Instant Karma

by Marissa Meyer

  A choice she’s paid the price for.

  “Everything okay, Pru?” asks Mom.

  I blink up at her. Smile. “Yeah, yeah.” I try to shake the thoughts from my head. My family is staring at me. I clear my throat. “I was just thinking about … um … this project I’ve been working on. Did you know that sea otters play a vital role in balancing the health of kelp forests?”

  “What’s a kelp forest?” asks Penny.

  I sigh. “It’s a forest. Of kelp. Underwater.”

  Ellie’s eyes go wide. “There are forests underwater?”

  “Yeah, sort of,” I say.

  Mom dips a fry into her ketchup. “Did you learn that at your new volunteer job?”

  “Um. Yeah,” I say, because I’m not about to bring up how I spent the afternoon snorkeling with Quint Erickson. Jude is already giving me a suspicious look.

  “I must say, I was pretty bummed when you decided not to come work at the record store,” says Dad. “But it sounds like things at this rescue center are going well so far?”

  I shrug. “It hasn’t been so bad.”

  “And Ari has been great, hasn’t she?” says Mom. “I’ve heard nothing but good things.”

  “Oh yeah. That girl!” says Dad, picking up a pickle that’s fallen out of his burger. “I think she might know more about music than I do! And, of course, I’m happy to have Jude there.”

  Jude smiles, but his mouth is full, so he doesn’t say anything.

  “That reminds me,” I say, setting down the burger, unbitten, and wiping my hands on a paper towel. “I told Ari I’d give her my old keyboard. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Mom and Dad both stop chewing and exchange looks.

  “What?” I ask. “We’re not using it. No one here even knows how to play.”

  “Maybe Ellie would want to learn to play,” suggests Lucy, which feels like a suggestion made just to thwart me. I frown at her, then glance at Ellie.

  “Ellie, do you want to learn to play the piano?”

  Eleanor twists up her mouth in deep, thoughtful concentration. She takes a sip of her milk, still thinking. When she sets the cup down, she finally answers, “I want to play the drums.”

  “Good choice!” says Dad ecstatically, while the rest of us grimace. That’s all we need to go along with Penny’s violin lessons.

  “Either way,” I continue, “if Ellie or anyone did decide they wanted it, I’m sure Ari would give it back. But for now, I guarantee she’d get more use out of it than we are.”

  “Here’s the thing,” says Mom, dabbing her own paper towel around her mouth. “We would have loved for Ari to have it, if we knew, but … well. We don’t have the keyboard anymore.”

  I blink at her. “What?”

  Then I shove my seat back from the table.

  Ellie, who we are constantly having to scold into staying at the table during dinnertime, immediately points at me and shouts, “No leaving the table!”

  I ignore her and cross the floor to peek into the living room.

  Sure enough, the keyboard is gone, leaving a gaping hole amid the clutter where it used to sit.

  I spin back. “Where did it go?”

  “We sold it,” says Mom, lifting her hands in something almost like an apology, though not a very convincing one. “You weren’t using it. I didn’t think you’d even notice.”

  And she’s right. I never would have noticed, if I hadn’t wanted to give it to Ari.

  I slump back into my seat. “You could have asked.”

  “And you could have practiced more when you were taking lessons,” says Dad, even though I’m not convinced this argument is at all relevant to the conversation.

  “I hope Ari can find herself a nice keyboard,” says Mom. “She really is such a sweet girl, and we do appreciate her helping out at the store.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You are paying her, right?”

  “Of course!” says Dad, sounding offended. But it had to be asked. I’m fairly sure Ari would work there for free, but I’m not about to tell them that. She deserves to get paid for her time.

  “And how is the store doing?” asks Lucy. “Financially, I mean.”

  Her question surprises me. The directness of it. We all feel the question immediately sending us out onto thin ice. I have to admit, I sort of admire Lucy for being the one to bring it up, when even Jude and I would rather go on pretending that everything is fine.

