“I know,” says Quint, saving me from having to find adequate descriptors. “But here comes the million-dollar question.” The way he says it, I feel like this whole afternoon has been a buildup to his next words.

Instantly guarded, I meet his gaze. There are deep red lines around his eyes, a perfect silhouette of his goggles. I probably look just as silly. My hair is frizzing around my face as it starts to dry out. But after the day we’ve had, none of that seems to matter.

Quint gives me a knowing look, bordering on smug. “Is it worth saving?”

I go still.

Suddenly, it makes sense.

Because no one is going to give us money if they don’t know why it’s important.

I remember him saying that, but it didn’t really sink in until now. I feel a stronger connection to our little stretch of ocean now than I ever have in my life. The magical schools of fish, the shells that shimmer along the ocean floor, the sea turtles. I swam with flipping sea turtles!

And suddenly, I care.

Is it worth saving? Is it worth protecting?

Abso-friggin-lutely.

“Point made,” I mutter.

He beams. We spend some time drying off our legs, brushing sand from our feet. I hastily pull on my dress while he’s turned away. Quint takes my towel and the snorkel gear, cramming them into a bag, and we start back up the beach, heading toward the boardwalk.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“Starving,” I answer automatically.

“Cool. Maybe we can get some tacos while we go over the rest of your ideas?”

He’s a couple steps ahead of me, his focus turned toward the horizon. I wish I could see his face, because that old uncertainty rears up again, every bit as unbelievable now as it was earlier.

This isn’t supposed to be a romantic thing. I mean, there’s just no way.

Is there?

“I … uh … left the folder at home.”

“Is it far?” He glances back at me.

“No,” I say, perhaps too slowly. “We live over on Sunset.”

“Okay. I’ll walk with you. Or I can go get us a table somewhere?”

He’s being so casual. Which is perhaps the only reason I notice how flustered I’ve become.

“Actually, I’m kind of exhausted. Maybe we can talk about it tomorrow? At the center?”

If he’s disappointed, he hides it well beneath a shrug, utterly devoid of emotion. “Sounds good.”

We pause at the boardwalk. The beach is more crowded here and chances are good that we’ll see someone we know from school, but if Quint is at all wary about being seen with me—clearly with me, given our matching wet hair and goggle impressions—it doesn’t show. When it becomes clear that he’s heading one way and I’m going the other, we both hesitate, standing awkwardly.

“Okay, well. Tomorrow, then.” I start to turn away.

“Hey, could I just hear you say it?” he asks. I glance back. There’s a glint in his eye. “Just once?”

“Say what?”

“I just want you to admit that this”—he gestures toward the ocean—“wasn’t a waste of time. That I actually had a good idea.” He taps his chest.

I cross my arms and say in a robotic voice, “This was not a waste of time. You had a good idea.”

“And you’re glad you came.”

I sigh and drop the robotic tone. Honestly, I confess, “And I’m glad I came.”

“And you’ll never doubt me or argue with me ever again.”

I point my finger at his nose. “Too far.”

His teeth flash. “Had to try. Hey, I almost forgot. I have something for you.”

He starts digging through the bag, shoving aside damp towels and goggles. His hand emerges clutching a yellow T-shirt, printed with the logo of the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center.

I take it from him, surprised, but not sure if I should be flattered to be receiving it or annoyed it wasn’t given to me on my first day. After a second of inspecting the shirt, I say, “I’m not really sure yellow is my color.”

“I’m not sure it’s anybody’s color, but it was the printer’s cheapest option.” Still grinning, he adds, “Besides, you might be selling yourself short. I’ll see you Monday, Prudence.”

I smile and wave goodbye.

Despite these volunteer shirts being really ugly, I cradle the dumb thing to my chest the whole walk home.

TWENTY-ONE

I’m on a roll, outlining a new section for our revised biology project: educational snorkeling classes for tourists! Guests would go out snorkeling with a trained professional who could tell them what fish and animals they were looking at, and explain the delicate balance of our shallow water ecosystems. The guide would discuss things like—

A screech of a violin invades my ears. I cry out in surprise and cover my ears with both hands.

“Penny!” I yell to the next bedroom.

“Sorry!” she yells back, though her apology is quickly followed by another squeal from the strings.

