“I don’t know. People really like brownies.”
“True. And I also have this page of supplementary ideas, and under bake sale I did think we could make themed goods? Like, cookies shaped like dolphins, that sort of thing. But, anyway, I think we can do better than a bake sale.” I tap a few more items on the list. “Other cost-effective options are creating a mailing list and working on our educational outreach with local schools, and we definitely need to step things up on social media. The only cost there is our time. On the other end of the spectrum, down here, we have things like—”
“Gifts with donations?” says Quint.
“Yes! Like in our project. Remember? Reusable tote bags and water bottles, all branded with the center’s logo. Just a little incentive, based on various donation amounts. But we would have to pay to produce those items, and it’s better to order that stuff in bulk so that the price-per-item goes way down.”
“Field trips?”
“Right! I thought, if we can get kids excited about the center, then they’ll go home and tell their parents. We can invite classes to come and see the animals, watch us feed them, maybe do a fun craft project, like I found these sea turtle suncatchers on Pinterest that are made out of tissue paper and super cute, and then—”
“Prudence. Pause.”
My words halt.
“Before we can do any of this, we need to figure out our message. Our mission. I mean, I know why my mom started the center, and why so many of the volunteers donate their time there, but we need to be able to convey it to people who’ve never heard of us. Who maybe have no idea that these animals are in danger. Because no one is going to give us money if they don’t know why it’s important.”
“Of course it’s important,” I say, more than a little confused.
Quint laughs. “You don’t think it is.”
“That’s not true. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You’re here because you want a better grade on that project.”
My hackles rise and I’m about to argue, when Quint lifts both hands. “Just stick with me here. We rescue and rehabilitate sea animals. Why?”
“Because…” My mouth stays open, but nothing else comes out. “Because … because people think they’re cute?”
He rolls his eyes. “People. But not you?”
“I don’t know. They’re not bad.”
“Have you ever seen a baby sea otter?”
I roll my eyes. “No, but I’m sure they’re great. I’m just saying. They’re sea animals. They’re not puppies.”
“Ah. So you’re a dog person.”
I make a face. “Ick. No.”
Quint laughs, tipping back in his chair and balancing on the back legs. I’m tempted to kick it out from under him. His teeth, I notice for the first time, are weirdly perfect. Like, toothpaste-model teeth.
“Oh, stop it,” I hiss. “I’m not a monster. I can see that puppies are adorable, and I’m sure baby sea otters are, too. But … I like people. I like kids.”
He looks surprised at this. “You do?”
“Well, sure. I mean, when they’re not related to me. I used to tutor kindergartners in reading and they were the best.”
He stares. “Huh.”
“Don’t huh me,” I say, pointing a finger at his face. “I do more than study, you know.”
He cocks his head to the side, and I can see that this is new information to him. But I can also see him struggling not to say that. “You said you like kids when they’re not related to you. Jude isn’t your only sibling?”
“I wish. We have three younger sisters. Lucy is thirteen, Penny is nine, and Ellie is four.”
“Ellie,” he says, curious. “Short for Eleanor?”
I nod.
“Wow. Your parents were really committed to the Beatles thing, weren’t they?”
My eyes widen. He picked up on that really fast. “You know Beatles music?”
“Of course. They were pretty much all my dad listened to when I was growing up.”
His dad? This is the first I’ve heard of Quint’s dad. I don’t recall seeing a wedding ring on Rosa, but then, I wasn’t looking for one, either. And with her line of work, it’s possible she would take it off anyway.
Then I catch the subtext of Quint’s words. That’s all his dad listened to when he was growing up.
But not now?
Did he pass away?
Curiosity floods through me, but I know I shouldn’t ask. Instead, I shrug, trying to act nonchalant. “Yeah, well, I’m just glad my parents kept having girls, because there aren’t a lot of guy-friendly names in Beatles songs. I mean, there’s Maxwell, who murders people with a hammer. Or Rocky, who gets shot in a saloon … It’s really slim pickings.”
Quint chuckles again, but at least this time he doesn’t seem to be laughing at me, which is a nice change. “I love it. I always wanted a little brother or sister.”