  Again, Mom and Dad look at each other. Even Penny seems to tense. Only Ellie ignores the topic, too busy trying to make a tower of french fries on the table.

  “Fine,” says Dad. “Slow. But it always is this time of year. Tourist season is coming. It’ll pick up.”

  He says it with confidence, but what else is he going to say? The record store is doomed and we should all start panicking?

  Then Mom smiles and changes the subject, asking Lucy how softball practice went earlier that day.

  I pick up my burger again and take a bite. I’m sure it’s delicious, as it always is, but for some reason, I hardly taste a thing.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Ugh. I can’t say it. Not again. Please don’t make me.”

  Quint leans against the short wall. I can sense his smug grin, feel him watching me. But I only have eyes for the creature in the little pen. “Come on, Prudence. You can do this. Here, I’ll get you started. Repeat after me. Quint, you were…”

  I cover my eyes with my hands and give my head a vicious shake. But it doesn’t last long. I have to open my fingers. I have to peek.

  Oh heavens. That fuzzy face, the twitching nose, the sweet little paws curled together over his tummy as he rolls around on the floor …

  I groan, and feel myself caving. “Fine. Quint. You were”—I grimace, biting back the word for as long as I can—“right.”

  He makes a victorious fist, pumping his elbow.

  “Sea otters are flipping adorable. But you cheated! You said it wasn’t a baby.”

  “It’s not a baby. He’s, like … I dunno, our age, probably. But in otter years. Their babies aren’t super small, but they’re smaller than that.” He leans toward me conspiratorially. “A couple years ago we were caring for a pregnant sea otter when she gave birth. The pup was like the size of a basketball. A fuzzy, ridiculously cute basketball.”

  “Stop it.”

  “I got to bottle-feed it a couple times.”

  “I hate you.”

  “I know.”

  I cut a look at him. He’s watching the sea otter, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips.

  I swallow and look away. I study the little otter as he flops onto his tummy and curls up on top of a blue towel that’s been left in the corner for him. His wounds are almost unnoticeable—a few lacerations along his back and side, one cut on his back paw. I never would have seen them if Quint hadn’t pointed them out. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “Oh yeah, he’ll be out in the yard in no time, and then back out to sea.”

  We finally move away from the newest patient. We have the second shift today, and the time it took to prepare the feedings went a lot faster than before. Quint and I spend a little more than an hour cleaning the kitchen and doing dishes, then sorting the newest delivery of fish for tomorrow’s meal prep.

  “So what’s Jude up to while you’re here slaving away?” Quint asks as I dry a collection of bottles and arrange them in one of the cabinets.

  “He’s working at the record store this summer.”

  Quint looks at me, surprised. “Ventures?”

  “Yep.”

  “Really? Seems a little … hipstery. For Jude.”

  I laugh, in part because the idea of my parents’ store being “hipstery” strikes me as faintly hilarious. “Oh yeah, Jude doesn’t fit in there at all. But our parents own the store. You didn’t know that?”

  He looks at me, surprised. “No. That’s cool. It’s been years since I’ve gone in.”

  “You and ninety-eight percent of the town’s p
opulation.” I sigh, thinking about my dad’s die-hard optimism, his certainty that business will start to pick up now that it’s almost tourist season. But I’m beginning to see some cracks in his cool exterior. “You know there’s been this revival of vinyl records over the past decade? They’re suddenly cool again, and diehards will rant for hours about the superior sound quality and collectability and how digital music has”—I curl my fingers dramatically—“sucked the life out of the music.”

  He snickers.

  “But unfortunately, the rise in vinyl sales has happened at the same time as the fastest-rising property values in Fortuna Beach history. My parents don’t really talk about that stuff with us, but I overhear them talking about it sometimes, and I can tell they’re worried. The store has been in that location for seventeen years. It may not be the most popular place in town, but they do decent business, and it’s kind of a landmark, right? But if rent goes up again…” I shake my head and give Quint an apologetic look. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ramble.”

