But a quick glance at Quint suggests that I’m the only one thinking about any of this. He’s tuned in to the movie, mindlessly tossing popcorn into his mouth.

I sink into my chair and try not to overthink. For once, Prudence, don’t overthink.

The audience, it turns out, is into this film. Really into it. Within the first few minutes, people are shouting at the screen—Don’t do it, Chrissie! Stay out of the water! I gulp, gooseflesh crawling down my arms when it becomes clear what’s about to happen to the girl skinny-dipping on the screen. I turn my head, ready to bury it in Quint’s shoulder if I need to, and he scoots closer to me, as if encouraging me to use his shoulder at will.

Which I do.

The movie is terrifying … and also not. The idea of it is the worst part, the suspense of knowing that the shark is nearby whenever that ominous music begins to play. It isn’t long before I’m gripping Quint’s arm, my fingers digging into his sleeve. He doesn’t pull away.

On the screen, a shark has been caught—a tiger shark. The townspeople have it hanging from a hook on the dock as the mayor of Amity Island tells the media that the predator responsible for the recent attacks is dead. The audience around us shouts at the mayor: It’s not the right shark! Boo!

“Poor shark,” I find myself muttering.

Quint gives me a knowing nod. “Terrible, right?”

Terrible—because it actually happens.

The movie goes on. Tourists flock to the beaches. Chief Brody’s young sons go out into the water—

A small blue screen catches my eye. I frown, distracted. Someone in the next row is looking at their phone.

I tilt forward. They’re … scrolling through Instagram? What the heck?

Someone behind me notices it, too, and yells, “Hey, turn off your phone!”

The phone clicks off.

My attention returns to the screen. The music is building again. Chief Brody is running. The children have no idea—

The blue screen blinks on again. Though I can’t see the person’s face, I can see their phone crystal clear. They’re typing a text message to someone named Courtney. Busy tomorrow? Swim Source is having a big sale.

I’m not the only one getting annoyed. People are starting to shout at the phone user now, not the screen. “So inconsiderate.” “What’s wrong with you?” “Watch the movie!”

Quint shakes his head—I only know because he’s been leaning his brow against my hair as I’ve clutched ever tighter to his arm. “Some people.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, one hand settling into my lap. “Some people.”

My fingers curl into a fist.

A song starts to blare from the screen. The girl jumps, dropping the phone. The song keeps playing, a peppy pop song I remember being really popular when I was a kid.

Quint snorts. “I think the name of this song is ‘Rude,’” he says, giving me an amused look. “Fitting.”

The girl scrambles to find the phone on the floor, while more people join the chorus yelling at her. “Turn it off!” “What are you doing?” “Quiet down!”

She manages to pick up the phone, and I have to cover my mouth to keep from laughing as she hits every button she can, swiping the screen left and right, toggling the switch on the side. Nothing works. If anything, the music just gets louder. Why you gotta be so rude?

Finally, an employee of the theater arrives and insists that she leave the theater.

As she’s led out of the auditorium, head hung with embarrassment, the whole crowd cheers.

* * *

The shark is dead. The sun is setting. The ending credits begin to roll. The theater lights come back up, and the audience enthusiastically applauds.

I release a long, traumatized breath. I’m clinging to Quint like a barnacle. I’ve probably left permanent impressions where my fingers have been digging into his arms, but if he’s bothered by it, he hasn’t given any indication.

I slowly turn my head and see him grinning at me.

“So?” he asks. “What’d you think?”

I’m not entirely sure how to respond. Despite being absolutely horrified, I actually did like the movie. The writing was good, as were the characters. The shark was … well, an animatronic shark from the seventies, but the idea of the shark was chilling.

“I have a question.” I retract my hands from his arm and turn to face him more fully. He shifts toward me, waiting.

“Quint?” I say.

“Yeah?”

“No, that’s my question. Quint? Your mom—your sea-animal-loving mom—named you after that guy? Not just a shark hunter, but some surly, cranky, reclusive shark hunter?”

Quint is laughing. “He’s a war hero!”

“He’s a jerk. He does nothing but mock and bully that poor … what was the other guy’s name?”

