But I can’t be fighting Quint every step of the way. I may not need him, but it sure will be easier if he’s on board.
“All right,” he finally says. His voice is rough, and I sense that this isn’t an easy concession for him to make. But I don’t care. Relief is already welling up in me. “I’ll hear you out,” he continues. “But not today. We’re swamped as it is.”
“Fine, no problem. I’ll go put on an apron and then I can help … clean. Or something.”
His cheek twitches.
“And maybe we can talk about this”—I hold up the folder—“tomorrow? I mean, the sooner we can get started, the better. Right?”
He sighs. A heavy sound, halfway to melodramatic. “Yeah, awesome,” he says. “I can’t wait.”
EIGHTEEN
Encanto has what Carlos generously refers to as a “patio” along the front of the restaurant. It’s actually just three small café tables in a little roped-off section of the sidewalk, but it can be a nice place to sit and people-watch. This is where I sit down to wait for Quint. I have my folder, plus a bunch of new material, mostly online pamphlets and statistics and reports from other nonprofits that I found online. I discovered one cancer research charity that brought in nearly a billion dollars in a single year. Their CEO’s salary was $2.4 million! Not that I think I’m going to be anywhere near that, especially not over just one summer, but it’s nice to know that it can be done. I guess it’s kind of refreshing to know how generous people can be with their money and how it can really add up to make a huge difference.
Well, not that we’ve cured cancer yet. But I have to assume that charity has done something worthwhile with all that dough.
Once I’m all set up for my meeting with Quint, my papers neatly organized and a bulleted list of talking points at my elbow, I check my watch. We’re meeting at noon. I’m five minutes early.
A waiter comes out to check on me and I order a sparkling water and some tostones, which is a Puerto Rican specialty and Carlos’s signature appetizer. It’s basically plantains, which are kind of like firm bananas, that have been squished, fried, and salted, and they are mouth-wateringly delicious. Crisp on the outside, tender on the inside. Plus, he serves them with both a chimichurri and a chipotle-mayo dipping sauce and my mouth waters just thinking about it. Jude and I usually order separate plates because they’re too good to share.
I consider ordering something for Quint, but that might be weird, so I don’t. The waiter disappears back inside. I take off my sunglasses and use the skirt of my dress to polish off a smudge. Slipping them back on, I relax into my seat, waiting.
Tourist season hasn’t fully kicked off yet, but already the town is feeling more lively than it did just a couple of weeks ago. Shopkeepers are dusting off their wares and washing their windows and putting out big CLEARANCE racks full of last year’s goods to entice all the new customers that are starting to arrive.
I grab my phone and check a few social media feeds, but no one I care about has posted anything new so I soon grow bored.
The waiter brings out my water and I drink nearly half the glass in one gulp. My nose tickles from the carbonation. I check my watch again. It feels like I’ve been waiting a long time, but it’s only 12:03.
I try to keep my mind occupied by seeking out people on the street who may be in need of a karmic confrontation. I’m catching on that once I start looking for wrongdoing, it seems to be everywhere—the girl who sticks her chewing gum on the underside of the next table. The man who doesn’t clean up after his dog.
A smirk and a tightening of my fingers, and next thing you know, the girl has dripped salsa down the front of her dress, and the man, distracted, puts his own shoe right into the pile of excrement.
It becomes a game, looking for reprehensible behavior. And there is plenty to see. I wonder if this strange power is somehow attracting abhorrent people, pulling them into my path so they can feel the wrath of the universe, or if there are truly that many inconsiderate people in this world.
Speaking of inconsiderate …
I check my watch. 12:39!
My teeth clench. I’ve been so distracted by doling out punishments to those around me, I’ve barely touched the plate of tostones that was brought a while back. I grab one now and shove it into my mouth. I’ve been sitting here long enough that they’ve started to get cold.
In my mind, this, too, is Quint’s fault.
I swallow, a little painfully.
For a second, I try to use Ari’s tactic and give him the benefit of the doubt.
Could he be stuck in traffic?
Um, no. Unless there’s some festival or something going on, traffic in Fortuna Beach is pretty much nonexistent.
Maybe he forgot the time? Or forgot that we were supposed to meet at all?
This seems likely, but it hardly makes it okay.
Maybe he’s sick?
Please. I would be so lucky.
Honestly, after seeing him at 8:00 a.m. at the center yesterday, I’d begun to think maybe I’d been mistaken about him. Maybe there is some part of him that can be responsible. That takes his obligations seriously. Maybe he’s not a total delinquent.
As soon as my watch ticks over to 1:00, making him an entire hour late, I feel my annoyance boiling over. It’s one thing to be late to class. Yes, it would have been nice to have a reliable lab partner, but whatever, I did the work myself. But to stand me up like this? On my day off? When I’ve put in all this work to help his mom and her center.
It’s inexcusable!
This rant continues in my head another ten … fifteen … twenty-two minutes, until I’m about ready to scream at the infuriating seagulls that are squawking around, searching for dropped food.
And then—then—I see him.
