salsa as we can eat without ever complaining about us taking up valuable booth space. To be honest, I think he likes having us around, even if we only ever order food between three and six o’clock so we can get the half-off appetizer specials.