Instant Karma

by Marissa Meyer

  “Wait!”

  I look back at Ari. She leans forward and reaches her thumb for the corner of my mouth, rubbing hard for a second. “Your lipstick was smeared,” she says, settling back into the booth. She gives me an encouraging nod. “All better. You look great.”

  “Thanks, Ari.”

  I clear my throat and approach the stage, making a point not to make eye contact with the goons in the booth. Or Quint, for that matter. I tell myself that I’m not nervous. That I’m not positively terrified.

  It’s only four minutes of your life. You can do this.

  But please let Jude have picked a decent song …

  Trish sets the microphone stand in front of me and I look at the monitor, displaying the song choice. Whew. Okay. Not bad. Jude took Ari’s suggestion and has signed me up to sing the John Lennon song, one I love and definitely know by heart.

  I lick my lips and shake out my shoulders, trying to get into a performance mindset. I’m no great singer, I know that. But what I lack in natural-born talent, I can make up for with stage presence. I am Prudence Barnett. I don’t believe in mediocrity or lame attempts, and that includes belting out a karaoke song in a dimly lit tourist trap off Main Street. I will smile. I will work the crowd. I might even dance. I figure, my singing may not win me any awards, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun.

  Loosen up. Right, Quint? Let’s see you get on this stage and loosen up.

  The first chords of “Instant Karma!” blare from the speakers. I don’t need the monitor feeding me the lyrics. I flip my hair and start to sing. “Instant karma’s gonna get you!”

  Ari whoops encouragingly. I wink at her and can feel myself getting into the song. My hips sway. My heart races, with adrenaline as much as nerves. My fingers spread out like fireworks. Jazz hands. The music builds and I do my best to channel John Lennon and the passion he brought to his music. My free arm stretches to the sky, then drops toward the crowd, my finger pointing, searching. “Who on earth do you think you are? A superstar? Right—you are!” I’m trying to give a shout-out to Carlos, but I can’t find him, and soon I find myself pointing at Quint instead. I’m startled to find him watching me with marked attention. He’s smiling, but it’s in a stunned, almost bewildered way.

  Pulse skittering, I swivel my attention back to Ari, who is dancing inside the booth, swaying her arms in the air.

  I take imaginary drumsticks into my hand and hit the cymbals in time with the drum solo that launches me into the chorus. I’m feeling almost giddy as I sing. “Well, we all shine on, like the moon … and the stars … and the sun!”

  The song blurs into familiar chords and beloved lyrics. I roll my shoulders. Stretch my fingers to the sky. Belt my way through to the end. I don’t dare look at Quint again, but I can feel his gaze on me, and despite my determination not to let his presence unnerve me, I am unnerved. Which just serves to make me even more determined to appear unnerved. Because it would have been one thing if he’d been outright ignoring me, or cringing with embarrassment on my behalf.

  But no. In that split second when I caught his eyes, there’d been something unexpected there. I don’t think it was simple amusement, or even sheer surprise, though I definitely think I surprised him. There was something more than that. Something almost … mesmerized.

  I’m overthinking it. I need to stop thinking at all and focus on the song, but I’m on autopilot as the lyrics repeat and start to fade. Like the moon and the stars and the sun …

  As the song comes to an end, I take an elaborate bow, flourishing my hand toward Quint like how he fake bowed to me in biology class that morning.

  And yet, Quint’s whooping cheer is the loudest in the bar. “Killed it, Pru!”

  Heat climbs up my neck, burning across my cheeks. Not embarrassment, exactly. More like a rush, a glow, from his unwanted, unsolicited, totally unnecessary approval.

  As I step away from the microphone, I can’t keep from glancing at him. I’m still energized from the song, a smile stretched across my lips. He meets my eyes and for a moment—just a moment—I think, okay, maybe he’s halfway decent. Maybe we could be friends, even. As long as we never have to work together again.

  To my surprise, Quint lifts his glass, as if toasting me. Which is when I realize I’m staring.

  The moment ends. The weird connection snaps. I pry my attention away from him as I head back to the booth.

