Instant Karma

by Marissa Meyer

  My anxiety ebbs. For the millionth time I wonder why Mr. Chavez had to torture us with assigned lab partners when Jude and I would have been such an awesome team. Sophomore year would have been a walk in the park if it hadn’t been for marine biology and Quint Erickson.

  TWO

  Thanks, I mouth back to Jude, setting down my notes. All I needed was that reminder, and the words come flooding back to me. I continue with my speech, trying my best to ignore Quint’s presence. At least some of our peers have turned their attention to the papers he passed out, so not everyone is still staring. “As I was saying, what’s really going to draw in a whole new variety of enthusiastic eco-conscious travelers is our phenomenal array of events and adventures. Visitors can go to the bottom of the ocean aboard private-party submarines. There will be kayaking tours to Adelai Island where you can help tag, track, and even name your own seal. And, my personal favorite, we’ll host weekly raging beach parties.”

  Some of the glassy-eyed stares of my classmates come into focus at this. Ezra even lets out a hoot. He would, of course.

  Bolstered, I forge ahead. “That’s right. Fortuna Beach will soon be famous for its regular beachy shindigs, where you can dine on sustainably sourced seafood and all-organic hors d’oeuvres while hobnobbing with other eco-conscious individuals like yourself. The best part? Everyone at the party receives a garbage bag and a grabber upon arrival, and at the end of the evening, after they’ve filled that bag with litter they’ve collected off our beaches, they can trade it in for a reusable tote overflowing with hand-selected gifts. Things like…” I set down the stick and reach for the bag on the floor. “A BPA-free aluminum water bottle!” I take out the bottle and toss it into the crowd. Joseph barely catches it, startled. “Take-them-anywhere bamboo utensils! A journal made from recycled materials! Shampoo bars with plastic-free packaging!” I throw each of the gifts out. My peers are definitely paying attention now.

  Once all the gifts are gone, I ball up the tote bag and launch it toward Mr. Chavez, but it only makes it halfway. Ezra plucks it from the air instead. People are starting to notice that each of the gift items has been branded with the new logo and slogan I came up with.

  FORTUNA BEACH: FRIENDLY ENVIRONMENT, ENVIRONMENTALLY FRIENDLY!

  “These ideas and many more are outlined in detail in our report,” I say, gesturing at one of the stapled papers on the nearest lab table. “At least, I’m assuming they are. I haven’t actually seen it, as something tells me it was finished about ten minutes before class this morning.” I smile sweetly at Quint.

  His expression is tight. Annoyed, but also a little smug. “I guess you’ll never know.”

  This comment sends a jolt of uncertainty down my spine, which I’m sure is exactly what he intended. The paper has my name on it, too, after all. He knows it’ll be driving me bonkers to know what’s in it, and if it’s any good.

  “Before we finish,” I say, turning back to the class, “we want to take a moment to say thank you to Mr. Chavez for teaching us so much about this amazing corner of the world we live in, and all the incredible sea life and ecosystems right in our backyard. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I know I want to be a part of the solution, to ensure that we protect and maintain our oceans for our children and grandchildren. And luckily for us, as I think we’ve managed to prove today: By going green, Fortuna Beach can bring in the green!” I rub my fingers together, pretending to be holding a handful of cash. I’d told Quint about how I was going to conclude my speech. He’s supposed to say it with me, but of course, he doesn’t. He can’t even be bothered to hold up the imaginary money. “Thank you for listening.”

  The class begins to clap, but Quint steps forward and holds up a hand. “If I could add one thing.”

  I wilt. “Do you have to?”

  He flashes me a smirk, before turning his back on me. “Sustainability and tourism don’t usually go hand-in-hand. Airplanes create a lot of pollution, and people tend to produce a lot more garbage when they travel as opposed to when they stay at home. That said, tourism is good for the local economy and, well, it’s not going anywhere. We want Fortuna Beach to have a reputation for taking care of its visitors, sure, but also its wildlife.”

  I sigh. Didn’t I basically say all this already?