  But he’s nodding sympathetically. “It’s ironic, right? The economy is great, but it’s always a struggle for the little guy.”

  He sounds almost wise when he says this, and I wonder if these are words his mom has spoken in the past. After all, more wealth in the community should benefit everyone. But if that wealth isn’t being distributed …

  It makes my head spin. I cannot wait to take economics in college so that all this might actually start to make sense.

  “Anyway, I don’t want to give my parents a complete pass. They had the chance to buy the building a long time ago, but my mom had just gotten pregnant again and they didn’t think they could make ends meet. But if they’d made different choices, they’d be sitting on a real estate gold mine right now rather than stressing out about next month’s payment.”

  Quint shrugs. “Decisions like that look a lot different in hindsight. Besides, they wanted kids. Can’t fault them for that.”

  I make a face. “They already had twins. Did they really need to make three more babies?”

  “Remember, I’m the one who’s jealous that you have siblings. You won’t get any pity from me.”

  I put the last of the bottles in the cabinet and shut the door before giving him an appraising look. “You want one? I’ll give you a great deal on Lucy.”

  “Is she the little one?”

  “No, that’s Ellie. Lucy is thirteen.”

  He flinches. “Oy. I don’t think my big brother skills are ready for a teenager.”

  “No one ever is. You know. Unless that teenager is me. I’m a model daughter.”

  “I so badly want to make fun of you for that statement,” says Quint as we hang up our aprons, “but something tells me it’s probably true.”

  We head up the stairs to the staff break room, which is mostly filled with a long narrow table and mismatched chairs. My backpack hangs on a peg on the wall and I take it down and dig out the same folders and papers I’d had with me for yesterday’s meeting, though I was up for two hours last night making changes.

  Quint settles into one of the chairs. Someone brought in a box of doughnuts, and he spends a few moments inspecting his options before picking up one coated in cinnamon and sugar. “So once you’re done here, will you turn your business knowledge toward helping your parents? You could have a community campaign—Save Ventures Vinyl!”

  I hand Quint some of the papers and sit down across from him. “I don’t know. I mean … I guess I could. I’ve just always sort of seen it as their problem to fix.”

  “The center wasn’t your problem, either.”

  “Yeah, but…” I trail off.

  “Ah. Right. You’re just here for the extra credit.”

  “That’s not true.” I pause. “Anymore.”

  A smile flashes over his face, but he quickly tucks it behind one of the papers as he begins to read over my notes. I’m still thinking about the record store, wondering whether I could make a difference. Not by working as a minimum-wage employee, but by applying the same sort of tools that I want to use to help the center. Marketing. Publicity. Social media. I know there are record stores that are doing really well, that don’t struggle to pay their bills every month.

  Why couldn’t Ventures Vinyl be one of them?

  “Prudence?”

  My attention snaps back to Quint. “Sorry. Was just distracted.”

  One thing at a time, I tell myself. I’ve already dedicated my summer to the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center. My parents’ store has lasted this long; it will survive a few more months.

  “This looks familiar,” says Quint. He’s looking at the list of fundraising ideas I compiled a couple of days ago while he polishes off the doughnut.

  “Yeah, but we didn’t really get around to discussing any of these options.”

  “A gala?” he says, reading off the paper. “What is it with girls and galas?”

  “Galas are how you get fancy people to give you a lot of money. You offer wine and appetizers and have an auction and there’s so much peer pressure to look generous that rich people go nuts outbidding one another.”

  He licks the sugar from his fingertips. “And how much money would it cost for us to host this fancy gala?”

  I consider. “Five, ten thousand dollars?”

  He fixes a look on me.

  “Okay, maybe not a gala.” I take the duplicate list that I’ve saved for myself and scratch it off. “What about opening the center up to the public? Say, one day a week people can come in and see the animals, and we could have volunteers tell them about environmental issues and how they can get involved. You could charge admission…” I trail off. Quint is shaking his head at me.

