“It just delays the inevitable! If you’re going to go to college, then go to college! Why mess around, wasting a whole year of your life … backpacking Europe or whatever cliché thing you think will make you ‘well-rounded.’” I make air quotes.

Quint crosses his arms over his chest. “For your information, studies have shown that people who take gap years regularly perform better in college once they get there.”

I narrow my eyes, unconvinced.

“Look it up,” he says mildly.

“I don’t want to drain my phone battery,” I grumble.

“You don’t want to admit that I could be right. Again.”

“We’ll see.” I huff. “So what do you plan on doing during your year of slackery? Please tell me you won’t actually be backpacking through Europe.”

“Australia, actually. I want to dive the Great Barrier Reef before it’s too late.”

My eyes widen in surprise. I spend a moment mulling this over. “Okay, that’s actually kind of a neat goal.”

“Translation from Prudence to English: That’s a brilliant idea, Quint. You should totally do that.”

I shake my head. “Not so fast. You don’t need a whole year to do that. Why not just go on summer vacation?”

He starts to fidget, adjusting the towel behind his back. Crossing and uncrossing his ankles. “I don’t want to just rent some gear, spend a day at the reef, and check it off my bucket list. I want…” He hesitates, his expression becoming almost serious. “So … my ultimate plan, if you must know, is that I want to get my scuba-diving license and spend the year building up my portfolio. My … photography portfolio.” He picks at some lint on the blanket. “When I do go to college, I’d like to study art and design. Maybe minor in photography. I’d love to do underwater photography eventually, but the equipment is expensive, and my best chance is to get a really great scholarship. And for that…”

He doesn’t finish, but I’ve already connected the dots. “You need a great portfolio.”

“It’s one thing to take photos of the animals here at the center, but if I could have more underwater experience when I apply, I really think it would help.”

I stare at him, even though, for some reason, he’s stopped meeting my eye. My opinion of Quint does another flip. “You could be in National Geographic someday.”

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he finally looks up at me. “One can dream, but that’s … I mean, their photographers are top-notch. I don’t know that I could ever…”

“You could. You will,” I say, with surprising conviction. “You’re so talented.”

He drags a hand through his hair. “Naw. Average at best. But I do love it, so … we’ll see.”

“I can’t believe you were teasing me about my ten-year-plan when you’ve been keeping all that a secret this whole time.”

He still looks uncomfortable as he rolls out his shoulders a few times. “It’s weird to talk about. I mean … you tell people you want to dive the Great Barrier Reef and become an underwater photographer? It’s kind of far-fetched, as dreams go.”

“It’s not. I mean, someone has to do it, otherwise we wouldn’t have all those cool documentaries about bizarre sea life that Mr. Chavez made us watch.”

“True. That’s a good point.” His eyes are glinting, almost gratefully. “That’s one thing I like about you, Prudence. No one can say you aren’t an optimist.”

“I like to think I’m more of a realist who’s willing to work hard.”

He grins. “Even better.”

My cheeks warm. It’s my turn to look away, my fingers digging into the plush blankets. I curl my knees up toward my chest, draping my arms around them. “I have to believe that, with enough diligence and effort, you can make anything happen. And I do get that I’m a ridiculous perfectionist and, yes, probably too much of an overachiever. But it’s all I have, so … I figure, better make the best of it.”

“What do you mean, it’s all you have?”

I wince. I shouldn’t have said anything. A part of me wants to backtrack, to say, never mind, I was just rambling, but … there’s something about the dim lighting, the rain that’s turned from a torrent to a melodious pattering, the way Quint just confessed this close-held dream, that makes me brave. Or, if not brave, I at least feel like maybe it’s okay to be a little vulnerable.

“It’s like, Jude, for example,” I say, quietly, careful with my words. “He’s so nice. Everybody likes him. He just gets along with people, everywhere he goes. I know I’m not that. And Ari, she’s so talented, and so passionate about music, but I’m not really passionate about anything, other than wanting to succeed. To do my best. But I can make plans, and I can stay organized, and if a teacher assigns a report, I’m going to write the best darn report they’ve ever seen. If I’m throwing a gala, I’m going to throw a party that no one will ever forget. I can do that. And if I can impress people, then maybe they won’t notice that I’m not witty or beautiful or … fun.”

