My interpretation of the night changes, and I see the three of us lounging around, books in one hand, s’mores in the other, while Ari strums her newest tune. Now that actually sounds like a delightful evening.

“Fine, I’ll go,” I say, grabbing my backpack. “But I’m not getting in the water.”

“Wasn’t even going to ask,” says Jude. He knows that I find the ocean terrifying, mostly because sharks. I would also be lying if I didn’t say that the thought of putting on a swimsuit in front of half the students at our school didn’t fill me with an abundance of unmitigated horror.

We head downstairs. Dad has just put on a new record, and the upbeat harmonies of the Beach Boys start to fill up the living room. I glance through the doorway and see Dad swaying around the coffee table. He tries to get Penny to dance with him, but she’s lying on the floor, playing a video game on Dad’s tablet, doing a superb job of ignoring him.

I generally try to avoid the living room, because over the years it’s become a bit of a junkyard. Cleaning and organizing hasn’t taken priority in my parents’ lives in a while, and all the random things we don’t know what to do with tend to get piled up in the living room corners. Not just my old keyboard, but also boxes of abandoned craft projects and stacks of unread magazines. Plus, there are the records. So many vinyl records, spilling across every surface, piling up on the ancient carpet. It stresses me out just looking at it.

Jude and I turn the other way, into the kitchen. Ellie’s tantrum seems to be over, thank heavens, and she’s sitting in the breakfast nook, wearing her favorite dress with the sequined monkey on the front and mindlessly shoveling cereal into her mouth. She has a magazine spread out in front of her. She can’t read yet, but she likes looking at the photos of animals in National Geographic Kids. Through the window I spy Lucy in the backyard, kicking a soccer ball against the back of the house.

The elementary and middle school terms ended yesterday, making this Penny’s and Lucy’s first official day of summer vacation. Eleanor’s preschool got out last week. One glance at Mom, sitting across from Ellie with a glass of tomato juice, her laptop, and a couple piles of receipts spread around her, suggests she’s already feeling frazzled by the change.

“I wanted to make pancakes for your last day,” she says when Jude and I enter, before giving us a helpless shrug. “But I don’t think it’s going to happen. Maybe this weekend?”

“No worries,” says Jude, grabbing a bowl from the cabinet. He would gladly survive on cereal alone if our parents allowed it.

I plug in the blender on the counter to make my usual morning smoothie. I pull out the milk and peanut butter, then turn to reach for the fruit bowl. I freeze.

“Where’d all the bananas go?”

No one answers.

“Uh, Mom? You bought two bunches of bananas, like, two days ago?”

She barely glances up from her screen. “I don’t know, honey. There are five growing kids in this family.”

As she’s talking, a movement catches my eye. Ellie has lifted her magazine, holding it up in front of her face.

“Ellie?” I say warningly, crossing the room and snatching the magazine from her hand, at the same time that she shoves the last few bites of a banana into her mouth. Her cheeks bulge and she struggles to chew. The peel is still in her hand. A second banana peel lies next to her empty cereal bowl. “Eleanor! Seriously? That’s so rude! Mom!”

Mom looks up, glaring—at me, of course. “She’s four, and it’s a banana.”

I start to groan but bite my tongue. It isn’t because it’s a banana. It’s the principle of the thing. She heard me saying I wanted it, which is the only reason she stuffed it into her mouth. If it had been Jude, she would have passed it to him on a silver platter.

I toss the magazine back onto the table. “Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll find something else.”

But I’m still simmering as I start rummaging through the freezer, hoping for a bag of frozen berries. When I come up empty, I step back, balling my hands into fists. I cast a withering look at Ellie over my shoulder, just as she swallows the banana. Ugh. That selfish little—

A soccer ball comes sailing into view. It strikes Mom’s glass, knocking it to the table. Mom yelps as tomato juice floods over the surface. She snatches up the nearest piles of receipts, while Ellie sits frozen, wide-eyed, doing nothing as a river of deep red juice spills over the edge of the table and straight into her lap.

I blink, having flashbacks to the drunk hecklers at Encanto last night. The cherry. The spilled beer. The déjà vu is bizarre.

“Lucy!” Mom shrieks.

Lucy is standing in the back door, her hands still extended as if there were an invisible soccer ball in them. She looks bewildered. “I didn’t do it!”

