Instant Karma

by Marissa Meyer

  “Mr. Chavez, please!” I say. “Tell him he has to do this with me, or … or say I can do it on my own!”

  Mr. Chavez looks up and shrugs.

  Gah.

  “Look,” I say, turning back to Quint. “I know it’s not the end of the world, but I’ve never gotten a C before. And I worked really hard on that model! You have no idea how much work I’ve put into this project.” My eyes start to water, catching me off-guard. I squeeze them shut, trying to reel back my emotions before I give Quint even more ammunition to attack Workaholic Prudence.

  “You’re right,” he says.

  I open my eyes, startled.

  “I don’t have any idea how hard you worked on that project.” He takes a step back, shrugging. “Because I wasn’t trusted enough to help.”

  You weren’t trusted? I want to scream. You didn’t even try!

  “Besides,” he adds, “I have more important things to do with my summer.”

  I snort. “Like what? Play video games? Go surfing?”

  “Yeah,” he says with an ireful laugh. “You know me so well.” He pivots and starts to walk away.

  I feel like I’ve run out of options. Helplessness sweeps through me, further igniting my anger. I do not like feeling helpless.

  As I stare at Quint’s retreating back, I ball my fists and picture the earth opening up beneath him and swallowing him whole.

  “Oh, wait, Mr. Erickson?” calls our teacher.

  Quint pauses.

  “Almost forgot.” Mr. Chavez riffles through his papers and grabs a folder. “Here’s that extra-credit assignment. Great work here. The photos are really impressive.”

  Quint’s face softens and he takes the folder with a smile. “Thanks, Mr. C. Have a good summer.”

  I gape, stunned, as Quint leaves the room.

  What was that?

  I spin on Mr. Chavez. “Hold on. You let him do an extra-credit assignment? But I can’t do something to bring up my grade?”

  Mr. Chavez sighs. “He had extenuating circumstances, Prudence.”

  “What extenuating circumstances?”

  He opens his mouth, but hesitates. Then he shrugs. “Maybe you should try asking your lab partner about it.”

  I let out an infuriated roar, then stomp back to the table to gather my things. Jude is watching me, worried, both thumbs locked behind the straps of his backpack. We’re the only students left in the classroom.

  “That was a valiant effort,” he says.

  “Don’t talk to me,” I mutter back.

  Ever accommodating, Jude doesn’t say anything else, just waits while I shove the binder into my bag and grab the street model.

  It feels like the universe is playing a practical joke on me.

  NINE

  The rest of the school day is uneventful. It’s clear that the teachers are as eager for summer vacation as we are, and most of them are phoning in these last obligatory hours. In Spanish class, we spend the whole period watching some cheesy telenovela. In history, we play what Mr. Gruener calls “semi-educational” board games—Risk, Battleship, Settlers of Catan. In English, Ms. Whitefield reads us a bunch of bawdy Shakespearean quotes. There’s a lot of insults and sexual humor, which she has to translate out of the old-fashioned English for us, but by the time the hour is over, my classmates are all cracking up and calling one another things like “thou embossed carbuncle!” and “ye cream-faced loon!”

  It’s actually a really fun day. I even manage to forget about the biology debacle for a while.

  As we’re leaving our final class, Mrs. Dunn sends us off with goody bags full of gummy bears and fish crackers, like we’re six-year-olds heading out on a picnic. I guess it’s our prize for bothering to come in on the last day.

  “Sayonara! Farewell! Adieu!” she sings as she passes the bags out at her door. “Make good choices!”

  I find Jude waiting on the front steps of the school. Students are drifting out in waves, electrified with their sudden freedom. The weeks stretch in front of us, full of potential. Sunny beaches, lazy days and Netflix marathons, pool parties and loitering on the boardwalk.

  Jude, who had Mrs. Dunn earlier in the day, is munching his way through the plastic baggie of Goldfish. I sit beside him and automatically hand over my snacks, neither of which I find remotely appealing. We sit in companionable silence. It’s one of the things I love most about being a twin. Jude and I can sit together for hours, not speaking a single word, and I can come away from it feeling like we just had the most profound conversation. We don’t do small talk. We don’t need to amuse each other. We can just be.

