I frown at him. “Saving the lives of helpless sea animals?”

“That’s a mission, not a theme.”

“Close enough.”

He shakes his head. “No, no. We should have a theme. A real one. Like prom. ‘Under the Sea’ or whatever.” He snaps his fingers. “I vote pirates.”

“Pirates?”

“Picture it. We can give out those chocolate gold coins in the gift bags, and all the staff will wear eye patches.”

I wait until I’m sure he’s joking before I allow myself to laugh. “I don’t know. A theme seems sort of cheesy.”

He raspberries his lips. “Please. People love a party theme. You know how kids always have themes, like—My Little Pony or Batman or whatever? It’s like that, but a grown-up version.”

This argument does nothing to convince me.

“I mean,” says Quint more forcefully, because he can see I’m not getting it, “that it brings everything together. The invitations, the posters, the decorations, even the food! Plus it can make it easier to make decisions, too. Should we go with the starfish cookies or the submarine cookies? Well, which one is more in line with the theme?”

“Submarine?” I gasp and smack Quint with the back of my hand. “That’s it! That’s our theme! We’ll base it on ‘Yellow Submarine’ by the Beatles. My parents have tons of memorabilia we can use for decorations. Our ads can say something like … ‘Come aboard our Yellow Submarine, and learn about … sea animals … oft unseen’?”

He snorts. “Okay, Shakespeare.”

“It’s a rough draft.”

His lips twist to one side and I can tell he’s thinking about it, before he slowly nods. “All right, I can get behind that. But next year … pirates!”

I laugh and write “Yellow Submarine” across the top of my notebook, before scanning my lists, again—pages and pages of lists. We’ve made great progress this week, but it feels like every time I cross something off, I think of two more things to add. “Once we have the venue figured out, we can set up the ticket sales and then get serious about advertising. And I’m going to talk to some local media, too. I bet I can get the Chronicle to run a story about it, and there’s a radio station out of Pomona College that might be interested in interviewing your mom. Do you think she’d be up for it?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Great.” I jot down a few notes. My thoughts are spinning in a thousand directions and I feel like I can’t capture them fast enough. I need to get organized. Make a plan.

“What about the theater?”

“Hm?”

“For a venue. How about having it at the Offshore Movie Theater?” Quint pulls his feet back up on the bench. His legs are restless, his knees jogging in place. I’ve seen him like this before, this excited energy burning through him. I’m beginning to think that movement might be his version of list-making.

“We could have the presentation in the auditorium,” he goes on, “and they have that huge lobby we could use for the dinner tables. I know they have weddings there sometimes. And we had our eighth-grade dance there. Remember?”

“I didn’t go.”

“Oh. Well. It was nice. Plus, we wouldn’t have to worry about AV equipment. I’m sure they have everything we’d need.”

I chew the tip of the pen. “It’s not a terrible idea.”

“Which I know translates to ‘Wow, Quint, you’re a genius!’” He leans toward me. “I’m beginning to speak Prudence.”

I laugh, then close my notebook and hook the pen over the cover. “Should we go check it out?”

“The theater? Naw, let’s wait for tonight.”

“Tonight? It’s just two blocks away. Why not go now?”

“Because we’d be early. The movie doesn’t start until seven.”

I frown at him. “What movie?”

“The special screening of Jaws.”

I freeze. Gawk at him. Picture a sharp dorsal fin and blood in the water and that iconic music thumping through my chest. Bu-dum, bu-dum, bu-dum.

“No,” I say.

“Yes,” Quint counters.

“I’m not watching it.”

“Yes, you are. I already got tickets.”

“Well—” I hesitate. “You did?”

I can feel heat climbing up my chest, my throat, spreading across my cheeks, and think maybe if I blush deeply enough he’ll start to think it’s a sunburn.

“I did. These special showings always sell out early and I didn’t want to miss out. Come on. It’s a classic. And you need to meet my namesake.”

“You mean, Captain Quint? The shark hunter?”

“The one and only.”

“Quint—I’m already afraid of sharks!”

He scoffs and nudges me with his shoulder. “It’s an animatronic shark from the seventies. I think you can handle it. And we’ll be scoping out the theater for a potential venue. It’ll be productive.”

