At least they believed me when I told them I didn’t steal the money. Ari perhaps said it best—“You may be ambitious, Pru, but you’re not steal-money-from-a-struggling-nonprofit type of ambitious. Anyone can see that.”

Her words made me feel a tiny bit better. But it also made me wonder. If anyone could see that, then why couldn’t Quint?

Quint, who had been there the whole time. The beach festival, the cleanup party, the gala planning, the rescue center the night of that storm … He, more than anyone, should have seen how hard I was working to help those animals. He, of all people, should have known that I didn’t steal that money. That I wouldn’t.

But he hadn’t stood up for me. He hadn’t believed me. And not only that—he’d been mean, in the most ruthless way.

My eyes still sting when I remember the things he said. The words were intended to cut deep, and they did.

In less than two days, I’d experienced the best and worst moments of my life. Their memories are intertwined so tight I have trouble remembering one without the other.

“Want to do the stickers?” Jude asks, holding up the label maker.

“Nope.” I sit on the stool behind the cash machine. It’s been slow, even for a Tuesday, so I’m not too worried that a customer is going to ask me to ring up their purchase. Dad keeps trying to train me to work the register, but I’m not interested. I’m counting down the days until summer ends, when I can be free of the store. When I can immerse myself in homework and college planning and as many extra-credit assignments as I can sink my teeth into. I will distract myself like my life depends on it.

Until then—it’s just day after tedious day.

Dad gives Jude a hundred reminders about running the store before he leaves, even though he’s only going to be gone for half an hour. I ignore them both and boot up the laptop. The report is open, waiting for me. I read over the last sentence I wrote. Or tried to write.

Ecotourism can benefit many ocean habitats by

By … what? My brain is mush, as it has been every time I’ve tried to work on this awful paper. The thought of researching, taking notes, drawing conclusions, and implementing my findings makes me dizzy. It all feels like an insurmountable amount of work. The deadline for resubmitting our projects is only a few days away, but I’ve made painfully little progress. Every time I get stuck, I imagine talking to Quint about it and how we would come up with some brilliant solution together, and it would be easy and fun and—

And then I catch myself mid-daydream and plummet back to earth.

I don’t even know why I’m wasting my time. Without Quint’s participation, Mr. Chavez probably won’t even accept the revised report.

The worst part is I don’t even know if I care. About biology. About this report. About my grades. Any of it.

I procrastinate—again—by grabbing my phone and checking the rescue center’s Facebook page. It’s a form of self-torture I’ve become adept at lately. Quint has been doing a great job of keeping it updated and incorporating a lot of the strategies we talked about. Videos showing the sea lions at play. Photos of former patients, with captions describing their unique personalities and interesting stories about them. Interviews with the volunteers explaining why they’re passionate about working with sea animals.

Most of the photos on the page are taken by Quint—at least, I assume so—because he’s hardly ever in the pictures himself. But every now and then there will be one where I can see him in the background. Hosing down a pool or feeding a bucket of fish to the seals, and the yearning that tugs at me upon seeing these grainy candid shots is overwhelming.

I know I should stop looking, but I can’t. No matter how much it hurts.

And, oh, it does hurt.

And then the hurt makes me angry.

And the anger makes me sad.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

How can the universe allow this? How can I sit here, betrayed and devastated, while Quint goes on with life as usual? Karma has abandoned me. There is no justice. There is no universal reprieve.

An update about Luna and Lennon catches my eye. I smile to see a short video of the two of them passing a ball back and forth with their noses. The caption spells Lennon’s name “Lenin,” like the dictator, which is how I know Quint wrote it. My heart twists.

Update: Lenin and Luna have been offered a permanent home at a respected zoo! We’re excited that they will be placed together, and be able to enjoy many more years of friendship (or something more?). We will post more info as their transfer date and details are confirmed.

I don’t know if I’m happy or sad at the news. What if I never see Lennon again?

The bell jingles on the front door.

“Hey, Ari,” says Jude.

“Hey, Jude. Pru.”

I turn off my phone and look up to see Ari strolling through the aisles, her fingers skimming over the tops of the records in their bins. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “You’re off today.”

“Yeah, but I thought I’d check on you. See if you needed some moral support.”

Ah—because the gala is tonight. I’m doing my best to forget, though the universe keeps throwing it back in my face.

