I don’t respond. Sure, money may not be everything … but it is something. I can’t imagine working as hard as Rosa, or my parents for that matter, and still having so little to show for it, no matter how much I love my work.
“Let me guess,” I say, cocking my head speculatively. “You’ve given precisely zero thought to where you want to go to college, or what you want to study.”
“Not zero thought,” he says a little defensively. “I may not be working off a five-year plan like some people…”
“Ten, actually.”
“My mistake.” He rolls his eyes. “But right now, I’m pretty sure I’ll be taking a gap year.”
My gasp is so horrified that Quint looks legitimately concerned for a second.
“A gap year? Oh, come on. That’s just a fancy way of saying you’re either too lazy to go to college or too indecisive to pick one.”
“Whoa. Uh-uh.” He points a finger at me. “Just because it isn’t your plan doesn’t make it a bad one.”
“It just delays the inevitable! If you’re going to go to college, then go to college! Why mess around, wasting a whole year of your life … backpacking Europe or whatever cliché thing you think will make you ‘well-rounded.’” I make air quotes.
Quint crosses his arms over his chest. “For your information, studies have shown that people who take gap years regularly perform better in college once they get there.”
I narrow my eyes, unconvinced.
“Look it up,” he says mildly.
“I don’t want to drain my phone battery,” I grumble.
“You don’t want to admit that I could be right. Again.”
“We’ll see.” I huff. “So what do you plan on doing during your year of slackery? Please tell me you won’t actually be backpacking through Europe.”
“Australia, actually. I want to dive the Great Barrier Reef before it’s too late.”
My eyes widen in surprise. I spend a moment mulling this over. “Okay, that’s actually kind of a neat goal.”
“Translation from Prudence to English: That’s a brilliant idea, Quint. You should totally do that.”
I shake my head. “Not so fast. You don’t need a whole year to do that. Why not just go on summer vacation?”
He starts to fidget, adjusting the towel behind his back. Crossing and uncrossing his ankles. “I don’t want to just rent some gear, spend a day at the reef, and check it off my bucket list. I want…” He hesitates, his expression becoming almost serious. “So … my ultimate plan, if you must know, is that I want to get my scuba-diving license and spend the year building up my portfolio. My … photography portfolio.” He picks at some lint on the blanket. “When I do go to college, I’d like to study art and design. Maybe minor in photography. I’d love to do underwater photography eventually, but the equipment is expensive, and my best chance is to get a really great scholarship. And for that…”
He doesn’t finish, but I’ve already connected the dots. “You need a great portfolio.”
“It’s one thing to take photos of the animals here at the center, but if I could have more underwater experience when I apply, I really think it would help.”
I stare at him, even though, for some reason, he’s stopped meeting my eye. My opinion of Quint does another flip. “You could be in National Geographic someday.”
He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he finally looks up at me. “One can dream, but that’s … I mean, their photographers are top-notch. I don’t know that I could ever…”
“You could. You will,” I say, with surprising conviction. “You’re so talented.”
He drags a hand through his hair. “Naw. Average at best. But I do love it, so … we’ll see.”
“I can’t believe you were teasing me about my ten-year-plan when you’ve been keeping all that a secret this whole time.”
He still looks uncomfortable as he rolls out his shoulders a few times. “It’s weird to talk about. I mean … you tell people you want to dive the Great Barrier Reef and become an underwater photographer? It’s kind of far-fetched, as dreams go.”
“It’s not. I mean, someone has to do it, otherwise we wouldn’t have all those cool documentaries about bizarre sea life that Mr. Chavez made us watch.”
“True. That’s a good point.” His eyes are glinting, almost gratefully. “That’s one thing I like about you, Prudence. No one can say you aren’t an optimist.”
“I like to think I’m more of a realist who’s willing to work hard.”
He grins. “Even better.”
