I exhale what might be the first full exhale I’ve released in a long while.

“So,” he continues, looking at me. “We need a name for his paperwork. Have you thought of one?”

“No,” I say with a bit of a relieved laugh. “I’ve been trying not to think about it until I knew for sure.” I bite my cheek. I know this isn’t a big deal. They name so many animals at this place that by the end of the busy season they’ll name them just about anything. Quint said he once called a sea turtle “Pickle” because he’d had a sandwich for lunch that day.

But it’s a big deal to me.

I think about my sea lion and the way he’d looked up at me on the beach. Even though I know he was hurting, he’d peered at me with something almost like trust. And I hear John Lennon’s voice in my head. Why in the world are we here? Surely not to live in pain and fear …

“How about Lennon?” I suggest. “Like, John Lennon?”

Quint considers it. His lips twitch at the corners. “I’ve heard far worse.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Since Jude and Ari helped me with the festival, it seems only fair that I get up early the next morning to help them open the record store before I have to go prep for the beach cleanup. Jude is not a morning person. He’s been complaining all summer about how getting to the store by 8:00 a.m. so he can check the stock, organize the bins, and clean any fingerprints off the front glass windows might be Dad’s way of punishing him for not keeping up with his guitar lessons years ago.

Dad, however, is chipper as ever as he unlocks the door and lets us in. Dad’s first order of business, just like at home, is to pick a record to play over the sound system. “Any requests?”

Jude yawns and crams the last few bites of a toaster waffle into his mouth.

I consider asking for the Beatles, but I know that makes me sound like a broken record (get it?), so I just shrug and tell Dad to put on whatever he wants. A minute later, Jim Morrison’s sultry voice croons from the speakers.

“All right, my little helper,” says Dad, dancing through the store aisles. “You’re on broom duty. And make sure you get the sidewalk out in front, too. People drag a shocking amount of sand up here from the beach. Jude, want to open up those boxes that came yesterday? Should be some new stock.”

“Want to switch?” I ask. Jude grumbles, shakes his head, and disappears into the back room.

I find the broom and start sweeping. Ari arrives a few minutes later with a tray of mochas from Java Jive. She even brought one for Dad, who presses both hands to his heart when she goes to hand it to him.

“Hiring you was the best decision I have ever made,” he says, taking the coffee. “Now get to work.”

“Aye-aye,” she chirps. She gets the glass cleaner and some paper towels from the supply closet and follows me outside onto the front stoop.

Dad’s right. I hadn’t really noticed before, but there is a ton of sand out here. We’re more than a block off the beach. How does that even happen?

“How is our little sea lion friend?” Ari asks as she squirts some of the cleaner onto the glass-paneled door.

“Good, as far as I know. I’ll go check on him later, but he seemed to be doing all right when I left yesterday. Plus, I called the Chronicle last night to give them the scoop on the sea animal that washed ashore during the big festival, with a nice tie-in to today’s cleanup party and animal release, of course.”

Ari laughs. “Of course you did.”

“I’m not saying I’m glad that Lennon washed ashore, but I’ll take all the publicity we can get.”

Ari steps back to check the door for leftover smudges before moving on to the huge picture window. “Your plan to rescue the rescue center seems to be going pretty good.”

“We’re just getting started. But, yeah, things seem to be on track.”

Ari hums thoughtfully. “Maybe you could use some of your magic to help out this place, too.” She lowers her voice, even though I know we can’t be heard inside, especially with the Doors reminiscing about Love Street. “Don’t tell your dad I said this—I really do love working here—but we could use some good publicity. Or maybe a facelift, or something?”

I stop sweeping so I can take in the front of the store. I’ve been here so many times over the years, I no longer stop to look. But Ari is right. The yellow paint is chipping on the stucco wall, the neon VENTURES VINYL sign has had a couple of letters burned out for who knows how long, and from the outside, the store just looks … well, a little dated. But not in a cool vintage way. Just in an old, tired way.

The one saving grace is the window display that Jude made a week ago, with a bunch of red-white-and-blue-themed album covers set up for the holiday. Then he took some records that were scratched or broken, painted fireworks on them, and hung them from the ceiling with ribbon. I don’t give my brother enough credit for this sort of thing, but he can actually be pretty creative. His artistry definitely expands beyond sketches of mythical monsters.