  “Feeling better?” he asks. And since this is the first time I’ve seen him since biology class, I know immediately what he’s talking about.

  “Not even a little bit,” I answer.

  He nods. “Figured as much.” Finishing his snacks, he balls up the plastic baggie and tosses it at the nearest trash can. It falls short by at least four feet. Grumbling, he walks over and scoops it up.

  I hear Ari’s car coming before I see it. A few seconds later, the blue station wagon swings into the parking lot, never straying above the five-miles-per-hour limit posted on the signs. She pulls up to the bottom of the steps and leans out her open window, a party horn in her mouth. She blows once, unraveling the silver-striped coil with a screechy, celebratory blare.

  “You’re free!” she squeals.

  “Free of the overlords!” Jude responds. “We shall toil away at their menial drudgework no longer!”

  We get into the car, Jude and his long legs in front, me in the back. We’ve had this afternoon planned for weeks, determined to start the summer out right. As we pull out of the parking lot, I vow to forget about Quint and our miserable presentation for the rest of the day. I figure I can have one day to revel in summer vacation before I set my mind to solving this problem. I’ll figure something out tomorrow.

  Ari drives us straight to the boardwalk, where we can binge on sundaes from the Salty Cow, an upscale ice cream parlor known for mixing unusual flavors like “lavender mint” and “turmeric poppy seed.” When we get there, though, there’s a line all the way out the door, and the impatient looks on some of the patrons’ faces make me think it hasn’t moved in a while.

  I trade glances with Ari and Jude.

  “I’ll go pop my head in and see what’s going on,” I say as the two of them get in line. I squeeze through the door. “Sorry, not trying to cut, just want to see what’s happening.”

  A man standing with three young kids looks about ready to explode. “That’s happening,” he says, gesturing angrily toward the cashier.

  A woman is arguing—no, screaming at the poor girl behind the counter, who looks like she’s barely older than I am. The girl is on the verge of crying, but the woman is relentless. How incompetent can you be? It’s just ice cream, not rocket science! I put in this order a month ago!

  “I’m sorry,” the girl pleads, red-faced. “I didn’t take the order. I don’t know what happened. There isn’t any record…”

  She’s not the only one on the verge of tears. A little girl with pigtails stands with her hands on the glass ice cream case, looking between the angry woman and her parents. “Why is it taking so long?” she whimpers.

  “I want to speak to your manager!” yells the woman.

  “He isn’t here,” says the girl behind the counter. “There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry!”

  I don’t know why the woman is so furious, and I’m not sure it matters. Like she said, it’s just ice cream, and clearly the poor cashier is doing her best. She could at least be civil. Not to mention that she’s keeping these poor kids—and me—from getting our ice cream.

  I take in a deep breath and prepare to storm up to the woman. Maybe if we can be rational, we can get the manager’s phone number and he can come down and deal with this.

  I clench my hands at my sides.

  I take two steps forward.

  “What’s going on here?” be
llows a stern voice.

  I pause. The people in line shuffle out of the way as a police officer strolls into the ice cream parlor.

  Or … I could let him deal with it?

  The woman at the counter opens her mouth, clearly about to start yelling again, but she’s cut off by all the waiting customers. The presence of the police officer encourages them, and suddenly they’re all willing to speak up on behalf of the cashier. This woman is being a nuisance. She’s being rude and ridiculous. She needs to leave!

  For her part, the woman seems genuinely shocked when no one, especially those closest in line who have heard the whole story, comes to her defense.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it sounds like I should escort you out,” says the officer.

  She looks mortified. And stunned. And still angry. With a snarl, she grabs a business card off the counter and sneers at the girl who is wiping tears from her cheeks. “I will be calling your manager about this,” she says, before storming out of the parlor to a huge roar of approval.