  “If you read the report in front of you,” Quint continues, “which I’m sure none of you will, except Mr. Chavez, you’ll see that one of our major initiatives would be to establish the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center as a top tourist destination.”

  It takes all my willpower not to roll my eyes. He’s been harping on this rehabilitation center idea all year. But who wants to spend their vacation looking at malnourished dolphins in sad little pools, when they can go swimming with dolphins in the actual bay?

  “For people to understand the effect their actions have on the environment, they need to see firsthand the consequences of those actions, which is why we…” He pauses. “Why I believe that any ecotourism plans should focus on education and volunteerism. The report will explain all that in more detail. Thank you.”

  He glances at me. We share a look of mutual disdain.

  But—that’s it. It’s over. This awful, soul-sucking project is finally finished.

  I’m free.

  “Thank you, Mr. Erickson, Miss Barnett.” Mr. Chavez is flipping through Quint’s report and I can’t help but wonder if he’s included any of my ideas. The resort, the bikes, the beach parties? “I think it’s fairly obvious, but just for clarification, could you each tell me your contributions to this project?”

  “I made the model,” I say, “and the presentation board, and designed and ordered the eco-friendly merchandise. I would also say that I was the project manager throughout.”

  Quint snorts.

  Mr. Chavez raises an eyebrow. “You disagree, Mr. Erickson?”

  “Oh no,” he says with a vehement head shake. “She definitely managed. Soooo much management.”

  I stiffen. I can feel the outburst on my tongue. Someone had to! It’s not like you were going to step up and get any of this done! But before it comes out, Mr. Chavez asks, “And you wrote the report?”

  “Yes, sir,” says Quint. “And provided the photographs.”

  Our teacher makes a sound like this is interesting information, but my lip curls in dismay. Provided the photographs? I’m sorry, but a second grader can cut photos out of National Geographic magazine and glue them to a poster board.

  “Great. Thank you both.”

  We start to head to our lab table, each of us taking a different aisle to get there, but Mr. Chavez stops me.

  “Prudence? Let’s leave the pointer stick at the front, shall we? Would hate for Mr. Erickson to be impaled when we are so very close to the end of the year.”

  The class laughs as I walk the stick back to the front and set it on the whiteboard tray, trying not to feel sheepish. With my hands free, I pick up the model and carry it back to the table with me.

  Quint has his face cupped in one hand, covering his mouth, watching me as I approach. Or, watching the model. I wish I could read him. I wish I could see guilt there, knowing that he did nothing to help with this part of the project. Or at least shame for being late, on the most important day of the year, leaving me to fend for myself.

  I’d even love to see embarrassment as he realizes that my part of the project totally smoked his. Or perhaps some show of appreciation for my carrying our so-called partnership this whole year.

  I set down the model and take my seat. Our stools are both shoved to the far ends of the table, an instinct to keep as much space between us as possible. My right thigh has been bruised for months from being smashed up against the table leg.

  Quint tears his gaze away from the model. “I thought we decided not to do the boat tours to Adelai, since they could be disruptive to the elephant seal population.”

  I keep my attention glued to Mr. Chavez as he takes his place at the front of the room. “You want peo
ple to care about elephant seals, then you have to show them elephant seals. And not half-dead ones being bottle-fed on a medical table.”

  He opens his mouth and I can feel his response brewing. I ready myself to shoot down whatever inane comment he’s about to make. My fury is building again. I want to scream. You couldn’t be here? Just. This. Once?

  But Quint stops himself and gives his head a shake, so I keep my anger bottled in, too.

  We fall silent, the model resting between us, one of the closed and stapled reports within reach of my hand, though I refuse to take it. I can see the cover, though. At least he kept the title we agreed on: “Conservation through Ecotourism in Fortuna Beach,” a report by Prudence Barnett and Quint Erickson. Marine Biology, Mr. Chavez. Underneath our names is a gut-wrenchingly sad photograph of a sea animal, maybe an otter or a sea lion or even a seal, I can never tell them apart. It’s wrapped in fishing line, tangled up like a mummy, with lacerations cut deep into its throat and flippers. Its black eyes are looking at the camera with the most tragic expression I think I’ve ever seen.

