He turns toward the wall, as if needing to be reminded what’s there. “I thought you knew that.”
“And the ones in the paper, too?”
He doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t have to.
My gaze travels down the line of photos, each neatly framed. They’re stunning, each one full of emotions that dig straight into the gut. They could be in an exhibit at an art gallery. They’re definitely deserving of something better than this shoddy break room, at least.
“There! That!” says Quint, pointing at my face.
I jolt, surprised. “What?”
“That’s what I’m asking for. Just a little bit of appreciation. Is that so hard?”
I laugh, but it sounds a little dazed. Because … maybe I am. I’m definitely impressed, which is almost just as weird.
“Quint, these are good. Really good.”
He shrugs. “Naw. I mean, the subject matter is pretty intense, so…”
“No, it’s more than that. I took a one-week photography class when I was in middle school and the teacher was always talking about light and shadow and angles and … I don’t know. I didn’t get most of it. I didn’t really have an eye for it, you know? But these…”
“Aw shucks. You’re making me blush.”
I turn back to him, and though he’d sounded joking, he actually does look like I’ve made him uncomfortable.
“You’re an artist,” I say, a little bewildered.
He makes a hearty guffaw of a sound. “Um, no. It’s just a hobby. I mean … I don’t know. I’ve thought it could be cool to be a photographer, maybe, someday. I’d really love to do underwater photography.” He waves his hand. “But it’ll probably never happen.”
I slowly look up, meeting his eyes. The eyes of this boy who, it turns out, I hardly know at all. We sat next to each other for two whole semesters, and yet it feels like there’s a complete stranger standing before me.
An artist. A volunteer. The sort of person who rescues sea otters in his spare time.
He has his hands tucked into his pockets, looking almost self-conscious as he studies his own photos. While I was left breathless by the pictures, I can see that he’s critiquing them in his mind. Something tells me he has no idea how good they are.
And the truth is, I couldn’t say with absolute certainty that they’re any good, either. I don’t have an artist’s eye. I don’t know about light and shadows, angles and dimension. All I know is that when I look at these photos, they bring a mixture of emotions storming through me. They make me feel.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you to help with our assignments.”
It takes him a second, but when he responds, his voice is light, almost jovial. Good old laid-back Quint. “I forgive you,” he says. Easy as that. “But first, can I grab my phone and record you saying that again? For future reference.”
I glower, but there’s no heat behind it. I look back at the photos. “You could sell these, you know.”
He snorts.
“I’m serious. In fact…” I point at the image of the sea turtle caught up in all the garbage. “I think this is the image we should use on our posters for the beach cleanup. Although”—I shrug at him—“you’re the designer, so I guess it’s your call.”
TWENTY-FOUR
“Hi there! I’m with our local sea animal rescue center. We’re hosting a beach cleanup party tomorrow, right here, where we’ll be releasing four harbor seals back into the ocean. I hope you’ll join us!”
I have said some version of this speech so many times, it’s beginning to lose its meaning. Words slur together. Get jumbled in my mouth. But I keep smiling, keep moving. I have a bag full of blue flyers printed with the details of the beach cleanup, and—yeah, Quint kind of nailed it. That is, we nailed it, since I insisted he let me proofread them before he printed the whole batch, and I did end up catching two typos and one misspelling. I have to admit, though, that the finished product is far better than what I would have done had I made them myself.
The flyers are eye-catching. Simple but effective. On the back, Quint even included short biographies of the seals we’ll be releasing—where and how they were found, what was wrong with them, and notes about their personalities. Plus, each one has a photo. Even in black and white and slightly grainy, the photos are fantastic, and people’s reactions seem to be universal. A surprised gasp, followed by a soft aww that tapers into a bittersweet sigh. The reaction may not be original, but I can tell it’s heartfelt. People are touched by these animals’ stories. I hope that translates into attendance, and donations.
I pause to take a swig of water from the bottle in my bag. The festival started at nine this morning, but newcomers are still swarming the beach, and will continue to arrive until sundown with the promise of a fireworks show that will be set off from a barge out in the bay.
From where I stand, I can see the line of cars stretching down Main Street as people desperately search for parking that no longer exists. Homeowners as far as two miles away will be raking in some dough today, allowing people to park on their lawns for twenty bucks a vehicle.