Mom makes a disgusted sound. “Oh, right. I’m sure the universe just plucked it out of your hands and threw it at the table!”

“But—”

“Don’t just stand there! Get a towel!”

I know she means Lucy, but Jude is a step ahead of everyone, bringing a wad of paper towels over to help sop up the mess.

“Mom!” Ellie’s voice warbles. “It’s my favorite dress!”

“I know, sweetie,” says Mom, though I can tell she’s barely listening as she checks the underside of her computer to see if there’s any juice on it. “Pru, could you help your sister get changed?”

Hearing my name shakes me from my daze. It’s just a spilled glass. It’s just a soccer ball. It’s just coincidence.

But it’s also so weird.

My fingers tingle as I release my fists and stretch them out. I go around the table and Ellie compliantly lifts her arms for me to pull the sticky wet dress off her.

“It’s my favorite,” she says, pouting. “Can it be saved?”

The way she says it is beyond melodramatic, but I can’t help feel a tug of guilt. Even though this isn’t my fault. I was nowhere near that glass of juice, or the soccer ball for that matter. Lucy really does need to learn to be more careful.

“I’ll put some Spray ’n Wash on it and we’ll hope for the best,” I say. “Go pick out something else to wear for today.”

She casts a feisty scowl at Lucy, though it goes ignored as Lucy helps Mom and Jude clean up. Ellie harrumphs and storms upstairs.

“Jude, I’m going to go throw this in the wash, then we should get going,” I say. “Last day. Shouldn’t be late.”

He nods and throws the red-tinged paper towels in the trash. “Want a bagel for the road?”

“Sure, thanks.” I head into the laundry room, grab the stain remover from the plastic tote beside the washing machine, then spread out the damp fabric. The stain runs the whole length of the dress, from just above the ear of the sparkly monkey’s head, all the way down to the bottom of the skirt.

It’s probably just my imagination, but I swear the stain is in the exact shape of a banana.

EIGHT

I’ve barely stepped through the classroom door when Mr. Chavez barks at me—“Papers on the table, please, then pick up your graded final project over there.” He points the capped end of a dry-erase marker at a pile of papers on the front table.

I pull out my report on the anglerfish and set it down on the stack with the others. As I make my way between the tables, I’m startled to see that my lab table isn’t empty. Quint is already there. Early. Earlier than me.

I freeze. I honestly hadn’t expected Quint to be here today at all, even if he had mentioned it last night. Being the last day before summer vacation, I’d assumed he’d be MIA, along with half the sophomore class and nearly all the juniors and seniors.

But there he is, flipping through a three-ring binder full of clear sheet protectors. It’s the report he turned in yesterday. Our report.

I eye him warily as I make my way to Mr. Chavez’s desk and pick up the diorama of Main Street. I scan it for some indication of my grade, but don’t see anything.

Quint glances up at me as I approach our shared table and set the model down on the corner.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

The back of my head throbs, just barely, in response to his question. It’s hardly bothered me all morning, but being reminded of my fall has me instinctively feeling for the lump on my skull. It’s almost nonexistent now.

“That depends,” I say, dropping into my seat. “How did we do?”

He shrugs and peels a large blue sticky note off the front cover of the report. He presses the paper onto the table between us.

My stomach drops as I read the words.

Prudence: B-

Quint: B+

Overall: C

“What?” I say, practically yelling. “Is this a joke?”

“I thought you might not be thrilled,” says Quint. “Tell me, is it the C that’s most upsetting or that my individual grade is higher than yours?”

“Both!” I slump forward, reading the words that Mr. Chavez has written beneath the grades. Prudence: exemplary work, but little applied science. Quint: strong concepts, but messy execution and unfocused writing. Project displays an overall lack of cohesiveness and follow-through on key ideas. Both grades would have benefited greatly with improved communication and teamwork.

“What?” I say again, followed by a dismayed growl in the back of my throat. I shake my head. “I knew I should have just written it myself.”

Quint laughs. It’s a hearty laugh, one that draws more than a few stares. “Of course that’s what you take from those comments. Clearly my involvement was the problem, even though…” He leans forward and taps his B+.

I stare at him. “That has to be a mistake.”

“Naturally.”

My heartbeat is drumming in my chest. My breaths become short. How is this possible? I’ve never gotten a C before, not on anything. And my model! My gorgeous model, that I worked so hard on, all those hours, the details … That only got me a B-?