  I swallow. It’s effective for stirring up emotions, I’ll give him that.

  “I see you put my name first,” I say. I’m not sure what makes me say it. I’m not sure what makes me say half the things I do around Quint. There’s something about him that makes it physically impossible for me to keep my mouth shut. It’s like there’s always one more bullet in my ammunition, and I can’t help but take every shot.

  “Believe it or not, I know how to put things in alphabetical order,” he mutters back. “I did pass kindergarten, after all.”

  “Shockingly,” I fire back.

  He sighs.

  Mr. Chavez finishes making notes on his clipboard and smiles at the class. “Thank you all for a fantastic group of presentations. I’m impressed with the hard work and creativity I’ve seen this year. I’ll have your grades handed out tomorrow. Please go ahead and pass your final lab reports up to the front.”

  Chairs scrape and papers shuffle as my classmates start digging through their backpacks. I look expectantly at Quint.

  He looks back at me, confused.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  His eyes widen. “Oh!” He pulls his backpack closer and starts rifling through the chaos inside. “I forgot all about it.”

  Friggin’ figures.

  “You forgot to bring it?” I say. “Or you forgot to do it?”

  He pauses with a grimace. “Both?”

  I roll my eyes and he lifts a hand, his momentary embarrassment already evaporating. “You don’t need to say it.”

  “Say what?” I respond, even as a flurry of words like incompetent and lazy and helpless are circling through my thoughts.

  “I’ll talk to Mr. Chavez,” he says. “I’ll tell him it’s my mistake and that I can email him the report tonight—”

  “Don’t bother.” I open my biology folder, where the final completed lab report rests right on top, neatly typed and featuring a bonus environmental toxicology pie chart. I lean over the table and pass it up the aisle.

  When I look back, Quint looks … angry?

  “What?” I ask.

  He gestures toward the paper, which has disappeared into the stack of assignments. “You didn’t trust me to do it?”

  I turn to face him. “And I was right not to.”

  “What happened to being a team? Maybe instead of doing it yourself, you could have reminded me. I would have done it.”

  “It is not my job to remind you to do your homework. Or to get to class on time, for that matter.”

  “I was—”

  I cut him off, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Let’s just be grateful this partnership is finally over.”

  He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and though I think he’s agreeing with me, it still makes me flush with annoyance. I’ve carried this team all year long, doing far more than my share of the work. As far as I’m concerned, I’m the best thing that could have happened to him.

  Mr. Chavez takes the last of the papers as they’re passed to the front. “Now, I know tomorrow is your very last day of sophomore year, and you’re all eager to get on with your vacation, but tonight is still a school night, which means, here’s your homework assignment.” The class releases a unanimous groan as he uncaps a green marker and starts scrawling across the whiteboard. “I know, I know. But just think. This could be the last chance I get to impart you with my superior wisdom. Give me my moment, would you?”

  I take out a pen and begin copying the assignment down into my notebook.

  Quint doesn’t.

  When the bell rings, he’s the first one out the door.

  THREE

  “I’m not opposed to homework, generally speaking,” says Jude, idly flipping through the pages of his marine biology textbook. “But homework on the second-to-last day of school? That’s the mark of a tyrannical overlord.”

  “Oh, stop whining,” says Ari from behind her menu. She spends a great deal of time studying the menu each time we come in, even though we always end up ordering the same things. “At least you get a summer break. Our teachers gave us detailed reading lists and assignment plans to ‘keep us busy’ over vacation. July is Greek mythology month. Hooray.”