How would the store look with a fresh coat of sea-blue paint, I wonder. And maybe a bright orange door that welcomes you inside. Oooh, we could have a grand re-opening party!

I flinch, and do my best to stop the thoughts before I get carried away. I have my hands full saving one business right now. I can’t handle two.

“Maybe you and Jude should talk to Dad,” I say. “If you have ideas for ways to boost business, I’m sure he’d be open to hearing them.”

Ari turns to me, suddenly looking a little shy, but also excited. “Actually, I did have a thought, but … I don’t know. It might be weird. And I have no idea whether it’s a good idea or not.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Well, I kind of got the idea from Carlos, doing the weekly karaoke thing. What if the store started holding weekly open-mic nights?”

My brow furrows as I glance through the windows. “Um…”

“Not here,” says Ari, waving the wad of paper towels at the store. “I know there isn’t space for it. But I thought we could team up with one of the restaurants on the boardwalk. We would, like, act as the sponsor. We could get some swag branded with the store’s logo—maybe guitar picks or bumper stickers or something? And give out coupons for people to come in and get ten percent off their purchase?” She shrugs. “What do you think?”

I smile. “I think it’s worth a shot. Would you be the host of these open mic nights?”

She cringes. “I don’t know about hosting. But … you would be really great at that.”

I smile, because it is a compliment, but inside I’m wondering how many times I would have to host a gig like that before I stopped panicking every time I went onstage. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d be great, too.” I finish sweeping the sidewalk. “You should bring it up to Dad, see what he thinks.” I frown. “That reminds me. Remember how I said you could have my old keyboard? I asked my parents, and it turns out they sold it, since it was just collecting dust. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” she says. “I’ll check out Brass and Keys one of these days. If I decide to get one at all.”

Brass and Keys is the local music store, another place that knows Ari by name. Something tells me that any keyboard she would buy there would be way nicer than the one my family picked up at the pawnshop all those years ago, anyway.

I check my watch. “I should probably get going. If I’m late, I’m sure Quint will never let me live it down.”

I head back into the store and set the broom back into the storeroom. Jude is pulling brand-new vinyl albums from a cardboard box, each one still wrapped with cellophane.

I recognize the artist on the cover. Sadashiv, a British pop singer who’s become super famous the last couple of years by modernizing old standards. His popularity probably isn’t hurt by the fact that he’s heart-stoppingly gorgeous. I think he was even voted People magazine’s sexiest man alive last year, even though I’m pretty sure he’s still a teenager.

Of course, I only know any of this because both Penny and Lucy are obsessed with him, as are a whole lot of girls in my school.

“Whoa,” I say, staring over Jude’s shoulder. “I didn’t know contemporary artists still put out vinyl records.”

“Oh yeah,” says Jude, laying out the records so he can put price stickers on them. “It’s the hip thing to do right now. These”—he taps the stack of Sadashiv records—“will be huge sellers.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “When Ari and I told Dad that this guy had a new album coming out, his exact words: ‘Sada-who?’” Jude rolls his eyes. “You’d think with five kids he’d have an easier time staying current.”

“People like what they like. Hey, I have to get going. Thanks again for your help at the festival yesterday.”

“See you later, Sis. Good luck today.”

“Dad?” I call, stepping back into the main area of the store.

“Right here.”

He’s at the counter, wearing his reading glasses as he checks something off on a handwritten ledger.

“I need to go. Can I leave some flyers here?” I pull what’s left of our blue flyers out of my bag and set them on the counter. “Maybe if anyone comes in this morning you can tell them about the cleanup?”

“Not only will I tell them about the cleanup,” he says, pulling the glasses down to the tip of his nose, “I will threaten to sell them only Vanilla Ice records until they promise to go.”

“Maybe nothing quite so dramatic?”

The bell on the door chimes, and I turn around, preparing to say goodbye to Ari.

But it isn’t Ari coming inside.

I freeze.

It’s Maya. Maya Livingstone. She’s wearing an oversize UCLA sweatshirt that falls nearly to her knees, pale pink leggings, and flip-flops, and pulling it off like a model. I’m not sure if I’m jealous or impressed. Mostly, I’m bewildered. What is she doing here?