Sighing, I get up and close my bedroom door. Returning to my bed, I pull my computer back on my lap, doing my best to ignore the painful sounds from the next room. Why on earth are my parents still paying for her to take lessons? Clearly they’re not doing any good, and I’m sure they have better things to spend their limited funds on.

Okay. Where was I?

The guide would discuss things like … right. The natural food chain and the importance of biodiversity. How predators like sea otters help keep the sea urchin population under control, which prevents the sea urchins from overfeeding on kelp, which then can provide food and shelter for many other species. There are larger environmental factors to—

My bedroom door swings open, admitting not just the earsplitting squeaks of Penny’s violin, but also Eleanor, dressed in her favorite llama pajamas.

“Ellie, you’re supposed to knock!”

“Will you come play with me?”

“No. I’m busy. Shut the door.”

Her lower lip juts out. “But no one will play with me. Penny is practicing her violin and Lucy is on the phone and Mom is watching that dumb baking show again.”

“None of this is my problem. Go talk to Jude.”

“He went with Dad to get dinner.”

I groan and get out of bed. Ellie’s face lights up, but she deflates as soon as I grab her by the shoulder and steer her back out the door. “Self-sufficiency is an important skill that you need to start developing.”

She makes a frustrated sound and stomps her foot. “What does that even mean?”

“It means, go play with your dolls.”

“Jude always says yes, and you always say no!”

“Well, I guess Jude is just a nicer person than I am.”

I shut the door. She yells from the other side, “Yes he is!”

I mime strangling her, then throw my hands into the air. I consider taping a DO NOT DISTURB sign to it, but … whatever. She can’t read yet.

I go back to the report and scan over the last paragraph. Not bad. Moving on.

I vaguely remember Mr. Chavez saying something about how marine plants like kelp and seaweed are more effective at cleaning our air pollution than all the rain forests of the world. But I don’t remember the specifics, or how it works.

I open up the internet and start to type in a search query.

Angry footsteps storm down the hallway, then Lucy yells from right outside my door. “MOM! Would you make Ellie go downstairs? I’m trying to have a conversation and she won’t stop bothering me!”

“I’m folding clothes and watching my show!” Mom yells back. “Just let her play with your makeup or something!”

“What? No! She makes a mess!”

I flop down on my back and pull a pillow over my head.

Quint was so wrong. Siblings are the worst. My life would be infinitely better if it were just me and Jude.

Outside my door, the violin continues to screech. Lucy is still yelling. Ellie has started to cry—one of her fake tantrum cries that grate on every nerve.

My fingers twitch. I could punish the whole lot of them. For being so rude, so inconsiderate, so loud.

But just before my fingers close into a fist, I pause and force myself to stretch my hand out wide instead. What if, by trying to punish my whole family at once for their barbarity, the universe decides to burn our house down or something?

Grumbling, I climb out of bed and go searching for my noise-canceling headphones. I check my desk, the drawers, my book bag. They’re not in any of the places I usually put them.

I huff, knowing exactly who has them.

The hallway has been deserted. I shut the door to Penny and Lucy’s shared bedroom just as another squeak peals from the violin. I pass the bathroom, where Eleanor is sitting on the bath mat, starting to paw through my makeup bag.

“No,” I say, snatching it away.

She screams. “Lucy said I could!”

I reach over her head and grab Lucy’s makeup kit off the counter and hand it to her. She lights up. With the exception of my vivid lipsticks, Lucy’s makeup, with its sparkles and an actual eyelash curler, is definitely preferable to mine or even Mom’s. At least according to the four-year-old of the family.

With her own bedroom being used as the ear-torture station, Lucy has set up shop in our parents’ room. I open the door and find her sprawled out on the bed, her cell phone to her ear.

“Where are my headphones?”

“Hold on,” she says into the phone, before holding it against her chest. She shoots me a hateful look. “What?”

“My headphones. Where are they?”

“How should I know? Go away.”

“This isn’t your bedroom.”

“Mom doesn’t care.”

Anger is boiling under my skin now. Is it so hard for her to answer a simple question?

“Lucy, you always take them without asking. So where are they?”

“I don’t know!” she yells. “Check my backpack!”