“No, not the boardwalk,” I say, mocking his dismay. “It’s this place called, um, the Fortuna Beach Rescue Center. They take in distressed animals. Sea lions and stuff. And help them get better.” At least, I assume this is what they do. I skimmed most of those pages in Quint’s paper and still only have a vague notion of this rescue center’s purpose.
“Oh,” says Dad. I know this oh. I can hear pages of confusion written into that oh.
Oh, I didn’t realize you liked animals. Oh, it’s been so long since you talked about any sort of volunteering. Oh, I thought you were planning to spend your entire summer vacation with Ari, eating ice cream and counting the days until it becomes socially acceptable to start obsessing over college applications. (Not before the start of junior year, evidently, though I do have a checklist started for when the day comes.)
But Dad doesn’t say any of this. Instead, he says, “I’ve never heard of it.”
“No, I hadn’t, either. A friend told me about it.” I visibly shiver at the idea that Quint is a friend, but I turn back to my toast, which has just popped, and focus on slathering it with peanut butter.
“Is this for school?”
I hesitate. “Sort of? And also, just … you know. I thought it’d be good to do something for the community, and our local … marine … habitats.” I drop the knife into the sink. “I thought I’d go there today and see if they could use my help.” I hesitate, smiling uncertainly, before asking, “Is that okay?”
His brows pucker in the middle. “Well,” he drawls slowly, uncertainly. I can see the wheels whirring in his head as he tries to determine the best parental approach. Insist that your child help with the family business in order to build personal responsibility and a strong work ethic, or encourage this unexpected interest in altruism and animal welfare? Finally, he clears his throat. “I tell you what. You go talk to them today and see if it seems like a good fit for you, and I’ll talk to your mother about it, and we’ll reconvene at dinner tonight.” He finishes this statement with a pleased nod. I can practically see him congratulating himself on another parenting dilemma, conquered. Or, at least, postponed until Mom can give her input. “Do you need me to drive you there?”
“No, thanks. I’ll take my bike. It’s only a couple miles away.”
He nods again, but then seems to reconsider something. “You know, Pru, I was teasing before, about spending your time at the boardwalk. You’ve worked hard this year. You deserve to relax during your vacation. So … volunteer at this rescue place or come hang at the store with me or whatever works out. But don’t forget to get out and enjoy the sunshine sometimes, too, all right?”
I stare at him. He says it so innocently, but I can’t help but feel like there’s a tiny, hidden attack in his words. Don’t work so hard that you forget to have fun.
Why is everyone so concerned that I don’t know how to have fun? To relax? Yes, I work hard. Yes, I believe in practicality and efficiency and excelling at the things I do. What’s so wrong with that?
I don’t say any of this, though. Instead, I give Dad a tight smile. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll take it under consideration.”
He sighs at me. “You do that.” He turns his attention back to his coffee and his magazine, enjoying his last moments of peace before the rest of my siblings begin to stir.
I grab my toast and head out the door. I haven’t quite decided how I feel about my little white lie by the time I’m strapping on my bike helmet and cramming the last bite of toast into my mouth. Under no circumstances had I considered volunteering my summer hours at some nonprofit organization—at least, I’m assuming the center is nonprofit, though even that is unclear. Either way, if I had intended to volunteer somewhere, I would have chosen something like writing newsletters for our local YMCA or starting a Little Free Library on Main Street or organizing bake sales in order to send some kid in an impoverished third-world country to school or … something. But sea turtles and otters or whatever it is they work with at this place? I mean, I have nothing against sea animals. And I do need to fix our project for Mr. Chavez, and this seems like a sure way to do it.
But still. It’s not exactly the cause of my heart.
Maybe, if things don’t go well today, I can come up with a plan B. Find some other organization to volunteer my time at—something a little more fitting to my interests—and tell my parents there’s been a change of plans.
