Instant Karma

by Marissa Meyer

  “Amazing, right?”

  I spit out the snorkel gear. “How crazy is that? It’s, like … right there!”

  He nods. “I see them out here all the time.”

  I gape at him, almost as stunned by the sighting of the sea turtle as I am to realize that, to some people, that’s a common occurrence.

  I’m still holding on to him, like he’s a life raft keeping me afloat. I’m surprised that he hasn’t shaken me off.

  Licking the salt from my lips, I uncurl my hands and lower my feet back into the sand below. The current has pulled us out farther and the surface is nearly to my sternum now. We’re just two goggled heads smiling at each other like loons.

  “It still blows my mind,” says Quint. “When you’re looking at the water from up here, you’d never know.” I look down, and he’s right. The water is clear—at least I always thought of it as clear—but I can only see the vague murky shapes of our bodies. There’s none of the clarity and brilliance that was so striking underneath.

  We duck our heads under again. The sea turtle has moved a few feet away, but it’s still there, loitering on the ocean floor. I see Quint pull something from a pocket in his swim trunks, like a phone, but bigger. Chunkier. A phone wearing battle armor.

  I watch as he dives deeper, getting so close to the turtle I actually become a little worried for him. He swims around a few times and I realize he’s taking pictures. The turtle ignores him. I’m beginning to think that Quint will pass out if he holds his breath any longer, when the turtle turns, shockingly quick and graceful, and swims straight for me. I startle and lift up my legs, giving it a wide berth. It passes underneath me and continues on its way toward the shallows.

  Quint and I both pop up again. He’s panting, his hair plastered to his face. It takes him a few seconds to drain the seawater from his snorkel tube, but he’s grinning the whole time.

  “Is that a camera?” I ask.

  “Naw, just my phone,” he answers, holding it up. It looks like a swanky gadget out of one of Jude’s favorite sci-fi movies. “My mom got me a waterproof case for my birthday. I’m saving up for a wider lens that’ll work with it, but it’s good enough for now. So? What did you think of your first real wildlife sighting?”

  I consider this. I’ve seen sea turtles at the zoo, but seeing one here, so close to me, was exhilarating.

  “Is there more?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Let’s find out.”

  * * *

  I had expected our snorkeling experiment to last fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, but Quint and I end up being in the water for more than two hours. By the time we finally come ashore, my fingers have pruned, I have a cut on my ankle from a vicious rock, and I feel like I’ve just journeyed to an alien planet and returned to tell the tale.

  Quint knew all the best places to go. He took me to some rocky outcrops and pointed out underground gardens of seaweed and kelp. We saw so many fish, my mind is dizzy trying to remember them all. A kaleidoscope of colors, darting in and out of the rocks, swooping around my knees, shimmering like gemstones. For a grand finale, which I suspect Quint had been planning all along, we swam farther up-shore, to a cropping of large rocks that couldn’t be seen from any public beaches. The rocks were crowded with harbor seals, whooping and barking and lazing in the afternoon sun.

  I have lived here my whole life. How did I not know this was here, only a few miles from my house?

  I’ve forgotten all about my previous self-consciousness as Quint and I make the trek back up the beach. The tide has gone out and the walk to our towels feels endless. Sand clings to the soles of my feet. Quint keeps glancing over at me, grinning, almost secretive.

  “So?” he says as I wrap one of the beach towels around my body.

  “That was…” I struggle for words. I’m suddenly dying of thirst, and I can feel a sunburn on my back, but it all pales beside the afternoon I’ve had.

  “I know,” says Quint, saving me from having to find adequate descriptors. “But here comes the million-dollar question.” The way he says it, I feel like this whole afternoon has been a buildup to his next words.

  Instantly guarded, I meet his gaze. There are deep red lines around his eyes, a perfect silhouette of his goggles. I probably look just as silly. My hair is frizzing around my face as it starts to dry out. But after the day we’ve had, none of that seems to matter.

