I’ve always known we aren’t rich. I know there have been financial concerns with the store since Jude and I were kids. But this feels like a desperate act. After all, what happens when they run out of things to sell? They’ll still have bills to pay, and a record store that isn’t making enough money. This is only a Band-Aid solution. They must see that.

But then … what’s the real solution?

I can’t think of it right now. I have the center and the gala to worry about, and that’s plenty to keep my mind occupied.

Quint reaches me and, to my surprise, starts dancing. An over-the-top victory dance, right there on the boardwalk, that paper flashing in and out of the sun. He might have just scored a winning touchdown for all his enthusiasm. “Blue’s Burgers is donating not one, not two, but three gift baskets for the silent auction, including gift cards, branded T-shirts, and travel mugs. Plus they will be supplying coupons for the goody bags, and—wait for it…”

He stops dancing and holds the paper out so I can see, even though it’s the same sponsorship contract we’ve been using for all the businesses. He taps his finger against a line at the bottom, where he’s handwritten an extra note.

I shrug. “I can’t read your handwriting.”

He whips the paper out of view. “They’ve agreed to cater the meal! Cheeseburger sliders, baby! BOOM.” He starts to dance again, then to my surprise, he grabs my hand and pulls me off the bench. I yelp as he spins me once beneath his arm. “We are so good at this!”

Laughing, I allow myself to be spun around a couple of times before dropping my hands on Quint’s shoulders and forcing him to hold still. “Okay, calm down. That’s excellent work, but there’s still a lot to do.”

His face is positively glowing. His hands, I realize suddenly, are on my waist.

Something passes between us. An electric current. A snagged breath.

I quickly pull away and turn my back on him. Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I turn back to the bench and gather up my notes, pretending like that moment, whatever it was, didn’t happen.

I’m sure it was mostly in my imagination, anyway.

Quint hops up onto the bench in one graceful bound—gah, he makes that look easy—and sits down on the backrest, his elbows settled on his knees. “Okay. What’s my next mission? I’m on a roll.”

It’s a beautiful sunny day, with a salty breeze coming in off the ocean and fluffy clouds speckled along the horizon. Weather reports have been saying we’re in for a big storm this week, but there’s no sign of it now—just sunbathers on the beach and roller skaters on the boardwalk, ice cream sundaes and the cry of seagulls and everything that makes Fortuna Beach a paradise this time of year.

I scan the list of businesses and put a smiley face next to Blue’s Burgers. “That was a really generous offer from them. They’re not charging us anything?”

“Not a dime. I think they’ve been hit hard lately with all that animal-cruelty stuff that’s going around, and they think this could help them start to recover their reputation.”

“You mean those rumors that they were getting their meat from some factory farm?” I step up onto the bench and sit beside him, the notebook on my lap.

“Turns out, not just rumors,” he says. “They were importing their meat from some factory farm, despite their whole advertising schtick—grass-fed, pasture-raised, free-range … whatever. But it’s more than that. That farm was just fined for some pretty big health-code violations.” He shudders.

I’m staring at Quint, but all I’m seeing is that billboard and the spray-painted X.

LIES.

“Morgan actually helped draw attention to the story,” Quint adds. “Remember that petition thing I was telling you about? I guess activists have been trying to get these farms shut down for years, and it’s finally paid off. Pretty cool, right? It’s like all that social-studies-in-action stuff that Mrs. Brickel is always talking about.”

I tap my pen against my lip, staring out at the ocean. “So, don’t be mad. I appreciate your hard work with Blue’s Burgers, and this is an awesome donation they’ve agreed to. But … do you think it will look bad for us to partner with them so soon after they’ve been involved with this huge scandal? I mean … animal cruelty, health violations … and we’re an animal rescue center.”

“I know, there’s an irony here,” says Quint. I look at him. His eyes are on my pen, on … my mouth. They shift immediately out to the ocean. “But we weren’t planning to do a vegetarian menu, other than for guests who request it, and Blue’s assured me that they’ve already established some new relationships with local farms. Farms that have been certified humane this time. They want to move on from this as quickly as possible.” He shrugs. “They’re a landmark business. They’ve been here since the sixties. They deserve a second chance, right?”