My cheeks warm. It’s my turn to look away, my fingers digging into the plush blankets. I curl my knees up toward my chest, draping my arms around them. “I have to believe that, with enough diligence and effort, you can make anything happen. And I do get that I’m a ridiculous perfectionist and, yes, probably too much of an overachiever. But it’s all I have, so … I figure, better make the best of it.”
“What do you mean, it’s all you have?”
I wince. I shouldn’t have said anything. A part of me wants to backtrack, to say, never mind, I was just rambling, but … there’s something about the dim lighting, the rain that’s turned from a torrent to a melodious pattering, the way Quint just confessed this close-held dream, that makes me brave. Or, if not brave, I at least feel like maybe it’s okay to be a little vulnerable.
“It’s like, Jude, for example,” I say, quietly, careful with my words. “He’s so nice. Everybody likes him. He just gets along with people, everywhere he goes. I know I’m not that. And Ari, she’s so talented, and so passionate about music, but I’m not really passionate about anything, other than wanting to succeed. To do my best. But I can make plans, and I can stay organized, and if a teacher assigns a report, I’m going to write the best darn report they’ve ever seen. If I’m throwing a gala, I’m going to throw a party that no one will ever forget. I can do that. And if I can impress people, then maybe they won’t notice that I’m not witty or beautiful or … fun.”
I stop talking and tuck the lower half of my face behind my arms. I can’t believe I just said all that. But at the same time, it feels good to admit that all the confidence I show the world is a diversionary tactic. A cover for the fear that lies underneath.
“I mean,” says Quint, finally, as if he were the one who’d been saying too much, “you’re not … not beautiful.”
A sound, part laugh and part cough, bursts out of me. I dare to look up at him, but quickly have to look away again. “First of all, double negatives are not grammatically acceptable.”
He groans. “I can’t win with you.”
“Second of all,” I say, ignoring him, “I wasn’t fishing for a compliment. But … thanks? I think?”
“I know you weren’t.” He clears his throat, and I sense that he might be as uncomfortable with this conversation as I’ve become. “But I had to say something. I’ve never seen you self-conscious about anything before. And I mean it. You’re…” He trails off.
I viciously shake my head. “You don’t have to say it. Don’t get the wrong idea. It’s not that I think I’m hideous or anything, but … being surrounded by girls who wear nothing but cutoff shorts and string bikinis all summer long? I mean, I know I don’t look like that.”
Quint makes a humming noise, and I can’t tell whether he’s agreeing with me or not. When he speaks again, I expect a refrain of the same semi-compliment: You’re not not beautiful. And yeah, my whole body is still flushed from those words. But instead, he says something that is somehow a hundred times better. Something that I don’t think anyone has ever said to me before. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty fun. At least, when you’re not criticizing everything I say or do.” His cheeks dimple. “Actually, I’ve had a lot of fun with you this summer.”
We stare at each other in the flashlight’s glow, the rain drizzling against the windows. My throat tightens. I’m startled to find that my eyes are misting, and I hope it’s too dark for Quint to se
e. He can’t know—he can’t possibly know—how good it feels to hear those words. To know he means them.
“Also…” Quint loudly clears his throat and adjusts his legs, crossing one ankle over the other. “I have enormous eyebrows.”
I snort and clap one hand over my mouth. “What?”
“I do. In case you hadn’t noticed.” He leans toward me and points at one eyebrow. “You can come closer if you need to verify.”
“Um. I’ve seen them, thanks.”
“Yeah, exactly. Everyone’s seen them. Aliens on Mars can see them.”
I laugh. “Quint—”
“No, don’t try to tell me they’re not that bad. I own a mirror. I know the truth.” He sighs dramatically and leans back against the cabinet. “When I was a kid, I once asked my mom to help me pluck them.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. She refused. Gave me some you’re-perfect-just-the-way-you-are mom nonsense. So I sneaked into her bathroom and got ahold of her tweezers and pulled out one hair—just one. It hurt so bad I cried. Seriously, why do girls put themselves through that?”