  Quint gives me a knowing look, bordering on smug. “Is it worth saving?”

  I go still.

  Suddenly, it makes sense.

  Because no one is going to give us money if they don’t know why it’s important.

  I remember him saying that, but it didn’t really sink in until now. I feel a stronger connection to our little stretch of ocean now than I ever have in my life. The magical schools of fish, the shells that shimmer along the ocean floor, the sea turtles. I swam with flipping sea turtles!

  And suddenly, I care.

  Is it worth saving? Is it worth protecting?

  Abso-friggin-lutely.

  “Point made,” I mutter.

  He beams. We spend some time drying off our legs, brushing sand from our feet. I hastily pull on my dress while he’s turned away. Quint takes my towel and the snorkel gear, cramming them into a bag, and we start back up the beach, heading toward the boardwalk.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  “Starving,” I answer automatically.

  “Cool. Maybe we can get some tacos while we go over the rest of your ideas?”

  He’s a couple steps ahead of me, his focus turned toward the horizon. I wish I could see his face, because that old uncertainty rears up again, every bit as unbelievable now as it was earlier.

  This isn’t supposed to be a romantic thing. I mean, there’s just no way.

  Is there?

  “I … uh … left the folder at home.”

  “Is it far?” He glances back at me.

  “No,” I say, perhaps too slowly. “We live over on Sunset.”

  “Okay. I’ll walk with you. Or I can go get us a table somewhere?”

  He’s being so casual. Which is perhaps the only reason I notice how flustered I’ve become.

  “Actually, I’m kind of exhausted. Maybe we can talk about it tomorrow? At the center?”

  If he’s disappointed, he hides it well beneath a shrug, utterly devoid of emotion. “Sounds good.”

  We pause at the boardwalk. The beach is more crowded here and chances are good that we’ll see someone we know from school, but if Quint is at all wary about being seen with me—clearly with me, given our matching wet hair and goggle impressions—it doesn’t show. When it becomes clear that he’s heading one way and I’m going the other, we both hesitate, standing awkwardly.

  “Okay, well. Tomorrow, then.” I start to turn away.

  “Hey, could I just hear you say it?” he asks. I glance back. There’s a glint in his eye. “Just once?”

  “Say what?”

  “I just want you to admit that this”—he gestures toward the ocean—“wasn’t a waste of time. That I actually had a good idea.” He taps his chest.

  I cross my arms and say in a robotic voice, “This was not a waste of time. You had a good idea.”

  “And you’re glad you came.”

  I sigh and drop the robotic tone. Honestly, I confess, “And I’m glad I came.”

  “And you’ll never doubt me or argue with me ever again.”

  I point my finger at his nose. “Too far.”

  His teeth flash. “Had to try. Hey, I almost forgot. I have something for you.”

  He starts digging through the bag, shoving aside damp towels and goggles. His hand emerges clutching a yellow T-shirt, printed with the logo of the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center.

  I take it from him, surprised, but not sure if I should be flattered to be receiving it or annoyed it wasn’t given to me on my first day. After a second of inspecting the shirt, I say, “I’m not really sure yellow is my color.”

&
nbsp; “I’m not sure it’s anybody’s color, but it was the printer’s cheapest option.” Still grinning, he adds, “Besides, you might be selling yourself short. I’ll see you Monday, Prudence.”

  I smile and wave goodbye.

  Despite these volunteer shirts being really ugly, I cradle the dumb thing to my chest the whole walk home.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I’m on a roll, outlining a new section for our revised biology project: educational snorkeling classes for tourists! Guests would go out snorkeling with a trained professional who could tell them what fish and animals they were looking at, and explain the delicate balance of our shallow water ecosystems. The guide would discuss things like—

  A screech of a violin invades my ears. I cry out in surprise and cover my ears with both hands.

  “Penny!” I yell to the next bedroom.

  “Sorry!” she yells back, though her apology is quickly followed by another squeal from the strings.