  “We used to do that,” he says, lacing his hands behind his head and tilting so far back in the chair that it’s only in pure defiance of gravity that he doesn’t go toppling over. “We were open to the public on Saturdays and Sundays. But you need a lot of volunteers to make it work, and our staff got bitter because they didn’t have enough time to do their actual jobs.”

  “We’ll get more volunteers.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll advertise for them.”

  “With what money?”

  I throw up my hands. “Okay, I see what’s happening. This is a self-fulfilling prophecy. No one knows about the center, so they can’t support it. And if no one supports it, the center doesn’t make any money. And if the center doesn’t make any money, you can’t host events or advertise or do things that will inform even more people about the center!”

  “Exactly.” Quint gestures at my notepad. “Luckily, we have Prudence Barnett on the case. You’re the ideas person. What are your ideas?”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you about them for three days now, but every time I do, I either get shot down or coerced into water sports.”

  Quint wrinkles his nose. “Snorkeling isn’t exactly a sport.”

  I sigh. “You’re not being very much help.” I tap the end of my pen against my mouth, staring at all the ideas on the list. I won’t give him the satisfaction of saying it again, but Quint might be right. Or, he at least makes a valid point, one that I’ve been warring with since the idea of raising money for the center first entered my mind. If there was money to spare, we’d have a lot more options.

  I’m really beginning to understand the adage: You need money to make money.

  Realizing that Quint has gone abnormally quiet, I glance up.

  His gaze is fixated on … my lips? Is my lipstick smeared? I move a hand to my mouth, at the exact moment Quint realizes I’m looking at him and immediately turns his attention back down to the box of doughnuts. He picks out another—berry filling, powdered sugar—but cuts it in half this time rather than taking the whole thing. He takes a big bite, still not looking at me. A dusting of sugar sprinkles onto his yellow shirt.

  I self-consciously lower my hand and tighten my grip on the pen. “Your … um … your mom said you’ve done fundraisers
in the past. Do you know if they kept records for those? Maybe we can take a look, see what worked and what didn’t?”

  He thinks about this while he chews.

  “Shauna probably has something we can look at,” he says. “From what I remember, fundraisers do make money, just … never enough. And we do have some long-term donors, people who write us big checks every year. But again…”

  “It’s never enough,” I finish. “What do you do to cultivate those relationships?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, does your mom send handwritten thank-you notes to those people? Invite them for special tours of the center? Maybe we could let them name some of the animals?”

  Quint stares at me. “But those people are already giving us money.”

  “Yeah, for now. But those few things would barely cost any money to do, and it might keep you from losing a major source of income. There are a billion different charities out there. If something else snags their attention and they start to think their donations could make more of a difference elsewhere…”

  Comprehension dawns in Quint’s eye. He grabs a pen and starts scribbling something in the corner of the paper. “I’ll mention it to Mom,” he says. “But it doesn’t really help with drumming up more money.”

  “No, but it’s good to know that people who do become invested in the center tend to stick around. Having repeat donors means you won’t be starting at square one every year. So … how do we get people to donate in the first place, and how do we get them to care enough that they’ll want to keep helping?”

  Quint says nothing. He finishes the doughnut and wipes his hand on a napkin.

  “I really think we need to work the local angle,” I say. “I mean, if someone in Milwaukee wants to save sea animals, they’ll give their money to the World Wildlife Fund or something. They’re not going to bother with tiny little Fortuna Beach’s rescue center. But people who live here and visit here … they care. Or, they should. We need to establish the center as a part of the community.”

  Quint crumples the napkin and tosses it into the trash can in the room’s far corner. He doesn’t say anything, and I have the distinct feeling he’s waiting for me to reveal some big, brilliant strategy. Which, I guess, is what I promised him. But while I’ve had lots of ideas, none of them seem like they’re enough. Like they have the potential to bring in enough donations that would make the time or money expense worthwhile.