His gaze returns to mine. I smile. “Everyone does.”

He shifts an inch closer and looks down at the notebook. “So, how are we doing?”

“Great, actually. Kwikee’s Print Shop agreed to print all our flyers and posters pro bono, I’ve got tons of people giving us stuff for the silent auction, and the folks at Main Street Bakery are already dreaming up dolphin-shaped cookies and starfish-topped cakes for our dessert.”

“Sweet.”

I roll my eyes at the pun, though I’m not entirely sure he was trying to make one. “That pretty much takes care of the auction and catering. Which leaves only entertainment, rentals, decorations, AV equipment, and … the big one.” I look up from the binder. “A venue. Oh! And we still need to decide how we’re going to handle ticket sales, and how much we’re going to charge for them.”

“I know there are websites that handle tickets for things like this, and I think you can set it up to deposit straight into your bank account,” says Quint. “I’ll talk to Shauna about it and see about getting something linked up on the website.”

“How much should we charge?”

He looks at me. I look at him. We’re both clueless. What’s the going rate for a ticket to a fundraising gala? The sort of fancy, but not super pretentious kind? The sort being planned by two teenagers who’ve never done anything like this before?

“I’ll look into it,” I say, making a note.

“What if we keep the ticket prices low,” says Quint, “but include an option for people to make additional donations when they buy their tickets? Kind of like an honor system. You pay us what you think this ticket is worth.”

I consider this. It’s a little risky—what if no one pays anything extra? But it could also swing the other direction. People could end up paying way more than we would dare charge them.

“I like it,” I say. “Takes the pressure off us to figure out what it’s worth, at least. And what do we have to lose?” I turn to the “Tickets page” of my notebook and jot down Quint’s idea. “Also,” I say, flipping back to the fundraising section, “I thought, in addition to doing the silent auction, maybe we could also do a raffle? Like for a big prize. Something really cool. People could buy as many tickets as they want, but everyone would have a chance of winning, so it wouldn’t just be for the richest person in the room.”

He drags a hand through his hair, thinking. A lock of hair tumbles back over his forehead in a way that makes my stomach clench. “A big prize. It should be something unique, that they can’t just go out and buy. Like, maybe a private tour of the center?”

“That could work…,” I say. “Or we could name the next rescue after them?”

Our heads are bobbing, but neither idea feels quite … right.

“Well, let’s keep brainstorming on it,” I say, putting a star next to that item.

“I was thinking,” says Quint, “if this goes well, this gala could become an annual thing we do for the center.”

“Yeah, that crossed my mind, too. Every year could be bigger and better than the last.”

He crosses his ankles. “Do you ever think things might not go according to your master plan?”

“Well, the beach cleanup wasn’t quite the financial success I’d hoped it would be. And there was our biology project that completely tanked.”

“Yeah, but both times you assumed they’d go great, right? And here you are, sure that the gala will go great. You don’t give up.”

I doodle a starfish in the corner of the paper, filling in around it with swirls of seaweed. I’m not a great artist, but I read somewhere years ago that doodling while taking notes helps with knowledge retention, and the habit has stuck. “What would be the point of giving up?” I ask. “You keep trying enough things and something’s bound to work, eventually.”

“I don’t think that’s how most people would see it, but I like that you do.”

I press my lips tight to keep them from turning up in a bashful smile. “Well, this gala is definitely not going to be great if we don’t figure out a venue, and soon.”

“And why can’t we just have it at the center again?”

“The center smells like dead fish.”

He grunts. “Your standards are almost impossibly high sometimes, you know that?”

I glare at him, but there isn’t much heart to it.

“Okay,” he says, scanning the boardwalk as if in search of inspiration. “Can we have it here on the beach? Can hardly beat that view. And we could rent one of those giant tents they use for weddings.”

“Not a terrible idea,” I muse, “but what would we do for restrooms? Port-a-potties?”

We both grimace.

“Let’s keep it on the maybe list,” I say, writing it down. “We’d probably need to get permits, but … it does fit the theme.”

“Hold on. There’s a theme?”