“Hey!” I say, going to greet them. Mom draws me into a hug. “What are you guys doing here? Dad, why aren’t you at the store?”
“We wanted to surprise you,” he says. “Besides, Jude and Ari can handle it. And I know, I know, you probably would have preferred that they come see you instead of your old man, but … what can I say? Your mom and I are dying to see what you’ve been working so hard on the last few weeks!”
“Look what I found!” says Penny, showing me the collection of broken shells she’s holding.
“I found one of them!” Ellie pipes up, trying to peer into Penny’s palms. She points at a broken shell. “That one.”
“Yes, Ellie found that one,” Penny concedes.
I smile at them both. Penny is the sort of kid who appreciates the simple things in life—things that I usually roll my eyes at—but today, I can almost understand what she sees in those broken, colorful bits.
And Ellie? Well, she’ll take any excuse to dig through the sand. I notice that she’s wearing her sparkly monkey dress again, and that there’s still a faint tomato juice stain that will probably never come out.
The sight of it gives me an uncomfortable twinge of guilt.
“I’m glad you guys came,” I say. “No Lucy?”
“Softball practice,” says Dad, shrugging. “That girl.”
That girl being a common refrain around our house, one that can refer to any one of us for just about any reason under the sun. In this case, I know Dad is commenting on Lucy’s long list of social engagements and extracurricular activities, but he could just as easily use that girl to refer to the collages Penny likes to make from the pages of old dictionaries and encyclopedias (often leaving a huge mess in her wake), or Ellie screaming because she can’t find the exact hair bow she wants to wear, or even my insistence that we organize our spice cabinet alphabetically because clearly that’s the only logical way to do it.
That girl.
“Oh well,” I say. “Are you guys here to help with the cleanup?”
“Of course!” bellows Mom. “This is such a great thing you’re doing. We’re so proud of you, Prudence.”
“Looks like you’re getting a great turnout, too,” says Dad. “I’m impressed.”
I turn toward the table to gather up some supplies for them and spy Quint watching us. He quickly turns away, busying himself by rearranging the boxes of gloves.
I hesitate, trying to recall whether or not I ever complained to Penny about my terrible lab partner. She would blab on me for sure if she put two and two together. But I can’t not introduce them, right?
I clear my throat. “Um. Mom? Dad? This is Quint.”
Quint’s head snaps around, his smile already flush across his face. He greets them with uber-politeness. Mr. Barnett, Mrs. Barnett, it’s a pleasure to meet you.
He admires Penny’s shell collection.
He asks Ellie about the monkey dress and oohs with just the right of amount of wonder when she shows him how the sequins change color when you brush them up and down.
I watch the whole interaction, feeling supremely awkward, though I don’t know why. This feels important somehow, but I don’t know if I care whether or not my family likes Quint, or whether or not he likes them.
It shouldn’t matter either way.
It doesn’t matter.
Truly. Not in the least.
“So,” says Dad, pretending to scowl, “you’re the reason my daughter has been working so hard this summer and not having any fun. Don’t you kids know that summer vacation is supposed to be spent goofing off? None of this”—he gestures around at the beach—“do-gooder nonsense!”
Mom rolls her eyes and grabs Dad’s elbow. “He’s just teasing. We think this is great.”
Quint casts a sidelong glance at me. “Believe it or not, this actually has been fun. For me, at least.”
My heart lifts as I realize, for the first time, this has actually been a lot of fun for me, too. The planning, the organizing—I thrive on that.
And Quint … well. His company hasn’t been nearly as intolerable as it used to be.
Quint and I wave goodbye as the four of them take off with their bags. Ellie insists on using the grabber first, even though her hand-eye coordination isn’t quite good enough to use it properly. I can hear my mom issuing a challenge—whoever collects the most garbage gets to choose what we have for dinner. Ellie screams skabetti! and races off down the beach.
“And you say you don’t like having little siblings?”
