“Feeling better?” he asks. And since this is the first time I’ve seen him since biology class, I know immediately what he’s talking about.

“Not even a little bit,” I answer.

He nods. “Figured as much.” Finishing his snacks, he balls up the plastic baggie and tosses it at the nearest trash can. It falls short by at least four feet. Grumbling, he walks over and scoops it up.

I hear Ari’s car coming before I see it. A few seconds later, the blue station wagon swings into the parking lot, never straying above the five-miles-per-hour limit posted on the signs. She pulls up to the bottom of the steps and leans out her open window, a party horn in her mouth. She blows once, unraveling the silver-striped coil with a screechy, celebratory blare.

“You’re free!” she squeals.

“Free of the overlords!” Jude responds. “We shall toil away at their menial drudgework no longer!”

We get into the car, Jude and his long legs in front, me in the back. We’ve had this afternoon planned for weeks, determined to start the summer out right. As we pull out of the parking lot, I vow to forget about Quint and our miserable presentation for the rest of the day. I figure I can have one day to revel in summer vacation before I set my mind to solving this problem. I’ll figure something out tomorrow.

Ari drives us straight to the boardwalk, where we can binge on sundaes from the Salty Cow, an upscale ice cream parlor known for mixing unusual flavors like “lavender mint” and “turmeric poppy seed.” When we get there, though, there’s a line all the way out the door, and the impatient looks on some of the patrons’ faces make me think it hasn’t moved in a while.

I trade glances with Ari and Jude.

“I’ll go pop my head in and see what’s going on,” I say as the two of them get in line. I squeeze through the door. “Sorry, not trying to cut, just want to see what’s happening.”

A man standing with three young kids looks about ready to explode. “That’s happening,” he says, gesturing angrily toward the cashier.

A woman is arguing—no, screaming at the poor girl behind the counter, who looks like she’s barely older than I am. The girl is on the verge of crying, but the woman is relentless. How incompetent can you be? It’s just ice cream, not rocket science! I put in this order a month ago!

“I’m sorry,” the girl pleads, red-faced. “I didn’t take the order. I don’t know what happened. There isn’t any record…”

She’s not the only one on the verge of tears. A little girl with pigtails stands with her hands on the glass ice cream case, looking between the angry woman and her parents. “Why is it taking so long?” she whimpers.

“I want to speak to your manager!” yells the woman.

“He isn’t here,” says the girl behind the counter. “There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry!”

I don’t know why the woman is so furious, and I’m not sure it matters. Like she said, it’s just ice cream, and clearly the poor cashier is doing her best. She could at least be civil. Not to mention that she’s keeping these poor kids—and me—from getting our ice cream.

I take in a deep breath and prepare to storm up to the woman. Maybe if we can be rational, we can get the manager’s phone number and he can come down and deal with this.

I clench my hands at my sides.

I take two steps forward.

“What’s going on here?” bellows a stern voice.

I pause. The people in line shuffle out of the way as a police officer strolls into the ice cream parlor.

Or … I could let him deal with it?

The woman at the counter opens her mouth, clearly about to start yelling again, but she’s cut off by all the waiting customers. The presence of the police officer encourages them, and suddenly they’re all willing to speak up on behalf of the cashier. This woman is being a nuisance. She’s being rude and ridiculous. She needs to leave!

For her part, the woman seems genuinely shocked when no one, especially those closest in line who have heard the whole story, comes to her defense.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but it sounds like I should escort you out,” says the officer.

She looks mortified. And stunned. And still angry. With a snarl, she grabs a business card off the counter and sneers at the girl who is wiping tears from her cheeks. “I will be calling your manager about this,” she says, before storming out of the parlor to a huge roar of approval.

I make my way back to Jude and Ari, shaking out my hands. My fingers have that weird pins-and-needles feeling in them again for some reason. I explain what happened, and soon the line starts moving again.

After we’ve finished our ice cream, we overpay for a surrey from the rental kiosk and spend an hour pedaling along the boardwalk under its lemon-yellow awning, Ari snapping too many photos of us making kooky faces, and Jude and me yelling at her to stop slacking off and start moving her legs.

Until we come across a group of tourists who are taking up the whole width of the boardwalk and meandering at a turtle’s pace.