“Hooper.”

“That poor Hooper the whole movie, and then he gets devoured by a shark! Honestly, were your parents trying to traumatize you? Why couldn’t they name you after the main guy? Chief…”

“Brody.”

“Brody! They should have named you Brody. That’s not a bad name.”

“It is a fine name. Unfortunately, it was already taken.”

“By who?”

“Our dog.”

“You have a dog?”

“We did when I was little. Brody the golden retriever. My parents worried that if they named me Brody, too, people wouldn’t get the reference and they’d think I was named after the dog. So … Quint it was.”

I almost can’t comprehend this. Shaking my head, I swing my arm toward the rolling credits. “He. Hunts. Sharks! It’s like the embodiment of everything your mom is against!”

“I know, I know. But believe it or not, she really likes this movie. And she was a big fan of Peter Benchley, the guy who wrote the book, because he ended up becoming a huge advocate for the protection of sharks.” He lowers his voice to a secretive whisper. “I think he had a lot of guilt to work through. Oh, and also, my parents’ first date was to see Jaws. An anniversary showing, right here at the Offshore Theater. So … there was that.” He shrugs. “I’ve come to terms with it.” His eyes are shining. The theater is quickly emptying out. Some of the employees have begun making their way through the front rows, sweeping up popcorn and stray candy wrappers. We should probably go, but I don’t want to.

“So what happened to Brody?” I ask, hoping it isn’t a touchy subject. “The dog, I mean.”

“He went with my dad after the divorce,” says Quint, munching on another handful of popcorn. We’ve barely made it halfway through the bucket. “He passed away a few years ago, and my stepmom replaced him with”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“a pug.”

“Oh?” My eyebrows rise at his dramatic tone, but I have no idea why. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s hilarious,” he says. “My dad hates lapdogs. At least, he used to. I’m pretty sure if you asked him now he’d say they’re the best thing ever, because what’s he gonna do? She loves that dog! He was a rescue from Guadalajara, which she brings up every time I visit. I think it might her way of bonding with me. Like—hey, you rescue animals? Me too!” He shrugs. “I mean, she’s trying.”

“Do you like your stepmom?”

“She’s not bad.” He chomps through another handful of popcorn. “I can tell they really love each other, her and my dad, so I’m happy for them.” He pauses to side-eye me. “You’re fishing for that childhood trauma story, aren’t you?”

I squeeze one eye shut, feeling like he caught me. “You were just so adamant before that you’re totally cool with your dad being remarried, living in San Francisco … It just seems like maybe you’re hiding something.”

“Well, maybe you can meet them someday, and then you can decide for yourself.”

My heart jumps, and Quint, as if realizing what he just said, immediately looks away. “My dad is actually kind of unhappy with me right now.”

“Oh? What for?”

“I usually spend the last two weeks of summer vacation with him. But I called him yesterday and told him I didn’t think it was going to work out this year.”

It takes me a second to realize … “Because of the gala?”

He nods. “I want to be here to help you with it. It didn’t feel right to leave.”

“Oh, Quint! I didn’t know. Nothing is decided yet. We could postpone it until—”

“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s fine, really. My dad will get over it. We’re already planning some long weekends during the school year, and he’ll get me for pretty much all winter break.” His face softens and he looks almost uncomfortable as he adds, “I don’t want to go to San Francisco right now.”

The way he says it, there’s something else implied there.

Don’t overthink, Prudence.

He clears his throat and looks around. “We should probably go,” he says, and I realize we’re the last two people in the theater. We gather our things and stand up. “So, other than your distaste for my namesake,” he says as we slip between the rows of chairs, “you liked the movie?”

“Ha! Speaking of being traumatized!” I joke. “I’m glad you took me snorkeling already, because that’s probably the last time I will ever go into the water.”

“Give it a few weeks. The fear will pass.”

“Nope. Never. I do look like a seal, you know. From underwater? I’d be the first to go.”

His smile fades slightly as he peers at me. “We all look like seals from underwater. At least, to a shark we do.”

“And thank you for confirming why I am never swimming in the ocean ever again.”

“We’ll see about that. I can be pretty persuasive.”