I wince. “Sometimes they’re not so bad.”
“I thought they seemed great.”
I can’t look at him, otherwise he’d for sure see the way my heart is overflowing at this simple comment.
We’ve nearly filled up two giant garbage cans when someone else appears at the edges of the tent. “Hello, Quint. Prudence.”
I turn around.
Maya is leaning over the table, holding the blue flyer that my dad handed her at the record store that morning.
My lips part in surprise. I cannot believe she actually came.
“Hey, Maya,” says Quint, beaming. “Come to help out?” He holds an empty tote toward her.
A look of uncertainty flashes across her face, but she quickly conceals it with a smile … albeit it an unenthusiastic one. “I actually had a question.”
“Shoot.” Quint sets the bag down and steps closer to her. As if being drawn into her orbit.
I bristle, and then feel immediately annoyed with myself for it.
“I lost something a while back, at the bonfire party.” She twists her hands. “I was wondering if maybe one of your volunteers picked it up.”
“What was it?”
“An earring. A diamond earring.”
I avert my attention to another cardboard box and start peeling off the tape.
Of course that’s why she’s here. Not to help out, but to see if we found her missing jewelry.
Odd how this comforts me, knowing that she isn’t here to help with the cleanup. I know I shouldn’t feel that way, but I’m still shaken from how nice she was to Jude and Ari this morning. It’s difficult to reconcile with my hazy memories from the bonfire.
“Oh, bummer,” says Quint. He knows—we all know—how unlikely something like that would be to turn up. The sand on the beach shifts every day. Something as small as an earring could be lost and gone within hours, swept out to sea or buried for the rest of time.
But … something tells me that didn’t happen to Maya’s earring. Though I can’t know it for sure, I have a feeling that her earring was picked up by that beachcomber I saw yesterday. I didn’t get a good look at the jewelry she found, but I do recall how it glinted in the sun.
I bunch up the tape and toss it toward one of the garbage cans outside the tent.
It ricochets off the side and lands in the sand.
I huff.
At least it’s a good excuse to keep from looking at Maya. I know I have guilt written across my face, even if … I mean, I didn’t actually do anything. It was all the universe. Punishments and rewards. Karma.
“I’m really sorry,” says Quint. “I don’t think anyone’s turned in anything like that. Hey, Prudence?”
I freeze in the middle of picking up the tape.
“Has anyone turned in an earring?”
“Like this,” Maya adds, forcing me to make eye contact with her. She has a small box in her hand and inside is a single drop earring. Delicate gold filigree surrounds a solitary diamond. A big diamond. Bigger than the stone on my mom’s wedding ring.
The thing that strikes me about the earring, though, is its back. It’s the sort of earring that has a levered back that snaps up against the hook, closing the loop to prevent the earring from falling out.
I have a pair of earrings like that, and I know that unless that lever piece breaks, they’re practically impossible to lose.
Unless karma wills it so.
“Um, no,” I stammer, with an
apologetic smile. “I haven’t seen anything like that.”
“I can let the volunteers know to keep an eye out for it,” says Quint. “Where were you when you lost it?”
“Right over there, by the cliffs,” says Maya. “Please let me know if someone finds it. These earrings belonged to my grandma. They were…” She pauses, and my shoulders tense. Emotion is filling her voice when she continues. “She passed away last year, and they were the last thing she gave to me, and … I just … I’ve been out here almost every day since the party, searching…”
Raw guilt scratches at the inside of my throat.
But I didn’t do anything wrong. Her losing that earring was her fault. It was retribution from the universe!
“I mean, I still have one. So that’s something,” says Maya with a weak smile. “But it’s not the same.”
“I’m really sorry,” says Quint. “I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”
“Thanks, Quint.” She pauses, looking from him to me. “Also … to see the two of you working together and, apparently, not contemplating murder is really bizarre. I feel like I just stepped into the Twilight Zone.”