Curating a Little Free Library would be fun …
I pause, frowning at this thought. Something tells me very few people would agree with this sentiment. Is it possible that my idea of fun, relaxing, enjoyable activities is really so far afield from everyone else’s?
But does that mean something is wrong with me, or them?
I shake my head. Whatever I decide about volunteering, at least it will look great on college applications. A summer spent at a sea animal rescue center may not have been the original plan, but I can see how it will have long-term benefits. I’m envisioning all the heartwarming application essays I’ll be able to write explaining how I managed to make the world a better place through my selfless dedication. My future résumé will be a step above other candidates’ for having spent a portion of my time in such impressive service.
This is good, I tell myself repeatedly, as my legs pump against the bike pedals.
This is for the best.
It certainly beats out a summer spent at the record store, anyway.
The salty wind is refreshing against my cheeks, blowing through my hair. The morning is warm but pleasant. I pass loads of people walking their dogs, and even some kids splashing through the sprinklers on their front lawn. I pass an old man mowing his grass and a bunch of house painters setting up scaffolding. I pass more people on bikes—some in suits, some in swim trunks. We give each other neighborly smiles.
I stop outside a convenience store, waiting for the traffic light to change. The car beside me has the windows down and I smile when “Good Day Sunshine” comes on over their speakers. I tap my fingers against the handlebars, humming along. I even picture myself singing this song at karaoke night—if we go back for karaoke night.
Hecklers and spilled drinks aside, it was kind of fun.
I’m still distracted, thinking that maybe I would consider doing a duet with Ari, when the light for crossing traffic turns yellow. I adjust the pedals, getting ready to go, when I glance toward the convenience store parking lot. A shiny SUV is pulling into a parking spot.
My eyes narrow like laser beams.
It’s the disabled-persons parking spot. But there’s no wheelchaired stick figure on the car’s license plate, no tag hanging from the rearview mirror.
I swivel the front wheel of my bike up onto the curb. I examine the car more thoroughly as I get closer, looking for any sign that they might deserve this coveted spot right by the entrance. This spot that’s supposed to be used only by those who truly need it.
The driver’s-side door opens and I watch as a middle-aged man climbs out and hurries into the store. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t have a disability. Not even a limp.
And there’s no passenger.
I shake my head in disgust. Who does he think he is? Someone who actually needs that spot could show up at any minute! Is he going to make some poor elderly grandmother struggle across the parking lot with her walker or cane?
I wriggle my fingers first, feeling the blood pumping into them. There’s a moment when I think—you’re kidding yourself, Prudence—this isn’t going to work.
But I ignore the doubt and squeeze my hand tight.
The instant I do it, a seagull flies overhead and drops a perfect white blotch of excrement onto the SUV’s windshield, right smack in the driver’s view.
A surprised bark of a laugh escapes me, and I clap my hand over my mouth. Bull’s-eye.
The man darts from the store a second later, carrying nothing but an energy drink. He takes one look at his car and curses.
I swivel my bike around and soar back onto
the street, my whole body tingling with satisfaction.
The ride grows more interesting after that. I’m like a radar, seeking out injustices in the world. My newfound power is twitching at the ends of my fingers, ready to be released. I’m hungry for another chance to see it in action, and the opportunities are suddenly everywhere.
I pass a couple of middle-school-aged boys as they’re abusing the vending machine outside Ike’s Grocery.
I squeeze my fist and their stolen sodas explode in their faces.
I notice a little girl throwing pebbles at a squirrel. A second later she stubs her toe and runs off wailing to her mother.
I see a man at a bus stop making inappropriate catcalls as a woman jogs by. She ignores him, steely-faced. When he leans forward to admire her backside, I gift his jeans with a split seam down his own rear end.
I am on fire. I am shaking with glee. I’m on a total power trip and I know it, but it’s not like I asked for this gift, so I figure I must have done something to deserve it.
I’m only a few blocks away from the rescue center when I pass a billboard that I’ve probably passed by a hundred times without really paying it much attention. Except now there’s a ladder leaned against it, and a person standing on the platform, dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and a green beanie cap, holding a can of spray paint.