  Ari claps enthusiastically. “You were so good!” she says, with, I can’t help but notice, a hearty sense of disbelief. “The whole place was mesmerized!”

  Her words remind me of the look Quint was giving me during the song and I flush deeper. “I actually enjoyed that more than I thought I would.”

  She raises her hand for a high five. I’m still a few feet away, passing by the booth where the hecklers had been sitting, though they’ve since left.

  I move to accept the high five.

  I’ve forgotten about the spilled drink.

  My heel slips forward. I gasp, throwing my weight to try to regain balance. Too late. My arms flail out to the sides. My feet kick out from underneath me.

  I go down hard.

  SIX

  Prince is playing over the speakers, but no one is singing. The back of my head feels like it was just hit with a two-by-four. The pounding inside my skull is in perfect rhythm with the drumbeat of “Raspberry Beret.”

  It takes three separate tries to pry my eyes open, only to have them accosted by neon tequila advertisements and a TV on the wall showing one of those weird karaoke videos from the eighties that don’t have anything to do with the song. I flinch and squeeze my eyes shut again. Ari is saying something about calling an ambulance. Carlos is talking, too, sounding confident and calm, but I can’t understand what he’s saying.

  “It’s all right, Pru,” says another voice, a deeper voice. One that sounds an awful lot like … Quint?

  But Quint’s never called me Pru before.

  A hand slides under the back of my head. Fingers in my hair. My eyes squint open again and the light is less intense this time.

  Quint Erickson is kneeling beside me, watching my face with an expression that is weirdly intense, especially with those dark eyebrows stooped over his gaze. It’s so different from his usual goofy grin that it startles a painful laugh from me.

  He blinks. “Prudence? Are you okay?”

  The pounding in my head gets worse. I stop laughing. “Fine. I’m fine. Just … this song…”

  He glances up at the monitor, as if he’d forgotten there was music playing at all.

  “Doesn’t make sense,” I continue. “I’ve never found a raspberry beret at a secondhand store. Have you?” I grit my teeth at another onslaught of head-throbbing. I should probably stop talking.

  Quint’s frown has deepened. “You might have a concussion.”

  “No.” I groan. “Maybe. Ow.”

  He helps me sit up.

  Ari is on my other side. Trish Roxby is nearby, too, biting her thumbnail, along with a waitress who is holding a glass of water that I think is probably meant for me. Even Quint’s friend, Morgan, has finally put down her cell phone and is looking at me like she halfway cares.

  “I’m fine,” I say. The words don’t slur. At least, I don’t think they do. It gives me confidence, and I repeat them, more emphatically: “I’m fine.”

  Ari holds two fingers in front of my face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  I scowl at her. “Twelve,” I deadpan. The throbbing in the back of my head is starting to subside, which is when I realize that Quint is still holding me, his fingers tangled in my hair.

  Alarm surges through me and I shove his arm away. “I’m fine.”

  Quint looks startled, but not particularly hurt.

  “Your friend is right,” says Carlos. “You might have a concussion. We should—”

  “He’s not my friend,” I say. It’s a bit of a reflex. I’ve started now, so I keep going, lifting an explanatory finger. “Pl
us, I’ve seen the way he handles lab results. Forgive me if I don’t have a whole lot of confidence in Dr. Erickson’s diagnosis.”

  “Well, she sounds okay,” says Ari.

  I reach for the ledge of a table and use it to pull myself up. As soon as I’m on my feet, a wave of dizziness passes over me. I steady myself on the table, squeezing my eyes shut.

  My free hand feels around the back of my head. There’s a lump, but at least I’m not bleeding.

  “Prudence,” says Quint, still hovering too close. “This could be serious.”

  I round on him so fast that stars flicker in and out of my vision, cutting off my hasty response. “Oh, now you decide to take something seriously?” I say as the stars begin to dissipate.

  He takes a step back, deflates, then rubs the bridge of his nose. “Why do I bother?”

  “Why do you bother? I don’t need your help.”