He’s strolling up the sidewalk, his eyes hidden by sunglasses and the afternoon light glinting off his dark hair. He’s wearing flip-flops, swim trunks, and a white T-shirt with a picture of a surfboarding octopus. He is not hurrying. He in no way looks anxious or apologetic. He looks relaxed. Too relaxed.
How is it that I can have such high expectations, for myself and those around me, while Quint can be so … so Quint. I’ve even spent the last year lowering my expectations for him, bit by bit, and still he manages to disappoint. I’ve truly asked so little of him. Just show up on time so I don’t have to explain the assignment to you every single day. Just read the chapter from our textbook beforehand so you have a clue what we’re talking about. Just take a few notes or take accurate measurements or do something useful rather than putting it all on my shoulders.
Somehow, he failed. Again and again and again. And now this. To not only be late, but to be so casual about it.
I’m positively fuming when Quint spots me and smiles in greeting.
Smiles.
That! Jerk!
My hand clenches under the table, squeezing until I can feel the pulse of my own blood in my knuckles.
Quint pauses, his eye catching on something. Please, oh please, let a seagull swoop by and drop a big one right on his head.
Or let some kid plant a half-devoured chocolate ice cream cone right into that Hawaiian-printed butt of his. (Not that I’m thinking about his butt. Oh, gross, stop it, Brain!)
Or … or … gah, I don’t care, just something horrible!
As I watch, my hand aching and images of vengeance swirling through my head, Quint stoops down and picks something off the sidewalk. I squint, trying to see what it is.
Paper? Green paper?
Hold on. Did he just find money?
Quint walks up to a nearby shopkeeper who’s sweeping his front stoop and shows him the paper. The man shakes his head. Quint steps away, looks up and down the sidewalk, but there’s no one else to ask. No one to talk to. He gives the facial equivalent of a shrug, then starts heading toward me again.
My fist slowly relaxes. What is going on here?
“Look,” he says, sliding into the chair opposite me. “I just foun
d twenty bucks.”
I gawk at the bill in his hand. What?
He holds it toward me. “We’ll call it our first anonymous donation.” He grins. “See? We’re making a good team already.”
My brain feels like it’s shutting down. I can’t process what just happened. I feel like the universe betrayed me. I take the twenty, a little dazed, and stare at it. Maybe it’s counterfeit, and he’ll get arrested if he uses it?
But, no. I know it’s real. I know that, for whatever reason, he just got rewarded, after being nearly an hour and a half late to our meeting. Was that the universe’s doing, or just coincidence?
That would be an easy explanation, except I’m reaching a point where I’m not sure I believe in coincidences anymore.
I set the money down on the table between us.
“Wow,” I say, a little numbly. “Cool. I’ll … start a ledger.”
“Yeah. Or it can just pay for lunch. I’m starving.” He takes a tostone without asking, dips it in the chipotle sauce, and tosses it into his mouth. “Mm, so good,” he says. He doesn’t seem to notice that they’re cold. You know, because they’ve been sitting out for more than an hour.
“So,” I start, as my anger once again begins to boil. “You do know how to tell time, right? Like, you didn’t sleep through those lessons in elementary school?”
He lifts an eyebrow at me. Takes his time chewing. Finally swallows. He leans over the table. “Or,” he says, “you could try starting this conversation with something like, ‘Wow, Quint, you sure are late today. Did something happen?’”
My jaw tightens and I lean forward. “Or you could start with an apology. I’ve been here for an hour and a half. You think I didn’t have anything better to do with my time than wait for you? You couldn’t text, or—”
“I don’t have your number.”
I point toward the windows beside us. “You knew where we were meeting. You could have called the restaurant.”
This seems to give him pause. He pulls back slightly, his mouth open. It takes a couple of seconds before he says, “I didn’t think of that.”
I huff righteously and cross my arms over my chest.
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“Sure, whatever. I just hope you were having a good time, beating your high score on … on Pac-Man, or whatever it is you were doing.”
His eyes narrow, a cross between amused and irritated. “Pac-Man?”
I wave my hand at him. “Ari has an old … never mind.”
He shakes his head. “Well, yeah. I totally destroyed my Pac-Man record. You know, right after I helped our rescue crew untangle a sea otter from a fishing net. Are you done with these?” He doesn’t wait for a response before gobbling down two more tostones.
Which is good, because I’m actually speechless.
I want to believe he’s making that up, but … I don’t think he is.
The waiter returns and Quint orders a root beer.
“She’s going to be fine,” Quint says once our server has gone again. “The otter. In case you’re wondering.”
I clear my throat, refusing to feel sheepish. “For the record, there was absolutely no way for me to know about that.”
“Yeah, I know.” Quint shrugs. “But just once, it’d be nice if you didn’t assume I’m an asshole.”
“I don’t think you’re an asshole. I just think you’re…”
He smiles expectantly. “Go on. You won’t hurt my feelings.”
“Irresponsible,” I say.
He hums thoughtfully and polishes off the last of the tostones. “Is that all?”
It feels almost like he’s mocking me, but … come on. I’m the one who had to put up with his immature antics all year.
“It’s enough,” I say. “A person can only be late to class so many times before their priorities become pretty obvious.”
He takes his time licking salt from his fingers. Our server delivers the root beer and Quint orders a plate of nachos topped with pernil asado.