A long row of tents is set up along the cliffs and boardwalk, selling everything from handmade bird feeders to spice packets. I’m inundated with the smell of sunblock and the sizzle of bratwurst from someone selling hot dogs off a tiny charcoal grill. A rope has been set up to keep a clear pathway for people to shop the vendors, but otherwise, the beach is packed full with blankets, towels, chairs, and umbrellas. It’s the most crowded I’ve ever seen it.
I spy Jude farther up the shore and he catches my eye and waves. Ari is a little past him, talking to a woman selling tie-dyed sarongs and T-shirts. I’ve recruited them to help pass out flyers today, and even Ezra, Quint’s best friend, showed up to help, though he claims it’s only because Fourth of July weekend is when all the cute summer girls show up. I reminded him that he’s representing the center today and to please not sexually harass the tourists. Then I armed them all with the blue slips of paper and explained as many details of tomorrow’s cleanup as I could, trying to fill their heads with phrases like community outreach and raising awareness and freedom for our local wildlife. That is, until Jude silenced me with the look that he’s perfected over the years. The one that lets me know I’ve gone from sharing helpful information to what he calls “Pru-splaining.” Which, according to him, is almost as bad as mansplaining.
All in all, I’m feeling good. Even though Quint and I have had less than two weeks to pull this plan together, I’m excited that it’s finally happening. I can feel that it’s going to be a success.
Besides, I have the universe on my side.
I hand a few flyers to a large family who have created a palatial assemblage of towels and shade awnings. They’re clearly hard-core beachgoers, having thought to bring everything from a portable Bluetooth speaker to mini tables and an ice bucket sporting a bottle of pink champagne, even though alcohol isn’t supposed to be allowed on the beach. It’s a rule that no one seems to care enough to enforce, though. The family sounds enthusiastic and they say they’d love to come to the cleanup.
I’m practically skipping as I walk away.
My attention falls on Quint, and only once I see him do I realize that a small part of me has been searching for him since … well, since I lost sight of him the last time. He’s holding a camera. Not a phone, but an actual camera, with a big lens and little knobs on top that do things I don’t understand. It’s not the sort of thing a person would bring to school—I’m sure it weighs a ton and is probably really fragile—and yet it feels weird that I’ve never seen him with it before. Seeing him now, it’s clear that he’s in his element, adjusting the camera settings with ease and confidence. He crouches down to take a photo of something in the sand and I desperately want to know what it is. Then he stands up, looks around, and snaps a picture of the horizon. And a group of kids prodding a crab. He takes pictures of umbrellas, of empty towels and abandoned cooler
s, of a surfer standing with his board and staring out at the waves.
Quint pauses and turns in almost a full circle, peering around him with what I have to assume is an artist’s eye. Maybe lining up angles or considering the lighting.
His attention lands on me.
I stiffen, embarrassed to be caught staring. But he just grins and raises the camera to his eye. I roll my eyes, but humor him, holding up a peace sign and smiling for the camera. Though it’s too far away to be real, I imagine I hear the click of the shutter.
I stick my tongue out at him.
He beams. I can’t hear him, but my memory supplies an easy, effortless laugh.
“You’re right,” says Ari, startling me. I hadn’t seen her approach. She’s watching Quint with a knowing smirk. “I thought you were just exaggerating all this time, but oh no. He’s repugnant.”
“I never said he was repugnant,” I mutter.
“I’m pretty sure you did.”
“Need more flyers?” I ask, seeing her empty hands.
She takes another stack from the bag on my hip and flounces away.
I make a point of not looking for Quint as I head the other direction. Smiling. Chatting. Telling people all about the center and tomorrow’s animal release celebration.
Until my attention snags on a kid, maybe ten years old, at the exact moment he stomps his foot through his baby sister’s sandcastle.
I gasp. Indignation flares through me. Before I even realize I’m doing it, my hand has clenched into an angry fist.
A second later, the kid gets hit in the head with a beach ball. It knocks him over into the sand.
I flinch. I mean, I don’t think it hit him that hard, but still. I feel especially bad for their poor mother, who now has two crying children to contend with.
I start to loosen my fist, but now that the surge of cosmic power has rushed through me, it’s like my antenna has been recalibrated. I’m newly aware of the people around me and their less-than-exemplary behavior.
A few seconds later, a college-aged girl cuts in line at the shaved ice stand. Within seconds of taking her first bite, a swarm of black flies lands on the cone, attracted to the syrupy sweetness. When she tries to shake them off in disgust, she sends most of her treat toppling to the ground.