Quint chuckles as he glances at me. “Yeah. Us too.”
“Well, it’s inspirational,” says Maya. Then, to my surprise, she takes one of the tote bags. “I guess I’ll go do my part, then?”
She heads up the beach, in the direction of the cliffs. I stare after her just long enough to see her stoop and pick up a blue flyer and cram it into the bag.
“Man,” says Quint. “That’s gotta be awful, to lose something that sentimental. My grandpa gave me an old baseball, signed by the entire team of the LA Dodgers in 1965. If something ever happened to it, I’d be wrecked.”
I take in a deep breath to try and clear the weight from my chest. “Yeah. Awful.”
“Excuse me, are you Prudence Barnett?” I swivel around to see a man in jeans and a blue Fortuna Beach sweatshirt. A large camera hangs around his neck.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Hi, I’m Jason Nguyen with the Chronicle. We spoke on the phone last night.”
“Oh yes! Hi! Thank you for coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. This is a great event. I’d love to do a follow-up story to run in tomorrow’s paper. Maybe also a longer piece about the center for next Sunday. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Oh, wow. That’s wonderful. Yes, of course, but—” I glance at Quint, who looks amazed that our little event has garnered the attention of an actual journalist. “It probably makes more sense for you to talk to Quint here. His mom founded the center and he’s been volunteering there a lot longer than I have. Plus, if you need some supplementary photos for the pieces, he could show you some truly amazing ones.”
Quint’s awe fades, replaced with embarrassment.
“That would be perfect,” says the journalist. He and Quint head out to the beach, and though I try not to stare, I can’t help sneaking glances their way whenever I’m not busy answering questions from the day’s volunteers. Quint speaks so passionately, his body language exuberant, his expressions running from distraught—I imagine he’s telling stories of the sad states in which some of the animals have been found—to ecstatic as the conversation turns to more uplifting things. The patients’ unique personalities and how it feels to return them to the ocean. While he talks, the journalist takes lots of notes and occasionally snaps a picture of the volunteers and the garbage we’re collecting.
By noon, the beach is looking as spotless as if humanity had never set foot here to begin with. Quint and I help volunteers empty their totes into the bins, sorting the garbage from the recyclables. I’m surprised when some of the volunteers, who have really started to get into the swing of this altruism thing, even jump in to help us.
Finally, Quint makes a proclamation that everyone has done a great job, and thanks them for their help. While I give my prepared spiel about the center and its mission (which only take up six minutes of my life—I timed myself a few days ago), Quint calls his mom and tells her to bring the trailer around.
It’s time to release some animals back to their homes.
TWENTY-NINE
A honk draws my attention toward the boardwalk. The van, emblazoned with the center’s logo, pulls out onto the sand. A cheer goes up from the volunteers. I can hear the clicking of Jason’s camera.
Quint helps guide his mom as she turns around so that the back of the van is facing the water. It seems like it would be a simple maneuver, but driving on the ever-shifting sands is tricky, and every summer there are stories of people losing their vehicles to the ocean because they were driving too close and their wheels got stuck in the wet sand. Rosa is cautious, though, and besides, she’s probably done this hundreds of times.
As the van comes to a stop, the crowd moves in excitedly, phones and cameras readied. Quint and I have to remind everyone to stay back so that the seals have an open path to get out to the ocean. I’ve been told that most of the released animals waste no time once they see the crashing waves—they’re excited to flipper their way down to the water and disappear into the welcoming bay. But every once in a while, according to Quint, there’s an animal that is more curious about the volunteers and any people who just happen to be on the beach that day. The animals sometimes want to inspect bagged lunches or roll around in the sand like they’re trying to entertain whoever’s watching. Which is an adorable memory for everyone involved, but can also cause some difficulties for the release crew as they attempt to coerce the animal into going where it’s supposed to.
Rosa and Shauna emerge from the van and Rosa greets the crowd with a wide, almost giddy smile.