“I often wonder the same thing.”
“Anyway, I couldn’t bring myself to pull any more, which made me cry even harder, and then my mom found me and was like, what the heck is wrong with you? They’re just eyebrows! But the thing is—they make me look so mean. I was worried everyone would think I was some bully and no one would be my friend.”
Sympathy squeezes my chest.
“And when I told my mom that, she said … all I have to do is smile. Because you can’t look mean when you’re smiling.” His lips turn up, but there’s a sadness, recalling this story. “Anyway, I took those words to heart. Ever since then, I’ve tried to be, you know. The guy that smiles. It’s better than being the guy with the mean eyebrows, anyway.” He chuckles, a little self-deprecatingly.
While I sit there feeling like the biggest jerk, remembering how I mocked his eyebrows when he came to karaoke all those weeks ago.
And now I can’t even remember what made me say such awful things. I like his eyebrows. I like how expressive they are. The way they quirk up when he’s teasing. The way they furrow when he’s annoyed. Though I like them less when he’s annoyed at me.
I want to tell him this, but the words are stuck. My throat is dry.
“Anyway,” says Quint, “I guess we’re all self-conscious about something.”
“I guess so.” My words are barely a croak.
He meets my eye and there’s a second—an hour—an eternity—in which neither of us looks away. He has that crooked half smile on his face. My brain falters, leaving me suspended, breathless, trapped.
His attention dips, ever briefly, to my mouth. My insides clench. The distance between us feels like a mile.
Quint inhales and I can’t move, waiting for him to speak, to say my name, to say anything—
But when he does speak, his tone is clipped and brash. Nervous. “Should we talk about something else? The gala? Or biology? Or—school field trips, or something?”
I lick my lips. That does sound safer, and it seems clear neither of us will be falling asleep anytime soon.
“We still need to figure out our raffle prize?” I suggest.
“Good. Right. Something priceless, but that we can actually afford.”
We spend a few minutes pondering. Quint throws out a few ideas—Ari could write them a personalized song? Or the winner could invite some of their closest friends to the next animal-release celebration, like a private party? They’re all good ideas, all possibilities, but nothing seems quite right …
I’m looking around the break room, hoping inspiration will strike, when my attention lands on the photo of the sea turtle caught in the netting and debris.
I gasp. “Quint!”
“What?”
I jump to my feet, tightening the blanket around my waist as I cross the room. “These! Your photos!”
He stands up too, but less enthusiastically. “My photos?”
“Yes! What if we made a series of limited-edition prints showing some of the center’s patients? You could sign each one and number them. They’re so beautiful, and they do such a great job of capturing what the center is all about. People would go nuts for them!”
“Shucks, Pru. That’s mighty kind of you to say.” Despite his joking tone, I can tell he’s embarrassed by the praise. “But come on. They’re too sad. No one would want them.”
I consider this. “Yes, they are sad. But lots of great art is sad. And these pictures, they make you feel something, you know? You capture these moments, these emotions…” I press a hand over my heart, remembering the way my throat had closed tight the first time I’d seen the animals in the photographs. “The pictures are heartbreaking, but they’re also honest, and they explain in the most visceral way why the rescue center is important. I know you didn’t take the pictures so you could sell them, but for a raffle … What do you think?”
He’s frowning at the photos on the wall. “I don’t know. I mean, I’m glad you think they’re good, but … they’re just…” He shrugs. “Depressing. Besides, I’m not some great artist. No one will pay money for these.”
“I think you’re wrong. I know you’re wrong.” I grab his arm, pleading. He tenses. “And they have just the right amount of personal touch. They’re perfect!”
His lips twist to one side. I think I might be wearing him down, but I can also see he’s not convinced. “I guess we can put it on the maybe list.”