“Everyone says that, because they have no idea what a pain they are.”
He shrugs. “I think I’d be a pretty kickass big brother.”
I want to argue, to shoot a hole or two in that theory, but … maybe he’s right. I mean, Jude is a great big brother. He’s way more patient with our sisters than I am and more willing to play with them or help with homework or babysit. Not that it’s a competition, but we both know who the better older sibling is.
“Do you have any older siblings?” I ask.
“Nope. Just me and my mom.” He pauses before adding, “And because I know you’re dying to ask—my dad is alive. They divorced when I was nine.”
“Oh,” I say, trying not to let on that I’d definitely been picturing a great childhood tragedy in which his dad died in some sudden and horrible way. Something like relief surges through me, even though I know that divorce can be really hard on a kid, too.
“He lives in San Francisco with his new wife,” Quint adds. “I spend two weeks with him every summer and some major holidays. I’m not sad. I’m not traumatized. It’s fine.”
I press my lips together. It’s tempting to tease him for this speech, which he’s clearly given a time or two in the past, but I resist the urge. For three whole seconds. “And you’ve spent how many years in therapy trying to get to this point of well-rounded acceptance?”
The look he gives me is withering, but in a good-natured way. It occurs to me, somewhat bewilderingly, that this conversation has actually turned into something kind of … friendly.
“Funny,” he says. “So, do you like your name? I’ve always wondered.”
I shrug. “I don’t dislike it. There have been times when I hated it, especially with a twin named Jude, because the jokes pretty much write themselves. Prudence the Prude and her weird brother, Jude … Heard that one a lot in middle school.”
Quint grimaces. “Your parents didn’t think that one through?”
“I’m not sure how they could have missed it. But ‘Dear Prudence’ is a beautiful song, one of my favorites, in fact. So … whatever. People are jerks. I’m used to it.”
“It kind of fits you, doesn’t it?”
I stiffen, the words striking me between my rib cage. My eyes narrow. “Because I’m such a prude?”
He looks startled. “No, that isn’t … Why do you keep doing that?”
I roll my eyes. “Please. I know what people think about me. I get it. I don’t goof off. I take things too seriously. But I’m not a total killjoy, either.” I swallow, finding it suddenly impossible to hold his gaze. I don’t say it out loud, but this is actually one of my biggest fears. That, in reality, I am a total killjoy. And these arguments sound defensive even in my own head, and I realize I’m biting the inside of my cheek to keep from blurting something rude right back at him. Maybe if you’d ever showed up on time to class you could have taken five seconds to get to know me, rather than just asking what you missed and copying off my notes. “I know I can be intense. I know I’m not … silly or flirtatious or whatever, but—”
“Okay, stop!” Quint leans over the table. “You just put, like, a zillion words in my mouth that I didn’t say. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was a hitting a nerve here.”
“You did not hit a nerve.”
“Prudence.” He looks bewildered. “Ten minutes ago you almost took off my head for suggesting you were having fun while singing karaoke. Here. Just, give me a second.” He takes out his cell phone and types something into it. “‘Prudent. Adjective. Acting with or showing care and thought for the future.’” He turns the phone so I can see the definition from dictionary.com. “You care about stuff. Yeah, you take things seriously. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
I swallow, feeling simultaneously embarrassed and … strangely flattered.
“Anyway,” he says, putting away the phone. “It’s better than being named for a surly old sea captain.”
“Sea captain?”
“Yeah. Quint.” He eyes me speculatively. “Captain Quint?”
I shake my head.
“The shark hunter from Jaws?”
I shrug.
“Hold on. You’ve never seen Jaws?”
“Hold on. Your marine-animal-loving mom named you after a shark hunter?”
“My question first.”
I give him an exasperated look, then swing my arm in the direction of the boardwalk. “No, I’ve never seen Jaws. We live on the beach. I’m already afraid of sharks. Why would I make it worse?”
He drags a hand through his hair. “Exactly! We live on the beach! It’s like the best beach-town movie of all time!”
“No, thank you. I’m good.”
“I do not accept that. It’s a classic. You have to see it.”