  His expression hardens and he lifts his hands in surrender. “Clearly,” he says. Rather than turn away, though, he reaches past me, suddenly so close that I press my hip against the edge of the table with a rush of panic. Quint grabs the stack of napkins left behind by those jerks and turns away without acknowledging, or perhaps even noticing, my reaction. He throws the napkins onto the spilled drink that I slipped on and starts sopping it up, pushing the soggy paper around with the toe of his sneaker.

  “Pru?” Ari touches my elbow. “Really, should we call for an ambulance? Or I could drive you to the hospital?”

  I sigh. “Please, don’t. I’m not discombobulated or anything. My head hurts a little, but that’s all. I just need a Tylenol.”

  “If she can correctly use words like discombobulated, she’s probably okay,” says Trish, and I can tell she’s trying to be helpful. “You thirsty, sweetheart?”

  She holds the water toward me, but I shake my head. “No. Thanks. I think I’m going to head home, though.” I turn to Ari. “My bike is outside, but…”

  “I’ll give you a ride,” she says, without letting me finish. She ducks back into our booth, gathering our things.

  “Thanks,” I murmur. I feel like I should say something, do something. Carlos and Trish, Quint and Morgan, are all still standing there, watching me. Well, Quint is throwing the wet napkins in a wastebasket and avoiding meeting my eye, but the rest of them are staring, expectant. Am I supposed to give them hugs or something?

  Carlos saves me by dropping a hand onto my shoulder. “Will you call me tomorrow, or drop by after school or something? Let me know you’re all right?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I say. “Um … the karaoke thing…” I look past him to Trish. “It’s actually kind of a cool idea. I hope you keep doing it.”

  “Every Tuesday at six,” says Trish. “That’s the plan, at least.”

  I follow Ari toward the back door. I make a point of keeping my eyes away from Quint, but I sense him there all the same. The twinge in my stomach feels something like guilt. He’d just been trying to help. I probably shouldn’t have snapped at him.

  But he had all year to help. Too little, too late.

  Ari pushes open the back door, landing us in the gravel parking lot behind Encanto. The sun has just set and there’s a refreshing breeze coming in off the ocean, full of salt and familiarity. I feel instantly revived, despite the dull ache at the back of my skull.

  Ari drives a turquoise-blue station wagon from the sixties—a beast of a car that was a gift from her parents on her sixteenth birthday. She tries not to make a big deal out of it, but her family has money. Her mom is one of the most successful realtors in the county and has made a small fortune selling fancy vacation homes to very wealthy people. So when Ari starts swooning over something like a completely impractical vintage car, it’s not a huge surprise that one shows up in their driveway. Which might be enough to make some teenagers act entitled, but her abuela, who lives with them, seems to keep tight reins on that. She’d be the first to knock Ari off her pedestal if she ever started acting spoiled, though with Ari, I don’t think there’s any cause for concern. She’s pretty much the kindest, most generous person I know.

  I try to help Ari load my bike into the back of the car, but she urges me to get in and take it easy. The headache has started to get bad again, so I don’t argue. I slump into the passenger seat and lean back against the headrest.

  Sometimes I think Ari is intentionally trying to live her life like she’s in a period documentary film. She wears mostly vintage clothes, like the mustard-yellow romper she’s wearing now, drives a vintage car, and even plays a vintage guitar. Though she knows way more about contemporary music than I do, her true passion lies with the singer-songwriter heyday of the 1970s.

  With my bike secured, Ari drops into the driver’s seat. I buckle my seat belt while she goes through the carefully orchestrated procedure of checking her mirrors, even though they couldn’t possibly have moved from when she drove it here a few hours ago.

  She’s still getting used to driving a stick shift, and she only kills the engine once before pulling out onto the main thoroughfare. It’s a vast improvement from when she first got the car and popped the clutch about fifty times in a row before she could get it to move. “Are you sure you’re okay? I could take you to the hospital? Call your parents? Call Jude?”

  “No, I just want to go home.”

  She bites her lower lip. “I was so worried, Pru. You actually passed out.”