I pout. “Fine. It’s your art. I shouldn’t tell you what to do with it.” My hands fall to my hips and I look back at the framed photos, shaking my head in disappointment. “You can do whatever you want to do.”
Quint doesn’t respond.
I wait, fully expecting him to give in. To throw up his hands and proclaim—fine, Prudence, you win. Use the darn photos if it’s that important to you!
But his silence stretches on and on.
Finally, I glance at him.
He’s watching me, his eyes glinting with the faint glow of the flashlight.
“What?” I ask.
His mouth opens, but hesitates. Two seconds. Five. Before—“I can do whatever I want to do?”
I’m immediately wary. My eyes narrow. “Within reason.”
He exhales sharply. “It might be too late for that.”
I’m about to ask what he’s talking about, when he lowers his head and touches his lips against mine.
I freeze.
All thoughts evacuate my brain, leaving me with nothing but mental static.
My lips tingle. It’s a brief touch. Hesitant. Unsure. And then it’s gone. His eyes are hooded as he peers at me, waiting for my reaction.
And I—I can’t react. I can barely breathe.
Quint Erickson just kissed me.
He starts to look concerned. He gulps so loud I can hear it.
“I’ve … wanted to do that for a while…,” he says, which might be an explanation? Or an excuse? And then he’s pulling away even farther, and those eyebrows, those glorious eyebrows are knitting together, and I can tell he’s embarrassed and hurt and—why can’t I move?
“But if I shouldn’t have … I maybe misread … um.” His shoulders rise defensively. “Should I say I’m sorry?”
“No!” The word is all I can manage. Anything to get him to stop talking, to stop backpedaling, to stop looking like he might have just made a mistake. “I just … you surprised me. Is all.”
His head slowly lifts, slowly falls, in something like a robotic nod. “Okay. Good surprised, or…?”
I laugh, the hilarity hitting me all at once.
Quint. Quint kissed me.
He kissed me.
“Pru—”
I don’t let him finish. I grab his shoulders and kiss him back.
FORTY
“The second-to-last day of school.”
“Second-to-last day of school?” I say, baffled, trying to remember wha
t, if anything, was so special about the second-to-last day of school. But then I shake my head. “No, no. I know you’re lying, because the last day of school is when we got our grades from Mr. Chavez, and you implied that only a masochist would willingly work on that biology project with me over the summer.”
“Oh yeah. I’m not saying it was the first time I realized I liked you. I was still thoroughly convinced that you were a terrible person. I’m just saying, the second-to-last day of school is when you became a terrible person that I sort of wanted to make out with.”
I blanch. “Quint!” I say, hiding my face behind my hands. “Honestly!”
He shrugs. “You asked.”
I stutter a laugh, even as heat burns across my cheeks. We’re sitting on the pile of blankets. The power is still out, though the storm has dulled to a steady drizzle. Quint’s arm is draped around my shoulders, as comfortably as if we did this all the time.
I don’t know how many hours we’ve been sitting here. We’ve gone past that period of late-night delirium when everything becomes hysterically funny, through the point when everything seems impossibly profound, and now we’re both sleepy and yawning and refusing to close our eyes. I never want this night to end.
“So what was it? My extremely detailed miniature model of Main Street, or…”
“Karaoke, obviously.”
I gasp. “Oh! That was karaoke night, wasn’t it? When I…” I touch the back of my head, remembering my fall. Then I look at him, dubious. “You have a thing for girls with concussions?”
“I honestly don’t know what I have a thing for.” His fingers mindlessly trace circles around my upper arm. “But there was just something … I don’t know. At one point you did that little shoulder-shimmy thing…” He wiggles his shoulders in imitation. “Plus, that lipstick of yours…” He brings his free hand to my face, pressing his thumb lightly against my lips, even though there’s no way I have any lipstick left after this night. I shiver. “I usually don’t get the whole makeup thing, but that lipstick. I’ve had dreams in that exact shade of red lately.”
Instant Karma Page 35
