But Dad doesn’t say any of this. Instead, he says, “I’ve never heard of it.”

“No, I hadn’t, either. A friend told me about it.” I visibly shiver at the idea that Quint is a friend, but I turn back to my toast, which has just popped, and focus on slathering it with peanut butter.

“Is this for school?”

I hesitate. “Sort of? And also, just … you know. I thought it’d be good to do something for the community, and our local … marine … habitats.” I drop the knife into the sink. “I thought I’d go there today and see if they could use my help.” I hesitate, smiling uncertainly, before asking, “Is that okay?”

His brows pucker in the middle. “Well,” he drawls slowly, uncertainly. I can see the wheels whirring in his head as he tries to determine the best parental approach. Insist that your child help with the family business in order to build personal responsibility and a strong work ethic, or encourage this unexpected interest in altruism and animal welfare? Finally, he clears his throat. “I tell you what. You go talk to them today and see if it seems like a good fit for you, and I’ll talk to your mother about it, and we’ll reconvene at dinner tonight.” He finishes this statement with a pleased nod. I can practically see him congratulating himself on another parenting dilemma, conquered. Or, at least, postponed until Mom can give her input. “Do you need me to drive you there?”

“No, thanks. I’ll take my bike. It’s only a couple miles away.”

He nods again, but then seems to reconsider something. “You know, Pru, I was teasing before, about spending your time at the boardwalk. You’ve worked hard this year. You deserve to relax during your vacation. So … volunteer at this rescue place or come hang at the store with me or whatever works out. But don’t forget to get out and enjoy the sunshine sometimes, too, all right?”

I stare at him. He says it so innocently, but I can’t help but feel like there’s a tiny, hidden attack in his words. Don’t work so hard that you forget to have fun.

Why is everyone so concerned that I don’t know how to have fun? To relax? Yes, I work hard. Yes, I believe in practicality and efficiency and excelling at the things I do. What’s so wrong with that?

I don’t say any of this, though. Instead, I give Dad a tight smile. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll take it under consideration.”

He sighs at me. “You do that.” He turns his attention back to his coffee and his magazine, enjoying his last moments of peace before the rest of my siblings begin to stir.

I grab my toast and head out the door. I haven’t quite decided how I feel about my little white lie by the time I’m strapping on my bike helmet and cramming the last bite of toast into my mouth. Under no circumstances had I considered volunteering my summer hours at some nonprofit organization—at least, I’m assuming the center is nonprofit, though even that is unclear. Either way, if I had intended to volunteer somewhere, I would have chosen something like writing newsletters for our local YMCA or starting a Little Free Library on Main Street or organizing bake sales in order to send some kid in an impoverished third-world country to school or … something. But sea turtles and otters or whatever it is they work with at this place? I mean, I have nothing against sea animals. And I do need to fix our project for Mr. Chavez, and this seems like a sure way to do it.

But still. It’s not exactly the cause of my heart.

Maybe, if things don’t go well today, I can come up with a plan B. Find some other organization to volunteer my time at—something a little more fitting to my interests—and tell my parents there’s been a change of plans.

Curating a Little Free Library would be fun …

I pause, frowning at this thought. Something tells me very few people would agree with this sentiment. Is it possible that my idea of fun, relaxing, enjoyable activities is really so far afield from everyone else’s?

But does that mean something is wrong with me, or them?

I shake my head. Whatever I decide about volunteering, at least it will look great on college applications. A summer spent at a sea animal rescue center may not have been the original plan, but I can see how it will have long-term benefits. I’m envisioning all the heartwarming application essays I’ll be able to write explaining how I managed to make the world a better place through my selfless dedication. My future résumé will be a step above other candidates’ for having spent a portion of my time in such impressive service.

This is good, I tell myself repeatedly, as my legs pump against the bike pedals.

This is for the best.

It certainly beats out a summer spent at the record store, anyway.

The salty wind is refreshing against my cheeks, blowing through my hair. The morning is warm but pleasant. I pass loads of people walking their dogs, and even some kids splashing through the sprinklers on their front lawn. I pass an old man mowing his grass and a bunch of house painters setting up scaffolding. I pass more people on bikes—some in suits, some in swim trunks. We give each other neighborly smiles.