  Jude and I both give her dismayed looks. The three of us are sitting in a corner booth at Encanto, our favorite spot on Main Street. The restaurant is a bit of a tourist trap, right off the main thoroughfare—you can even see traces of the beach through the front windows—but it only ever gets crowded on the weekends, making it the ideal quiet hangout after school. In part because the fusion of Mexican and Puerto Rican food is mind-blowingly good. And in part because Carlos, the owner, gives us free sodas and as much chips and salsa as we can eat without ever complaining about us taking up valuable booth space. To be honest, I think he likes having us around, even if we only ever order food between three and six o’clock so we can get the half-off appetizer specials.

  “What?” Ari asks, finally noticing the looks Jude and I are giving her.

  “I would study Greek mythology over plankton any day of the week,” says Jude, gesturing at an illustration in the textbook.

  Ari huffs in that signature you-guys-don’t-get-it way. Which, admittedly, we don’t. The three of us have been arguing about which is worse—attending the prestigious St. Agnes Prep or navigating our Fortuna Beach High—ever since we met nearly four years ago. It’s a typical grass-is-greener situation. Jude and I are forever jealous of the seemingly obscure topics and lesson plans that Ari complains about. Things like “How the Transcontinental Spice Trade Changed History,” or “The Influence of Paganism on Modern Religious Traditions.” Whereas Ari yearns for the teen-movie normalcy that comes with low-quality cafeteria lunches and not having to wear a uniform every day.

  Which, I mean, fair enough.

  One thing Ari can’t argue, though, is that St. Agnes has a music program that is far superior to anything she’d find in the public schools. If it wasn’t for their dedicated classes on music theory and composition, I suspect Ari would have begged her parents to let her transfer.

  Jude and I go back to our papers while Ari turns her attention to two women who are sharing a dessert at the next table. Ari has her notebook in front of her and is wearing her trying-to-come-up-with-a-rhyme-to-make-this-song-lyric-work face. I imagine a ballad about coconut pudding and early love. Pretty much all of Ari’s songs are about early love. That, or they’re about the tumultuous angst of love-gone-wrong. Never anything in between. Though I guess that could be said for almost every song.

  I read the assignment again, thinking that maybe it will inspire an idea. “Two hundred fifty words on what sort of underwater adaptation would be useful in our aboveground environment.” It’s not a hard assignment. I should have been done an hour ago. But after the last few nights spent finishing the ecotourism project, my brain feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder.


  “That’s it! Basking shark!” says Jude, thumping a finger down on his book. The image shows a positively horrific shark, its enormous mouth gaping open, revealing not huge, sharp teeth, but what appears to be its skeleton or rib cage or something extending back into its body. It reminds me of the scene when Pinocchio gets swallowed by the whale. “It swims through the water, scooping up whatever bits of food come its way.”

  “And that would be useful to you, how?” I ask.

  “Efficiency. Whatever food I passed by could just get swept down my throat. I’d never have to chew or stop to eat.” He pauses, a thoughtful look coming into his eye. “Actually, that would make a great dungeon monster.”

  “That would make a disgusting monster,” I say.

  He shrugs and jots down a note in the sketchbook that is always at his elbow. “You’re the one who’s obsessed with time management.”

  He does have a point. I grunt and flip through my textbook for the sixth time while Jude takes our shared laptop and pulls it toward himself. Rather than opening a new document, he merely deletes my name at the top and replaces it with his before he starts to type.

  “Here we go, little worker bees,” says Carlos, arriving with a basket of tortilla chips, guacamole, and two kinds of salsa. A sweet guava-based salsa for me and Jude, and an extra-fiery pseudo-masochistic why-would-anyone-do-this-to-themselves? spicy one for Ari. “Your school isn’t out yet?”

  “Tomorrow’s our last day,” says Jude. “Ari’s got out last week.”

  “Does that mean I’ll be seeing more of you, or less?”

  “More,” Ari answers, beaming at him. “We’re pretty much going to live here this summer, if that’s okay with you.” Ari has had a schoolgirl crush on Carlos since we started coming here. Which might seem a little weird, given that he’s got to be close to forty, except he looks an awful lot like a young Antonio Banderas. That, plus the Puerto Rican accent, plus the man can cook. Who can blame a girl for being a little smitten?