I stop my bicycle, a little stunned to think that someone would be bold enough to vandalize a billboard in broad daylight like this.
The billboard is an advertisement for Blue’s Burgers, a joint that’s been a staple in our community since the 1960s. On the right side of the humongous image is a close-up of one of their cheeseburgers, overflowing with pickles and lettuce and creamy special sauce. In the background is a green pasture, with two black-and-white-spotted cows, contentedly grazing. Blue’s slogan is printed in speech bubbles over their heads: WE’RE HAPPY COWS, SO YOU’LL BE HAPPY DINERS!
But the vandal has sprayed an X over that message and is starting to scrawl something over the picture of the cows.
Indignation flares inside of me. That’s a locally owned business. That’s public property. And now someone is going to have to clean this up or pay to have it replaced.
I huff and clench my fist.
The vandal reaches down for a different color of spray paint—and slips.
The ladder jolts. I hear a scream and am surprised to realize it’s a girl.
Then she’s falling.
It happens in slow motion. Her hands scrabbling for the ladder and finding nothing. Her body plummeting at least ten feet to the ground below. There’s a patch of grass and weeds, not asphalt, but still—I hear the snap.
My gut twists, bile rising in my mouth at that terrible noise, followed by her cry of pain.
Her cap has fallen off. She has shiny black hair pulled into two tight buns behind her ears.
My heart stutters. It’s Morgan, Quint’s friend from the other night.
I drop my bike against a tree and prepare to race across the road to help her, but a car has pulled up to the curb and a woman is already running, cell phone in hand. Oh my god, are you okay? I’ll call an ambulance!
I swallow and take a step back. I still feel sick to my stomach. Cold sweat has beaded on the back of my neck and my bike helmet feels too heavy, too confining. I ignore the sensation and slide my leg over my bike seat.
I turn and pedal as fast as I can the other way.
THIRTEEN
I ride to a nearby park and drop my bike before collapsing onto a wooden bench. Ripping off my helmet, I press my forehead into my hands. I keep seeing it again and again—that moment when her foot slipped. When she lost purchase. When she cried out and fell.
I did that. I did that.
I could have killed her.
It takes a long time to calm myself down. A long time before my heart stops palpitating and I can think rationally about what just happened.
It’s an even longer time before I convince myself that, no, of course I didn’t do that.
The punishments I’ve been doling out have not come from me. I may have thought that something should happen to all those people, but the universe has been deciding what those punishments should be. I never would have made someone fall off a ladder, whether they were breaking the law or not. That was all the universe’s doing.
Besides, if anyone’s to blame, it’s Morgan herself. She put herself in danger by climbing up there. She probably didn’t think to secure it. Or maybe she’s naturally clumsy.
Besides, she must have deserved it. She was harming someone else through her actions. The livelihood of a local business owner. The beauty of our quaint coastal town. Plus, she was so snotty when we met at Encanto, the way she wouldn’t stop staring at her phone, even when people were performing.
The universe knows what it’s doing. It has to. It’s the universe.
Gradually, my hands stop shaking.
I know I’m trying to justify what happened, but what else can I do? I have to believe the universe has my back in this.
Finally, after a few mindful breaths in which I try to exhale all my negative energy, I climb back on my bike.
I’m closer to the rescue center than I realized, and the rest of the ride is merely coasting down a two-lane street lined with cypress trees and overgrown blackberry bushes. Not only do I not see anyone behaving badly, I don’t see anyone at all. This is a quiet road, one I don’t think I’ve ever been on. Far enough from Main Street and the beach to not attract tourists. I can see evidence of a handful of houses tucked back among the trees—farmsteads with chickens and goats and acreage.