I stop outside a convenience store, waiting for the traffic light to change. The car beside me has the windows down and I smile when “Good Day Sunshine” comes on over their speakers. I tap my fingers against the handlebars, humming along. I even picture myself singing this song at karaoke night—if we go back for karaoke night.

Hecklers and spilled drinks aside, it was kind of fun.

I’m still distracted, thinking that maybe I would consider doing a duet with Ari, when the light for crossing traffic turns yellow. I adjust the pedals, getting ready to go, when I glance toward the convenience store parking lot. A shiny SUV is pulling into a parking spot.

My eyes narrow like laser beams.

It’s the disabled-persons parking spot. But there’s no wheelchaired stick figure on the car’s license plate, no tag hanging from the rearview mirror.

I swivel the front wheel of my bike up onto the curb. I examine the car more thoroughly as I get closer, looking for any sign that they might deserve this coveted spot right by the entrance. This spot that’s supposed to be used only by those who truly need it.

The driver’s-side door opens and I watch as a middle-aged man climbs out and hurries into the store. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t have a disability. Not even a limp.

And there’s no passenger.

I shake my head in disgust. Who does he think he is? Someone who actually needs that spot could show up at any minute! Is he going to make some poor elderly grandmother struggle across the parking lot with her walker or cane?

I wriggle my fingers first, feeling the blood pumping into them. There’s a moment when I think—you’re kidding yourself, Prudence—this isn’t going to work.

But I ignore the doubt and squeeze my hand tight.

The instant I do it, a seagull flies overhead and drops a perfect white blotch of excrement onto the SUV’s windshield, right smack in the driver’s view.

A surprised bark of a laugh escapes me, and I clap my hand over my mouth. Bull’s-eye.

The man darts from the store a second later, carrying nothing but an energy drink. He takes one look at his car and curses.

I swivel my bike around and soar back onto the street, my whole body tingling with satisfaction.

The ride grows more interesting after that. I’m like a radar, seeking out injustices in the world. My newfound power is twitching at the ends of my fingers, ready to be released. I’m hungry for another chance to see it in action, and the opportunities are suddenly everywhere.

I pass a couple of middle-school-aged boys as they’re abusing the vending machine outside Ike’s Grocery.

I squeeze my fist and their stolen sodas explode in their faces.

I notice a little girl throwing pebbles at a squirrel. A second later she stubs her toe and runs off wailing to her mother.

I see a man at a bus stop making inappropriate catcalls as a woman jogs by. She ignores him, steely-faced. When he leans forward to admire her backside, I gift his jeans with a split seam down his own rear end.

I am on fire. I am shaking with glee. I’m on a total power trip and I know it, but it’s not like I asked for this gift, so I figure I must have done something to deserve it.

I’m only a few blocks away from the rescue center when I pass a billboard that I’ve probably passed by a hundred times without really paying it much attention. Except now there’s a ladder leaned against it, and a person standing on the platform, dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and a green beanie cap, holding a can of spray paint.

I stop my bicycle, a little stunned to think that someone would be bold enough to vandalize a billboard in broad daylight like this.

The billboard is an advertisement for Blue’s Burgers, a joint that’s been a staple in our community since the 1960s. On the right side of the humongous image is a close-up of one of their cheeseburgers, overflowing with pickles and lettuce and creamy special sauce. In the background is a green pasture, with two black-and-white-spotted cows, contentedly grazing. Blue’s slogan is printed in speech bubbles over their heads: WE’RE HAPPY COWS, SO YOU’LL BE HAPPY DINERS!

But the vandal has sprayed an X over that message and is starting to scrawl something over the picture of the cows.

Indignation flares inside of me. That’s a locally owned business. That’s public property. And now someone is going to have to clean this up or pay to have it replaced.

I huff and clench my fist.

The vandal reaches down for a different color of spray paint—and slips.

The ladder jolts. I hear a scream and am surprised to realize it’s a girl.

Then she’s falling.

It happens in slow motion. Her hands scrabbling for the ladder and finding nothing. Her body plummeting at least ten feet to the ground below. There’s a patch of grass and weeds, not asphalt, but still—I hear the snap.

My gut twists, bile rising in my mouth at that terrible noise, followed by her cry of pain.

Her cap has fallen off. She has shiny black hair pulled into two tight buns behind her ears.