We slow down the surrey so we don’t crash into them. Ari honks the little bike horn.

One of the tourists looks back, notices us, and then goes right back to their conversation. Ignoring us entirely.

“Excuse us!” says Jude. “Could we get by?”

They don’t respond.

Ari honks the horn again. And again. They still don’t get out of the way.

What the heck? Do they think they own this boardwalk or something? Move!

My knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.

“Coming through! Can’t stop! Get out of the way!” someone yells, charging toward us from the other direction.

The tourists yelp in surprise and scatter as five teens on skateboards come barreling toward them. One of the women loses her sandal and it gets squashed beneath one of the skateboard’s wheels. A man hauls himself backward so fast he loses his balance and falls off the edge of the boardwalk, landing on his behind in the sand below. They all start yelling at the inconsiderate teenage hooligans, while Jude and Ari and I look at one another and shrug.

We pedal quickly past the tourists before they can regroup.

After returning the surrey, we order a gigantic basket of garlic fries from the fish-and-chips stand and sit out on the sidewalk, kicking sand at the greedy seagulls who come too close, trying to snap up our fries. When one of them comes so close it sends Ari squealing and ducking around a picnic table, Jude tosses some of the burnt bits from the bottom of the basket for the birds to fight over.

A second later, one of the stand’s employees sees him doing it and starts yelling because “every idiot knows better than to feed the wildlife!” Jude gets a guilt-ridden look on his face. He doesn’t do well with chastisement.

As soon as the employee turns away, I shake my fist at his back. I’m just lowering my arm when a seagull swoops down and snatches the paper hat off the employee’s head. He cries out and ducks in surprise as the bird soars away.

I watch as the bird and the hat disappear into the sunset.

Okay.

Is it just me, or…?

I glance down at my hand.

No. That’s ridiculous.

As the sun begins to sink toward the horizon, we finally make our way to the cove where the bonfire party is held each year, a stretch of shore about a mile north of downtown. I don’t know how long the bonfire tradition has been going on. How many classes have danced drunkenly around the flames, how many seniors have splashed fully dressed into the surf, how many make-out sessions have taken place in the rocky alcoves where people go to, well, make out. Supposedly. I wouldn’t know firsthand, but you hear stories.

We’re not the first ones to arrive, but we’re still on the early side. A couple of seniors are unloading coolers from the back of a pickup truck. A boy I recognize from math class is arranging kindling for the fire. The first arrivals are already staking out their spots, spreading blankets and towels on the beach, producing volleyballs and beer cans from large woven tote bags.

We pick a spot not far from the bonfire, unrolling the blanket that Ari brought with her and setting out a few low-slung beach chairs. Within minutes, Jude gets hailed by a few of our classmates and goes over to chat.

Ari turns to me. “I already know the answer to this, but just to be sure. Do you want to go in the water?”

I curl my nose in distaste.

“That’s what I thought.” Standing, she surprises me by pulling her paisley printed sundress over her head, revealing a pale pink bathing suit underneath. She’s clearly been wearing it all day, and it startles me a little bit to realize that I had no idea.

“Wait, you’re going swimming?” I ask.

“Not swimming,” she says. “But it’s a beach party. I figured I should at least get my feet wet. Sure you don’t want to join me?”

“Positive. Thanks.”

“Okay. Watch my guitar?”

She doesn’t wait for me to respond, because of course I will. Ari marches off down the shore. She doesn’t say hi to anyone, and I notice a few people giving her curious looks, wondering whether they should recognize her. Jude says she didn’t hesitate when he invited her to come to this party, even though she won’t know anyone. I wonder if she’s hoping to meet some more Fortuna Beach youth while we’re here, make some new friends. I should probably introduce her to some people when she comes back, but …

I look around, frowning. Honestly, I don’t know many people here, either. It’s almost entirely seniors and juniors so far. And the few sophomores I recognize, like Maya and her crew, I’m not exactly friends with.

Jude, though, will know lots of people. Even though he’s sort of a nerd, who watches old seasons of Star Trek and has a whole shelf of Lord of the Rings Funko dolls, people like Jude. He has his own sort of charm. He has a soothing, easy-to-be-with presence.

Just one more reason no one ever believes it when we say we’re related.

So, if Ari is interested in making friends, he’s more equipped to help out.