I frown. “What was wrong with my presentation board?”

He gives me a look, like I shouldn’t even have to ask. “For starters, you used the Papyrus font for the headers.”

“So? What’s wrong with Papyrus?”

He makes a gagging noise.

I cross my arms, offended. “That board was fine.”

“I’m sorry, but I could have done better. And then we could have used my photos, too. Tied it in with the report. The whole project would have been so much better if you hadn’t insisted on doing everything yourself. And if you can’t see that…” He shakes his head, then throws up his hands in exasperation and gets out of his chair again. “Whatever. We’re just going in circles now.”

“Your photos?” I say, standing up, too. I glance up at the wall, those framed pictures again. Although those three pictures weren’t in the report, they’re similar to ones that were. “Quint. Did you take these?”

He turns toward the wall, as if needing to be reminded what’s there. “I thought you knew that.”

“And the ones in the paper, too?”

He doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t have to.

My gaze travels down the line of photos, each neatly framed. They’re stunning, each one full of emotions that dig straight into the gut. They could be in an exhibit at an art gallery. They’re definitely deserving of something better than this shoddy break room, at least.

“There! That!” says Quint, pointing at my face.

I jolt, surprised. “What?”

“That’s what I’m asking for. Just a little bit of appreciation. Is that so hard?”

I laugh, but it sounds a little dazed. Because … maybe I am. I’m definitely impressed, which is almost just as weird.

“Quint, these are good. Really good.”

He shrugs. “Naw. I mean, the subject matter is pretty intense, so…”

“No, it’s more than that. I took a one-week photography class when I was in middle school and the teacher was always talking about light and shadow and angles and … I don’t know. I didn’t get most of it. I didn’t really have an eye for it, you know? But these…”

“Aw shucks. You’re making me blush.”

I turn back to him, and though he’d sounded joking, he actually does look like I’ve made him uncomfortable.

“You’re an artist,” I say, a little bewildered.

He makes a hearty guffaw of a sound. “Um, no. It’s just a hobby. I mean … I don’t know. I’ve thought it could be cool to be a photographer, maybe, someday. I’d really love to do underwater photography.” He waves his hand. “But it’ll probably never happen.”

I slowly look up, meeting his eyes. The eyes of this boy who, it turns out, I hardly know at all. We sat next to each other for two whole semesters, and yet it feels like there’s a complete stranger standing before me.

An artist. A volunteer. The sort of person who rescues sea otters in his spare time.

He has his hands tucked into his pockets, looking almost self-conscious as he studies his own photos. While I was left breathless by the pictures, I can see that he’s critiquing them in his mind. Something tells me he has no idea how good they are.

And the truth is, I couldn’t say with absolute certainty that they’re any good, either. I don’t have an artist’s eye. I don’t know about light and shadows, angles and dimension. All I know is that when I look at these photos, they bring a mixture of emotions storming through me. They make me feel.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you to help with our assignments.”

It takes him a second, but when he responds, his voice is light, almost jovial. Good old laid-back Quint. “I forgive you,” he says. Easy as that. “But first, can I grab my phone and record you saying that again? For future reference.”

I glower, but there’s no heat behind it. I look back at the photos. “You could sell these, you know.”

He snorts.

“I’m serious. In fact…” I point at the image of the sea turtle caught up in all the garbage. “I think this is the image we should use on our posters for the beach cleanup. Although”—I shrug at him—“you’re the designer, so I guess it’s your call.”

TWENTY-FOUR

“Hi there! I’m with our local sea animal rescue center. We’re hosting a beach cleanup party tomorrow, right here, where we’ll be releasing four harbor seals back into the ocean. I hope you’ll join us!”

I have said some version of this speech so many times, it’s beginning to lose its meaning. Words slur together. Get jumbled in my mouth. But I keep smiling, keep moving. I have a bag full of blue flyers printed with the details of the beach cleanup, and—yeah, Quint kind of nailed it. That is, we nailed it, since I insisted he let me proofread them before he printed the whole batch, and I did end up catching two typos and one misspelling. I have to admit, though, that the finished product is far better than what I would have done had I made them myself.