  I make my way back to Jude and Ari, shaking out my hands. My fingers have that weird pins-and-needles feeling in them again for some reason. I explain what happened, and soon the line starts moving again.

  After we’ve finished our ice cream, we overpay for a surrey from the rental kiosk and spend an hour pedaling along the boardwalk under its lemon-yellow awning, Ari snapping too many photos of us making kooky faces, and Jude and me yelling at her to stop slacking off and start moving her legs.

  Until we come across a group of tourists who are taking up the whole width of the boardwalk and meandering at a turtle’s pace.

  We slow down the surrey so we don’t crash into them. Ari honks the little bike horn.

  One of the tourists looks back, notices us, and then goes right back to their conversation. Ignoring us entirely.

  “Excuse us!” says Jude. “Could we get by?”

  They don’t respond.

  Ari honks the horn again. And again. They still don’t get out of the way.

  What the heck? Do they think they own this boardwalk or something? Move!

  My knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.

  “Coming through! Can’t stop! Get out of the way!” someone yells, charging toward us from the other direction.

  The tourists yelp in surprise and scatter as five teens on skateboards come barreling toward them. One of the women loses her sandal and it gets squashed beneath one of the skateboard’s wheels. A man hauls himself backward so fast he loses his balance and falls off the edge of the boardwalk, landing on his behind in the sand below. They all start yelling at the inconsiderate teenage hooligans, while Jude and Ari and I look at one another and shrug.

  We pedal quickly past the tourists before they can regroup.

  After returning the surrey, we order a gigantic basket of garlic fries from the fish-and-chips stand and sit out on the sidewalk, kicking sand at the greedy seagulls who come too close, trying to snap up our fries. When one of them comes so close it sends Ari squealing and ducking around a picnic table, Jude tosses some of the burnt bits from the bottom of the basket for the birds to fight over.

  A second later, one of the stand’s employees sees him doing it and starts yelling because “every idiot knows better than to feed the wildlife!” Jude gets a guilt-ridden look on his face. He doesn’t do well with chastisement.

  As soon as the employee turns away, I shake my fist at his back. I’m just lowering my arm when a seagull swoops down and snatches the paper hat off the employee’s head. He cries out and ducks in surprise as the bird soars away.

  I watch as the bird and the hat disappear into the sunset.

  Okay.

  Is it just me, or…?

  I glance down at my hand.

  No. That’s ridiculous.

  As the sun begins to sink toward the horizon, we finally make our way to the cove where the bonfire party is held each year, a stretch of shore about a mile north of downtown. I don’t know how long the bonfire tradition has been going on. How many classes have danced drunkenly around the flames, how many seniors have splashed fully dressed into the surf, how many make-out sessions have taken place in the rocky alcoves where people go to, well, make out. Supposedly. I wouldn’t know firsthand, but you hear stories.

  We’re not the first ones to arrive, but we’re still on the early side. A couple of seniors are unloading coolers from the back of a pickup truck. A boy I recognize from math class is arranging kindling for the fire. The first arrivals are already staking out their spots, spreading blankets and towels on the beach, producing volleyballs and beer cans from large woven tote bags.

  We pick a spot not far from the bonfire, unrolling the blanket that Ari brought with her and setting out a few low-slung beach chairs. Within minutes, Jude gets hailed by a few of our classmates and goes over to chat.

  Ari turns to me. “I already know the answer to this, but just to be sure. Do you want to go in the water?”

  I curl my nose in distaste.

  “That’s what I thought.” Standing, she surprises me by pulling her paisley printed sundress over her head, revealing a pale pink bathing suit underneath. She’s clearly been wearing it all day, and it startles me a little bit to realize that I had no idea.

  “Wait, you’re going swimming?” I ask.

  “Not swimming,” she says. “But it’s a beach party. I figured I should at least get my feet wet. Sure you don’t want to join me?”

  “Positive. Thanks.”

  “Okay. Watch my guitar?”