As soon as we’re alone again, Quint gives me a smile that seems almost like … like he feels bad for me. “For the record,” he says, and again I can hear the mocking in his tone, repeating my words from earlier, “I work most mornings at the center. Even during the school year. That’s why I’m late so much, especially in the spring, because that’s when a lot of the animals separate from their moms and have to survive on their own, which just doesn’t go too well for everyone, so we get a slew of new patients all at once. It’ll be slower in the fall. Not that you care.”
I stare at him.
“Mr. Chavez knows this,” says Quint. “He understands that I have responsibilities”—drawing out the word like it’s the first time he’s ever said it—“and so he gives me a pass for when I’m late. In return, every two weeks my mom signs a form stating what I did at the center that justifies my absence at school, and Mr. Chavez gives me credit for it. It’s a—what was that fancy word you used yesterday? Ah—a symbiotic relationship.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Between you and me, I think I’m probably the suckerfish.”
I raise my hand. “Hold on. You’re telling me that all this time you just let me believe you were sleeping in and … slacking off at the arcade or something, when you’ve actually been scrubbing pools and making fish puree?”
“Don’t forget the rescuing of baby sea otters,” he says.
I shake my head. “You did not say it was a baby.”
He shrugs. “It wasn’t. This time.”
I throw my hands up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried to.”
“When?”
“Last fall, after maybe the third or fourth time I was late. I could tell you were mad, so I started to explain, but you just”—he waves his hand in mimicry of the queen of England—“waved me off. You didn’t want to hear it. In fact, I believe your exact words were ‘I don’t want to hear it.’”
“But…! But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to hear it!”
He chuckles. “You do know how language works, right?”
“Oh, shut up.” I kick him under the table.
His chuckle turns into an outright laugh. “All right, all right. Maybe I should have tried harder. But you were … I mean, come on. You pissed me off, too. I thought, if you won’t bother to give me a chance, why should I try?”
“Because we were supposed to be partners!”
His smile vanishes and he gives me a look that’s like a silent reality check. “Prudence Barnett. You and I were never partners, and you know it.”
I want to argue with this statement. I do.
But … I can’t.
We were never partners. It’s the truth.
But that’s as much his fault as mine. I clench my teeth, thinking back to those horrible moments when I realized he wasn’t going to be there for our presentation. That he had ditched me, on that most vital of days.
“You couldn’t even be bothered to show up for our presentation,” I say darkly. “After I … I practically begged you to be on time. And you couldn’t even do that.”
“The center was shorthanded that day. My mom needed me to help out.”
But I needed you, too, I want to say. But I can’t, not to him. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and look away, staring down the sidewalk. The memory of that morning brings back the same anger, the same dread, and Quint must be able to tell that this argument is different, because when he speaks again, his voice has a tinge of concern behind it.
“Look, I knew you’d be fine. You’re…” He trails off, then gestures at me. One hand circling in the air.
I return a cool gaze to him. “I’m what?”
“You’re good!” he says with an uncomfortable laugh. “You’re, like, the best presenter in class. You didn’t need me.”
“But I did!” I yell.
Startled, he leans back in his seat.
I exhale harshly through my nostrils. My hands have started to shake. I need him to
understand. All the other times he was late? Fine. Whatever. I can deal with it. But that day. That day. It was a betrayal. Doesn’t he get that?
“I hate speaking in front of people,” I start, but then I pause. I shut my eyes tight and give my head a quick shake. “No, that’s not … Once I’m up there, it’s fine. But beforehand? Thinking of how everyone will be watching me? It’s terrifying. The only reason I can do it is because I practice and practice and practice, and remember? I’d told you that we should get together and practice the speech beforehand, and you said you were too busy, even though you obviously just didn’t want to spend any more of your precious time on it, or maybe you just didn’t want to spend any more time with me. Which is—I get it, whatever.” I wave my hands through the air. “But I can’t just wing it like you can! So I had to do it all myself. I had to plan the speech without you, I had to rehearse without you, but at least … at least I thought you’d be there when the time came. I thought you’d bring our papers and then people wouldn’t be staring at me, and also, you could … you know. Do the thing you do.” It’s my turn to gesture vaguely at him. “Make people laugh. Put them at ease. Then I could give our presentation, and it would be great. Except you weren’t there! And realizing that you weren’t going to be there? It was awful!”
I finish.
I’m not really finished. I could go on. The way he interrupted the speech. The way he took his sweet time handing out the papers. But my eyes are starting to prickle and I don’t dare keep talking.
I can’t look at him, so I stare at the table instead, scratching my temple with the pen.
Only when Quint laughs, which is as infuriating as it is unexpected, do I realize I’ve used the ink end and just scribbled on my face. I grimace and rub at it with my fingers.
“I meant to do that,” I mutter.
“Trendsetter,” he mutters back. Then he grabs a napkin, dunks it into a glass of ice water, and leans across the table. “Here,” he says, scrubbing the ink from my skin.
When he’s finished, he drops the crumpled napkin onto the table. Our eyes meet. I can’t read his expression, but I can tell he’s mulling something over. Something big.
Instant Karma Page 16