The flyers are eye-catching. Simple but effective. On the back, Quint even included short biographies of the seals we’ll be releasing—where and how they were found, what was wrong with them, and notes about their personalities. Plus, each one has a photo. Even in black and white and slightly grainy, the photos are fantastic, and people’s reactions seem to be universal. A surprised gasp, followed by a soft aww that tapers into a bittersweet sigh. The reaction may not be original, but I can tell it’s heartfelt. People are touched by these animals’ stories. I hope that translates into attendance, and donations.

I pause to take a swig of water from the bottle in my bag. The festival started at nine this morning, but newcomers are still swarming the beach, and will continue to arrive until sundown with the promise of a fireworks show that will be set off from a barge out in the bay.

From where I stand, I can see the line of cars stretching down Main Street as people desperately search for parking that no longer exists. Homeowners as far as two miles away will be raking in some dough today, allowing people to park on their lawns for twenty bucks a vehicle.

A long row of tents is set up along the cliffs and boardwalk, selling everything from handmade bird feeders to spice packets. I’m inundated with the smell of sunblock and the sizzle of bratwurst from someone selling hot dogs off a tiny charcoal grill. A rope has been set up to keep a clear pathway for people to shop the vendors, but otherwise, the beach is packed full with blankets, towels, chairs, and umbrellas. It’s the most crowded I’ve ever seen it.

I spy Jude farther up the shore and he catches my eye and waves. Ari is a little past him, talking to a woman selling tie-dyed sarongs and T-shirts. I’ve recruited them to help pass out flyers today, and even Ezra, Quint’s best friend, showed up to help, though he claims it’s only because Fourth of July weekend is when all the cute summer girls show up. I reminded him that he’s representing the center today and to please not sexually harass the tourists. Then I armed them all with the blue slips of paper and explained as many details of tomorrow’s cleanup as I could, trying to fill their heads with phrases like community outreach and raising awareness and freedom for our local wildlife. That is, until Jude silenced me with the look that he’s perfected over the years. The one that lets me know I’ve gone from sharing helpful information to what he calls “Pru-splaining.” Which, according to him, is almost as bad as mansplaining.

All in all, I’m feeling good. Even though Quint and I have had less than two weeks to pull this plan together, I’m excited that it’s finally happening. I can feel that it’s going to be a success.

Besides, I have the universe on my side.

I hand a few flyers to a large family who have created a palatial assemblage of towels and shade awnings. They’re clearly hard-core beachgoers, having thought to bring everything from a portable Bluetooth speaker to mini tables and an ice bucket sporting a bottle of pink champagne, even though alcohol isn’t supposed to be allowed on the beach. It’s a rule that no one seems to care enough to enforce, though. The family sounds enthusiastic and they say they’d love to come to the cleanup.

I’m practically skipping as I walk away.

My attention falls on Quint, and only once I see him do I realize that a small part of me has been searching for him since … well, since I lost sight of him the last time. He’s holding a camera. Not a phone, but an actual camera, with a big lens and little knobs on top that do things I don’t understand. It’s not the sort of thing a person would bring to school—I’m sure it weighs a ton and is probably really fragile—and yet it feels weird that I’ve never seen him with it before. Seeing him now, it’s clear that he’s in his element, adjusting the camera settings with ease and confidence. He crouches down to take a photo of something in the sand and I desperately want to know what it is. Then he stands up, looks around, and snaps a picture of the horizon. And a group of kids prodding a crab. He takes pictures of umbrellas, of empty towels and abandoned coolers, of a surfer standing with his board and staring out at the waves.

Quint pauses and turns in almost a full circle, peering around him with what I have to assume is an artist’s eye. Maybe lining up angles or considering the lighting.

His attention lands on me.

I stiffen, embarrassed to be caught staring. But he just grins and raises the camera to his eye. I roll my eyes, but humor him, holding up a peace sign and smiling for the camera. Though it’s too far away to be real, I imagine I hear the click of the shutter.

I stick my tongue out at him.

He beams. I can’t hear him, but my memory supplies an easy, effortless laugh.

“You’re right,” says Ari, startling me. I hadn’t seen her approach. She’s watching Quint with a knowing smirk. “I thought you were just exaggerating all this time, but oh no. He’s repugnant.”