I groan. “Oh no. You’ve discovered the magic word.”

“Told you. I’ll be fluent in Prudence-speak soon enough.”

I have no desire whatsoever to see Jaws. Having lived here my whole life, I’ve spent years scanning these waves for shark fins, sure that—despite all the statistics telling us how sharks really aren’t that dangerous to humans and how you’re more likely to die in a plane crash or get struck by lightning than ever get bit by a shark—I was certain that if there was ever a shark attack at Fortuna Beach, it would be me getting devoured.

I know myself well enough to know that seeing the most famous shark-attack movie ever made is a terrible idea. I know I’m going to regret it.

But somehow, I hear the words coming faintly from my mouth. I, too, am trying to sound nonchalant. “Fine. You win. I’ll go.”

He thrusts both fists into the air. “Yes. Music to my ears.” Bringing his hands back down, he claps once and then rubs his palms together. “Okay. Let’s consider the venue problem solved for now. Man, I am full of answers today. Give me something else. I’ll have this gala planned in time for popcorn.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Under any other circumstances, I would be extremely nervous. It’s the first time I’ve ever been to a movie with a boy, at least, one that I’m not related to. But I’m not thinking about Quint and the way my heart trips when he looks at me. I’m not even thinking about the movie we’re about to see, one that I’ve done my best to avoid.

As we walk past the ticket booth and step into the theater lobby, I have thoughts only for the gala. I’m scanning the paneled walls, the concessions counter, the light fixtures. It’s a cool old theater, dating back to the late 1920s and the era of silent, black-and-white films. Just like Quint suggested, the lobby would definitely be big enough for dinner service, and according to their website, which has a page that gives details about renting the theater for special events, they can seat up to three hundred people. There’s a neat art deco vibe to the crown moldings and chandeliers. The parquet flooring is dated, the wall paint is a little dingy, and the smell of buttered popcorn is overwhelming—but I can probably overlook all that.

“This could work,” I whisper, leaning in to Quint, who is standing in the concessions line. “We could set up the auction table along that wall, and use this counter for the desserts.” I tap my finger against my lower lip, nodding. “I like it.”

Quint hums to himself. “Butter, yes or no?”

I glance at him, and it takes me a second to realize he’s the next person in line. “Yes. Of course.”

“Oh, good. If you’d said no, I was going to make you get your own.”

We’re among the first people to arrive, so once we enter the theater, we’re able to claim a couple of seats nearly dead center, but I don’t sit down. I’m turning in circles, considering the small upper balcony, where we could seat former donors as a VIP perk. And the stage upfront, where Rosa could give a speech. Given that this is a theater, we could even put together a video that shows footage of the center and the animals. We could show some of our recent rescues, and some of our releases.

Beaming, I drop into my seat. “I have a job for you.”

He looks tentatively curious, but once I explain the idea of having a video to show at the gala, he’s 100 percent on board. As the theater slowly fills up and the same slideshow of paid local advertisements rotates on the screen for the billionth time, Quint and I talk about whether or not we should try to have live music (I haven’t had any success in finding an orchestra that would play for free) or if putting together a playlist is good enough. We go over the list of auction items that businesses have already pledged, and who we might still try to approach. I go over my plans for selling raffle tickets, even though we’re still not sure what prize to raffle off.

I’m surprised how many people fill the theater by the time the lights dim. There’s a different atmosphere here than any movie I’ve ever been to, and it’s clear that a lot of people in the audience come to this special showing every year. There’s an excited energy in the air as the opening credits begin to play. The music strikes me—the classic bu-dum, bu-dum, bu-dum that has become synonymous with shark attacks. I gulp and lean closer to Quint. I feel him peering at me, but I don’t return the look. I’m already thinking, once again, that this is a horrible idea. Why did it have to be Jaws? But I’m stuck now, and … well, it doesn’t seem so awful once I feel the warmth of Quint’s shoulder pressed against mine.

Aaaaand … now I’m nervous.

All the questions I’ve been ignoring arise unbidden in my thoughts. Is this a date? Why didn’t he ask anyone else to come with us? Why didn’t he make me get my own popcorn? The enormous bucket balancing on the armrest between us feels momentous.