“Wow,” she breathes. “This is by far the most people we’ve ever had to witness one of our animal releases. I’ve been doing this job for almost twenty years, but this is the first time one of our release celebrations has been a public affair. I’m so happy you could all join us today, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for helping to make our beach clean and safe for these amazing animals. I think, after you see how happy they are to be going back to their natural habitat, you’ll be just as excited as I am to have been a part of this day.” She gestures at me and Quint. “And I want to give an extra big thank-you to my son, Quint, and our newest volunteer, Prudence, who made this event happen.”
I give an awkward wave to the crowd. People applaud graciously, if a little impatiently. I dare to glance at Quint and we share a proud look and then—he winks at me.
My heartbeat skitters.
“I’ll be happy to stay and answer anyone’s questions about the center after the release,” says Rosa, “but for now, I know you aren’t here to see me. You’re here to see Pepper, Tyrion, Chip, and Navy, four harbor seals who are eager to get back to their home.”
Rosa and Shauna open the back of the van, revealing four kennels. Dark eyes and furry, whiskered faces peer out through the bars, and a unanimous aww rises up from the onlookers.
We unload the crates, setting them into the sand. Rosa reminds everyone not to approach the animals and not to give them any food.
“But take as many pictures as you want,” I add, “and please tag us if you post them on social media.”
Behind the barred doors of the crates, I can see the harbor seals perking up, looking curiously out at the ocean. There’s a near-overwhelming sense of anticipation.
The doors are opened.
Three of the four seals bolt from the crates as if they’re in the Kentucky Derby. They belly flop their way down the shore, clustered together, their flippers smacking the sand. They dive face-first into the surf and within seconds they’ve disappeared beneath the waves.
The fourth harbor seal, Chip, is more hesitant. He takes his time poking his head out of the crate, taking in his surroundings. He inspects the crowd and shyly, uncertainly, plods out of the crate. And then he just sits there, looking around as if confused. Rosa and Quint have to get a couple of boards from the
van and use them to nudge Chip toward the water, like one would herd a difficult pig toward its pen.
Finally, Chip seems to get the idea and takes off doing the inchworm down the beach. One of the other seals pops its head up from the water, as if he’d been waiting for his friend to join them.
Chip splashes into the ocean.
The crowd erupts with cheers.
For the next ten minutes, the seals can be seen off the coast, playing and diving together, enjoying their new freedom. We all watch, trying to capture as much as we can with our cameras and phones.
And then they’re gone.
My heart has swollen to the size of a pineapple inside my chest. I inhale deeply, trying to stitch this memory into the folds of my mind. The smell of the ocean, the sting of the wind, the glint of sunlight. There are even tears gathered in the corners of my eyes, and a part of me wants to write it off as irritation from the wind, but then I see that I’m not the only one wiping tears away. In fact, as I glance around, I’m startled to see that Maya is still there and her eyes are shining, too.
She catches my eye and we share a smile, each of us embarrassed to be caught with our emotions on the surface, but also strangely bonded by this special thing we just witnessed.
My attention catches on another form toward the back of the crowd, someone I hadn’t noticed before.
I gasp. It’s the beachcomber. The same woman who found the earring.
She’s loitering far enough away that she isn’t quite a part of our little celebration, but I’m sure she got to see the release. The smile lingering on her wrinkled face says as much.
I swallow. My gaze darts toward Maya, but she’s gone. I glance around and spot her up the beach, heading toward the boardwalk. Her shoulders are hunched and her hands tucked into the front pocket of that oversize sweatshirt.
I return my attention to the beachcomber. She’s wearing the same belt with the hand shovel and her bottle of water and the little pouch to store her findings.
I remind myself of the mean things Maya said about Jude.
I remind myself that this sweet old woman was picking trash off our beach—not because she’d been promised anything in return—just because it’s the right thing to do.
Instant Karma Page 26