  “Just for a second, right?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  I put my hand on hers and say, solemnly, “I’m okay. I promise.”

  Her face relents before her words do. After a second, she nods. I sigh and stare out the window. We pass by ice cream parlors and boutique shops that are as familiar as my own bedroom. I hadn’t realized how late it was. The sun has just dipped below the horizon, and Main Street is lit up like a movie set, the palm trees wrapped with small white lights, the pastel-painted businesses glowing under the old-fashioned streetlamps. In another week, this town will be full of tourists on vacation, bringing something akin to a nightlife with them. But for now, the street feels almost abandoned.

  We turn away from Main Street, into the suburbs. The first couple of blocks are the mansions—mostly second homes for people who can afford almost-but-not-quite beachfront property. But soon it’s just another neighborhood. A hodgepodge of Mission style and French Colonial. Tiled roofs, stucco walls, brightly painted shutters, window boxes overflowing with petunias and geraniums.

  “So, don’t be mad,” Ari says, and I immediately bristle with the expectation of being mad, “but I thought Quint seemed okay.”

  I relax, realizing that for some reason I’d been bracing for an insult. But Ari is too sweet to criticize anyone. Even, evidently, Quint Erickson. I snort. “Everyone thinks Quint seems okay, until they have to work with him.” I pause, considering. “It’s not that I think he’s a bad guy. He’s not a jerk or a bully or anything like that. But he’s just so … so…” I flex my fingers, grasping for the right word.

  “Cute?”

  I cast her an icy stare. “You can do better.”

  She laughs. “I’m not interested.”

  There’s something in the way she says it, like she’s leaving something unsaid. She’s not interested, but …

  The words linger in the air between us. Is she implying that I am?

  Gross.

  I fold my arms tightly over my chest. “I was going to say inept. And selfish. He’s late for class all the time, like whatever he’s doing is so much more important than what we’re doing. Like his time is more valuable, and it’s okay for him to stroll in ten minutes into the lecture, disrupting Mr. Chavez, making us all pause while he gets settled, and he cracks some stupid joke about it like…” I drop my voice in imitation. “Aw, man, that Fortuna traffic, right? When we all know that there is no Fortuna traffic.”

  “So he’s not punctual. There are worse things.”

  I sigh. “You don’t get it. Nobody does. Having him as
a lab partner has been downright painful.”

  Ari gasps suddenly. The car swerves. I grip my seat belt and turn my head as headlights blaze through the rear window. I don’t know when the sports car showed up behind us, but they’re riding the bumper, dangerously close. I lean forward to look in the side mirror.

  “There was a stop sign back there!” Ari yells.

  The sports car starts swerving back and forth, its engine revving.

  “What does he want?” Ari cries, already on the verge of hysteria. Though she has her license, her confidence behind the wheel still has a way to go. But something tells me having an erratic car on your tail would freak out even most experienced drivers.

  “I think he wants to pass us?”

  “We’re not on a freeway!”

  We’re on a narrow residential street, made narrower by rows of vehicles parallel parked on both sides. The speed limit is only twenty-five, which I’m sure Ari had been following precisely. Now, in her anxiety, her speed has dropped to twenty. I suspect this is only further irritating the driver behind us.

  They lay on the horn—extra rude.

  “What’s their problem?” I shout.

  “I’m pulling over,” says Ari. “Maybe … maybe there’s a woman giving birth in the passenger seat or something?”

  I look at her in disbelief. Leave it to Ari to excuse this inexcusable behavior. “The hospital’s that way,” I say, jerking my thumb in the other direction.

  Ari eases toward the side of the road. She finds a spot between two parked cars and does her best to angle her way in—no easy task with how long the station wagon is. Still, it leaves enough room for the other car to pass.

  The engine revs again and the sports car shoots past. I catch a glimpse of a woman hanging out the passenger window with a lit cigarette. She flips Ari the bird as they speed by.

  Fury washes over me.

  My fists clench, nails digging into my palms. I imagine karmic justice striking them. A blown tire that would send them spinning off the road, crashing into a telephone pole, and—