I was shocked at first to learn that they planned to continue with the gala at all. How could they do it without me? It was my idea. These were my plans. It was practically my gala!

But they are continuing with it, and—to my endless annoyance—they seem to be doing a pretty good job of promoting it, too. I see the posters everywhere I go, not just in our own store window, but plastered all over town. And, gah, I hate to admit it, but they’re great posters, with artwork and typography reminiscent of the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine movie poster, and not a single word misspelled.

They’ve been talking to the media, too. Not just the Chronicle, but also local magazines and radio stations. Rosa even appeared on a feel-good regional lifestyle TV show, promoting the center and their mission.

A vengeful part of me wants to see them fail. I want the gala to be a disaster. I want Quint to come crawling back, begging me for help.

But from what I can tell, that’s never going to happen. Maybe I’m not as irreplaceable as I thought.

“So,” says Ari, drumming her hands on the counter. “It’s Tuesday. Which means … who’s up for some tacos and karaoke?”

Jude makes a sound like he’s very interested, but I know he’s just doing it to encourage me. Another attempt to pull me out of my slump.

“Nice try,” I say, “but there is no karaoke tonight.”

Ari frowns. “What do you mean? Carlos isn’t doing it anymore?”

“No, he is. But tonight, Trish Roxby will be setting up her karaoke equipment at the Offshore Theater, as the entertainment at the first annual rescue center gala.” I add, grumbling, “I saw it on their Facebook page.”

“Karaoke? At a gala?” says Jude. He shakes his head. “That’ll be a complete bust.”

I force myself to smile at him, because I can tell he’s trying. “Thanks, Jude. But I actually think it’s kind of genius.”

He knocks his fist against the counter. “I know. I do, too, but I was hoping I wouldn’t have to admit it. Karaoke will be so much better than some boring symphony.”

I wince, but I don’t think Jude notices. I have a feeling karaoke was Quint’s idea. And it is a good idea. It’ll easily take what could be a stuffy, tedious event, and make it fun, memorable, unique.

I hate that he thought of it and I didn’t.

I hate that I’m not going.

Jude clears his throat. “We could play D and D? I could call the gang over, make some popcorn, finally get you two set up with your own characters…”

Ari and I exchange looks.

“Just an idea,” says Jude. “I don’t want you to mope around all evening, Pru.”

“I do not mope.”

Ari’s lips twist to one side.

“The last few weeks notwithstanding.”

“And justifiably so,” says Ari. “But not tonight. Let’s go see a movie—oh. Never mind.”

The Offshore Theater is the only movie theater in town, and Ari hates driving to the big cinema off the interstate. Mostly because she hates driving anywhere outside Fortuna Beach.

“How about we go toilet paper the rescue center while they’re all at the party?” suggests Jude.

A smile twitches at the corners of my lips. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate you trying to cheer me up. But I don’t want to go to the center, and I don’t want to be anywhere near Main Street tonight.”

“So you’re just going to wallow in self-pity instead?” asks Ari. “Because I simply am not going to allow that. I know! How about a chick-flick marathon?”

Jude and I both groan.

Normally, I wouldn’t be opposed to this suggestion, but right now, the idea of watching beautiful people fall deeply in love makes me want to gag.

“Oh, come on. It’ll help take your mind off … things.”

I’m saved from having to respond by the little bell jingling again.

Jude puts on his customer-service face. “Welcome to Ventures Vi—oh.”

I glance toward the door, and can’t keep in the groan that escapes me. I knew this day was going to get worse.

FORTY-FOUR

Morgan casts a curious look over the racks of albums as she makes her way to the counter. Without the cast, without the crutches.

Then she sees me and freezes.

Her eyes narrow.

My jaw tightens.

Ari shifts uncomfortably to the side so she isn’t standing in the icy gale between us.

“Er … can I help you?” says Jude.

Inhaling sharply, Morgan turns her attention to him. She’s wearing the yellow volunteer shirt from the center, and I can’t help but feel like she’s mocking me with it.

“I’m here to pick up a gift basket,” she says.

“Right. It’s over here.” Jude walks around the counter to where Dad left the basket. Morgan gives it a once-over, then nods and picks it up. “Thank you for your generosity.” Then her gaze shifts back to me. “But then, I guess you do owe us.”