I stop talking and tuck the lower half of my face behind my arms. I can’t believe I just said all that. But at the same time, it feels good to admit that all the confidence I show the world is a diversionary tactic. A cover for the fear that lies underneath.

“I mean,” says Quint, finally, as if he were the one who’d been saying too much, “you’re not … not beautiful.”

A sound, part laugh and part cough, bursts out of me. I dare to look up at him, but quickly have to look away again. “First of all, double negatives are not grammatically acceptable.”

He groans. “I can’t win with you.”

“Second of all,” I say, ignoring him, “I wasn’t fishing for a compliment. But … thanks? I think?”

“I know you weren’t.” He clears his throat, and I sense that he might be as uncomfortable with this conversation as I’ve become. “But I had to say something. I’ve never seen you self-conscious about anything before. And I mean it. You’re…” He trails off.

I viciously shake my head. “You don’t have to say it. Don’t get the wrong idea. It’s not that I think I’m hideous or anything, but … being surrounded by girls who wear nothing but cutoff shorts and string bikinis all summer long? I mean, I know I don’t look like that.”

Quint makes a humming noise, and I can’t tell whether he’s agreeing with me or not. When he speaks again, I expect a refrain of the same semi-compliment: You’re not not beautiful. And yeah, my whole body is still flushed from those words. But instead, he says something that is somehow a hundred times better. Something that I don’t think anyone has ever said to me before. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty fun. At least, when you’re not criticizing everything I say or do.” His cheeks dimple. “Actually, I’ve had a lot of fun with you this summer.”

We stare at each other in the flashlight’s glow, the rain drizzling against the windows. My throat tightens. I’m startled to find that my eyes are misting, and I hope it’s too dark for Quint to see. He can’t know—he can’t possibly know—how good it feels to hear those words. To know he means them.

“Also…” Quint loudly clears his throat and adjusts his legs, crossing one ankle over the other. “I have enormous eyebrows.”

I snort and clap one hand over my mouth. “What?”

“I do. In case you hadn’t noticed.” He leans toward me and points at one eyebrow. “You can come closer if you need to verify.”

“Um. I’ve seen them, thanks.”

“Yeah, exactly. Everyone’s seen them. Aliens on Mars can see them.”

I laugh. “Quint—”

“No, don’t try to tell me they’re not that bad. I own a mirror. I know the truth.” He sighs dramatically and leans back against the cabinet. “When I was a kid, I once asked my mom to help me pluck them.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. She refused. Gave me some you’re-perfect-just-the-way-you-are mom nonsense. So I sneaked into her bathroom and got ahold of her tweezers and pulled out one hair—just one. It hurt so bad I cried. Seriously, why do girls put themselves through that?”

“I often wonder the same thing.”

“Anyway, I couldn’t bring myself to pull any more, which made me cry even harder, and then my mom found me and was like, what the heck is wrong with you? They’re just eyebrows! But the thing is—they make me look so mean. I was worried everyone would think I was some bully and no one would be my friend.”

Sympathy squeezes my chest.

“And when I told my mom that, she said … all I have to do is smile. Because you can’t look mean when you’re smiling.” His lips turn up, but there’s a sadness, recalling this story. “Anyway, I took those words to heart. Ever since then, I’ve tried to be, you know. The guy that smiles. It’s better than being the guy with the mean eyebrows, anyway.” He chuckles, a little self-deprecatingly.

While I sit there feeling like the biggest jerk, remembering how I mocked his eyebrows when he came to karaoke all those weeks ago.

And now I can’t even remember what made me say such awful things. I like his eyebrows. I like how expressive they are. The way they quirk up when he’s teasing. The way they furrow when he’s annoyed. Though I like them less when he’s annoyed at me.

I want to tell him this, but the words are stuck. My throat is dry.

“Anyway,” says Quint, “I guess we’re all self-conscious about something.”

“I guess so.” My words are barely a croak.

He meets my eye and there’s a second—an hour—an eternity—in which neither of us looks away. He has that crooked half smile on his face. My brain falters, leaving me suspended, breathless, trapped.