  She doesn’t wait for me to respond, because of course I will. Ari marches off down the shore. She doesn’t say hi to anyone, and I notice a few people giving her curious looks, wondering whether they should recognize her. Jude says she didn’t hesitate when he invited her to come to this party, even though she won’t know anyone. I wonder if she’s hoping to meet some more Fortuna Beach youth while we’re here, make some new friends. I should probably introduce her to some people when she comes back, but …

  I look around, frowning. Honestly, I don’t know many people here, either. It’s almost entirely seniors and juniors so far. And the few sophomores I recognize, like Maya and her crew, I’m not exactly friends with.

  Jude, though, will know lots of people. Even though he’s sort of a nerd, who watches old seasons of Star Trek and has a whole shelf of Lord of the Rings Funko dolls, people like Jude. He has his own sort of charm. He has a soothing, easy-to-be-with presence.

  Just one more reason no one ever believes it when we say we’re related.

  So, if Ari is interested in making friends, he’s more equipped to help out.

  Reaching over, I take a hold of Ari’s guitar case and pull it closer to my side.

  “Not going in the water, Prude?”

  I look up to see Jackson Stult smirking at me. Now that he has my attention, he laughs and makes a show of smacking his own forehead. “Never mind, that was a stupid question. I mean, you’re pretty much allergic to fun, aren’t you?”

  “Nope, I’m just allergic to morons,” I say, before adding in a deadpan voice, “Achoo.”

  He snickers and waves as if this has been a delightful interaction before wandering over to join some of his equally obnoxious friends down the beach.

  His words sting, even though I know they shouldn’t. After all, this is pretty much everything I know about Jackson Stult: One, he cares more about his designer jeans and fancy brand-name shirts than anyone else I’ve ever met; and two, he will do anything for a laugh, even if it comes at someone else’s expense. Which it often does.

  I would be more offended if he actually liked me.

  But still.

  Still.

  The sting is there.

  But if ruining my night was Jackson’s plan, then I refuse to allow it. I lie back on the blanket, staring up at the orange-glowing clouds that drift by overhead. I try to immerse myself in the good things about this moment. Laughter pealing over the beach. The steady crashing
of the waves. The taste of salt and the smell of smoke as the fire gets started. I’m too far away to feel the heat of the flames, but the blanket and sand are warm from baking under the sun’s rays all afternoon.

  I am relaxed.

  I am content.

  I won’t think about biology projects.

  I won’t think about spineless bullies.

  I won’t even think about Quint Erickson.

  I let out a long, slow exhale. I read somewhere that regular meditation can help hone your focus, making you more efficient and productive over time. I’ve been trying to practice meditation ever since. It seems like it would be so easy. Breathe in. Breathe out. Keep your focus trained on your breaths.

  But there are always thoughts that invade the serenity. There are always distractions.

  Like right now, and that terrified screech suddenly cutting across the beach.

  I sit up on my elbows. Jackson is carrying Serena McGinney toward the water. He’s laughing, his head tipped back almost maniacally, while Serena thrashes and struggles against him.

  I sit up more fully now, my brow tensing. Everyone knows Serena is afraid of the water. It became common knowledge when she refused to participate in mandatory swim class in ninth grade, even going so far as to bring a note from her parents excusing her from any pool activities. She doesn’t just have a slight aversion, like I do. It’s an outright phobia.

  Her screams intensify as Jackson reaches the water’s edge. He’s carrying her damsel style, and until now she’s been flailing her arms and legs, trying to get away. But now she turns and clutches her arms around his neck, yelling—Don’t you dare, don’t you dare!

  My eyes narrow. I hear one of his friends call out, “Dunk her! Do it!”

  I swallow. I don’t think he’ll do it, but I don’t know for sure.

  “Come on, it’s barely ankle deep!” Jackson says. Playing to his audience.

  It’s clear that Serena does not think it’s funny. She’s gone drastically pale, and though I know she must be hating Jackson right now, her arms are gripping his neck like a vise. “Jackson Stult, you jerk! Put me down!”