  Sighing, I get up and close my bedroom door. Returning to my bed, I pull my computer back on my lap, doing my best to ignore the painful sounds from the next room. Why on earth are my parents still paying for her to take lessons? Clearly they’re not doing any good, and I’m sure they have better things to spend their limited funds on.

  Okay. Where was I?

  The guide would discuss things like … right. The natural food chain and the importance of biodiversity. How predators like sea otters help keep the sea urchin population under control, which prevents the sea urchins from overfeeding on kelp, which then can provide food and shelter for many other species. There are larger environmental factors to—

  My bedroom door swings open, admitting not just the earsplitting squeaks of Penny’s violin, but also Eleanor, dressed in her favorite llama pajamas.

  “Ellie, you’re supposed to knock!”

  “Will you come play with me?”

  “No. I’m busy. Shut the door.”

  Her lower lip juts out. “But no one will play with me. Penny is practicing her violin and Lucy is on the phone and Mom is watching that dumb baking show again.”

  “None of this is my problem. Go talk to Jude.”

  “He went with Dad to get dinner.”

  I groan and get out of bed. Ellie’s face lights up, but she deflates as soon as I grab her by the shoulder and steer her back out the door. “Self-sufficiency is an important skill that you need to start developing.”

  She makes a frustrated sound and stomps her foot. “What does that even mean?”

  “It means, go play with your dolls.”

  “Jude always says yes, and you always say no!”

  “Well, I guess Jude is just a nicer person than I am.”

  I shut the door. She yells from the other side, “Yes he is!”

  I mime strangling her, then throw my hands into the air. I consider taping a DO NOT DISTURB sign to it, but … whatever. She can’t read yet.

  I go back to the report and scan over the last paragraph. Not bad. Moving on.

  I vaguely remember Mr. Chavez saying something about how marine plants like kelp and seaweed are more effective at cleaning our air pollution than all the rain forests of the world. But I don’t remember the specifics, or how it works.

  I open up the internet and start to type in a search query.

  Angry footsteps storm down the hallway, then Lucy yells from right outside my door. “MOM! Would you make Ellie go downstairs? I’m trying to have a conversation and she won’t stop bothering me!”

  “I’m folding clothes and watching my show!” Mom yells back. “Just let her play with your makeup or something!”

  “What? No! She makes a mess!”

  I flop down on my back and pull a pillow over my head.

  Quint was so wrong. Siblings are the worst. My life would be infinitely better if it were just me and Jude.

  Outside my door, the violin continues to screech. Lucy is still yelling. Ellie has started to cry—one of her fake tantrum cries that grate on every nerve.

  My fingers twitch. I could punish the whole lot of them. For being so rude, so inconsiderate, so loud.

  But just before my fingers close into a fist, I pause and force myself to stretch my hand out wide instead. What if, by trying to punish my whole family at once for their barbarity, the universe decides to burn our house down or something?

  Grumbling, I climb out of bed and go searching for my noise-canceling headphones. I check my desk, the drawers, my book bag. They’re not in any of the places I usually put them.

  I huff, knowing exactly who has them.

  The hallway has been deserted. I shut the door to Penny and Lucy’s shared bedroom just as another squeak peals from the violin. I pass the bathroom, where Eleanor is sitting on the bath mat, starting to paw through my makeup bag.

  “No,” I say, snatching it away.

  She screams. “Lucy said I could!”

  I reach over her head and grab Lucy’s makeup kit off the counter and hand it to her. She lights up. With the exception of my vivid lipsticks, Lucy’s makeup, with its sparkles and an actual eyelash curler, is definitely preferable to mine or even Mom’s. At least according to the four-year-old of the family.

  With her own bedroom being used as the ear-torture station, Lucy has set up shop in our parents’ room. I open the door and find her sprawled out on the bed, her cell phone to her ear.

  “Where are my headphones?”

  “Hold on,” she says into the phone, before holding it against her chest. She shoots me a hateful look. “What?”

  “My headphones. Where are they?”

  “How should I know? Go away.”