I almost ride right past the center. At the last minute I squeeze the handbrake and drop my feet onto the pavement.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting until the building fails to meet those expectations. It’s suddenly clear why Quint didn’t bother to include any pictures of this real-world animal-saving “tourist” destination in the report. I guess I’d been picturing an aquarium. Something sleek and modern, with copious amounts of parking that could cater to busloads of kids arriving for school field trips. I was picturing an educational center, with plaques expounding on the delicate ecosystems in our oceans and how humans can help by drinking less bottled water and choosing to eat sustainably caught fish. I’ve been picturing great glass tanks full of tropical fish and the occasional chortling sea lion, or maybe even gigantic enclosures for whales and dolphins. And also a petting pool where you could slide your knuckle down the rough backs of starfish or let the urchins wrap their spiny needles around your finger.
I realize then, as I turn into the gravel parking lot, that I’ve been picturing the conservation center in Pixar’s Finding Dory. High-tech. Fancy. With educational messages from Sigourney Weaver piped through the speakers every couple of minutes.
Which might have been an unrealistic expectation. After all, if Fortuna Beach had an institution like that, I would have known about it before today.
But the reality of the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center is that … it’s small. And, on the outside at least, entirely unremarkable.
The stench of dead fish hits me before I’ve stopped pedaling. There’s no bike rack, so I set it against a stair rail near the entrance. I take off my helmet, hang it on the handlebar, and scan the small two-story building. It’s long but narrow, with a flat roof and concrete walls. Very industrial. Very utilitarian. Very unwelcoming. At least someone has made an attempt to brighten the facade with a coat of coral-colored paint.
Two white vans in the gravel parking lot have the name and phone number of the center printed on the side, encouraging people to call if they see a stranded or hurt animal. There’s a stack of crates against the fence, alongside a row of kennels, like something you’d see at the dog pound. A couple of temporary plastic storage sheds stand nearby, their doors padlocked shut. I can hear barking, and it takes me a moment to remember I’m not at a dog pound at all. It must be seals making the noise, or maybe sea lions.
For a moment, I wonder what I’m doing here. I have to write a report—a better report, something that will win over Mr. Chavez and his inane rules—and this morning I was convinced that this place was my ticket to doing just that. I would figure out Quint’s tie to the center and redo my portion of the presentation to align with the paper he wrote. If I play my cards right, I may even be able to submit the revised project without Mr. Chavez knowing that Quint wasn’t involved. Because … he is involved. In a roundabout way.
I think I can make it work.
I study the building again, my nose wrinkling as a new waft of spoiled seafood overtakes the first rush of salt and fish.
But I haven’t committed to anything yet. I’ll just go in and check it out, talk to them, figure out who Rosa Erickson is, and who she is to Quint, and glean whatever I can to use in my revised project. Then I’ll be out of here, nothing to it. As for what I’ll tell my parents about my new volunteer position … well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
I swipe on a coat of lipstick, smooth the creases from my shirt, and make my way to the entrance—a faded yellow door with a mail slot near the bottom. I hesitate, wondering whether I should knock. It’s a place of business, but as far as I can tell, it isn’t open for the public to visit.
I go ahead and rap my knuckles against the door. I wait, but all I hear are the continued yelpings from whatever sea animal is making all that racket.
After a few seconds, I check the knob. It opens and I peek my head into a small room, which I suppose might pass for a lobby, though it’s smaller than my bedroom at home. A collection of houseflies are buzzing around a single wooden desk that is overflowing with paperwork. One wall is covered in fake wood paneling, almost identical to the stuff in our basement that was remodeled in the seventies. There’s a collection of framed photographs showing men and women holding hoses and push broom and grinning at the camera, or linked arm in arm on the beach, or examining a sea turtle on a metal table.
On the opposite wall is an open door that leads to a long, narrow hallway. A quick glance makes me think of a horse stable, with a series of low walls divided into sections—separate rooms for the animals. But instead of hay, this stable has linoleum-tiled flooring, and it reeks of fish instead of fertilizer.
Instant Karma Page 11