  “This isn’t your bedroom.”

  “Mom doesn’t care.”

  Anger is boiling under my skin now. Is it so hard for her to answer a simple question?

  “Lucy, you always take them without asking. So where are they?”

  “I don’t know!” she yells. “Check my backpack!”

  I spin on my heels. I’ve barely stepped back into the hallway when I hear Lucy griping to her friend, “Seriously, my sisters are such pains.”

  And yeah, maybe it’s hypocritical, given that I did just complain about this exact same thing only a few minutes ago, but at least I had the decency to keep the thoughts to myself. Either way, I’ve reached my limitation on goodwill.

  I pause just outside the door and squeeze my fist shut.

  “Hello? Jamie? Hello?” says Lucy, her voice rising. Then she lets out an exasperated groan. “Great. And now my battery is dead. Thanks, family!”

  I poke my head back into the room with a serene smile. “That must mean you have time to look for my headphones.”

  She finds them in her backpack and hands them over with an icicle glare.

  I’ve just returned to my bedroom and gotten settled into my bed when I hear the front door open downstairs.

  “We’re back!” Dad yells. “And we come bearing gifts of food!”

  Mom follows this up with her own shout, as if Dad had needed a translator. “Girls, it’s dinnertime!”

  Ellie squeals and dashes down the stairs, which must mean that Dad and Jude were going out to get something good, because usually it’s nothing but griping when she gets called to the dinner table. Penny, Lucy, and I follow with less enthusiasm. Lucy is still scowling.

  Penny seems oblivious that there’s been any conflict at all. “Ooh, Blue’s Burgers!” she says when we reach the kitchen. “Yes!”

  Mom and Dad are at the counter, gathering napkins and pouring drinks. Jude is pulling baskets of french fries and cheeseburgers from a collection of white paper bags and setting them out on the table. “Wow, Ellie,” he says, with a genuine Jude smile. “You look like a movie star.”

  She beams, showing off the streaks of sparkly purple eyeshadow around her eyes and cheeks. She actually looks like she’s been in a bar fight with a fairy godmother, but she seems so pleased with herself I can’t bring myself to say so.

  “Thought
we should do our part to support one of our community staples,” says Dad, sitting down and taking one of the burgers from Jude. “They sure have been getting a lot of bad press lately, with all those billboards getting tagged.”

  My eyebrows rise as I take my seat. “More than one?”

  Dad nods. “Five or six, I think. Someone wrote Lies on a bunch of them and drew sad faces on the cows. I guess there’ve been rumors going around that Blue’s is getting their meat from some awful farms where the cows are all crammed together and fed slop or what have you. All I know is that Blue’s Burgers has been around since the sixties, and they are just as delicious now as when I was a kid. Don’t know why anyone would go after them, of all places. It’s hard enough for a little family-owned place to stay in business without people trying to tear them down.”

  “Honestly. What’s wrong with some people?” Mom asks as she hands out paper towels.

  I unwrap my burger, overflowing with tomato and pickles and Blue’s mind-blowing secret sauce. My mouth is already watering. But something gives me pause. I think about what Quint said, how Morgan was petitioning to have the government look into a factory farm, something about inhumane treatment of the animals. But that can’t have anything to do with Blue’s Burgers. Their cattle come from organic, grass-fed … something-something … I don’t know, whatever their ads say.

  Don’t they?

  And even if they don’t, does it really matter to me? I’m not vegetarian. It’s never even crossed my mind to be anything other than a content omnivore. I figure, humans are at the top of the food chain for a reason. And it isn’t like my parents can afford the expensive meat out of the butcher case, so probably lots of the meat I’ve consumed over the years has come from those farms that feed them slop or what have you, as Dad so succinctly suggested.

  This isn’t a cause that means anything to me. They’re just cows.

  They’re just food.

  But Morgan. Regardless of how I feel, this cause clearly means something to her. So much that she was willing to climb to the top of a rickety ladder to tell people about it.