Then I see a middle-aged man taking one of the blue flyers from Jude. But as soon as my brother turns away, the man makes a face, scrunches up the paper, and tosses it over his shoulder. It gets caught in the breeze and bounces along the sand a few times before getting caught against someone’s cooler.
Annoyance roars inside my chest. That paper is advertising for a beach cleanup, you inconsiderate jerk!
Both fists tighten this time.
From nowhere, a toddler appears, waddling toward the man in nothing but a diaper and a pink bow in her wispy hair. The child pauses and looks up at the man, a perplexed look on her face. He tries to step around her, at which point, she bends over at the waist and pukes on his sandaled feet.
He’s wearing flip-flops, so there is a lot of barefoot contact.
He cries out in revulsion. The girl’s mom appears, apologizing profusely … but the damage is done.
I’m laughing and wincing at the same time.
All the while, Jude remains oblivious, making his way through the crowd, his back to me and the litterbug. With a satisfied smirk, I start making my way toward the piece of crumpled paper that’s been tossed away from the cooler and is bouncing around like a tumbleweed between the rows of beach towels.
There are people gathered all around, but if anyone’s noticed the piece of garbage in their midst, none of them have bothered to pick it up. It’s a little thing, maybe, but I can’t help feeling exasperated at their laziness. It would take all of five seconds to pick it up. There are garbage cans positioned every thirty feet along the boardwalk!
I stomp after the paper, even though the wind keeps kicking it out farther and farther from me. I’m finally starting to close in on it when a long-armed grabber appears out of nowhere and clamps around the crumpled flyer.
I pause and meet the eye of a woman. She looks to be about my grandma’s age—somewhere between seventy and a hundred. It’s impossible to tell. She’s holding a metal detector in her left hand, the grabber in the right. A belt is slung around her hips with implements of beachcombing and garbage collecting. Rubber gloves, a small trowel, a reusable water bottle, a large garbage sack.
She sees me and winks. “I’ve got this one,” she says, depositing the crumpled blue paper into her garbage sack.
Then she turns and starts making her way down the beach, away from the crowd and the festival, her metal detector swinging meticulously from side to side. She stops every now and then to grab another piece of litter and stuff it into the bag.
I lean back on my heels, bewildered to realize how rare and unexpected a sight that was. To witness someone doing a good deed—not for glory, not for a reward—but just because it’s the right thing to do.
And yeah, I know that picking up a bit of garbage is a small thing. Perhaps most people would even think of it as inconsequential.
But that one act leaves me feeling uplifted and encouraged, especially when it seems that lately all I’ve seen are strangers being rude and inconsiderate.
A thought occurs to me.
I look down at my hands, lips twisted in thought. What if.
I mean, Quint did find that twenty-dollar bill when I tried to punish him for being so late. I didn’t know about the sea otter … but the universe did.
So maybe …
I look back up at the woman. She’s picking up a beer can. She flips it over, emptying the last dregs of beer into the sand, before tossing it into the sack.
This time, instead of clenching my hand into an irritated fist, I inhale deeply and snap my fingers.
The second that I do, I hear a beep.
It’s far away, but I know it came from the woman’s metal detector.
She pauses and swings the detector back and forth over the spot. It beeps again and again as she homes in on the exact location of whatever treasure is buried there. My heart is racing, but she hardly even looks curious. I wonder how often a “treasure” turns out to be nothing more than a buried bottle cap, an aluminum can, a penny.
I inch closer, biting my lower lip. Because I know. I know it’s not junk. I know it’s not just a penny.
The woman crouches and unhooks a small hand shovel from her belt. She begins to dig.
It takes longer than I think it will. She’s moving slowly, shuffling a bit of sand at a time, occasionally scanning the detector over the pile to make sure she hasn’t missed whatever is buried there.
Then—she goes still.
Her fingers reach into the sand and pick up something. It’s small and shiny and, for a second, disappointment surges through me. Maybe it is just a penny.
But then it glints in the sunshine and I gasp.
A smile stretches over my face.
I think it’s an earring.
I think it has a diamond in it.
“Ever done metal detecting before?”
I scream. Literally, a complete and total over-reactionary scream comes out of my mouth as I spin around and whap Quint in the shoulder.
“Ow!” he says, stumbling back a step and rubbing where I hit him.
“You scared the daylights out of me!” I say, pressing my hand against my chest. “Why are you standing so close?”
He looks at me like I just asked him why fish swim in the sea. “I was coming to see how things are going. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare the daylights out of you.”
He’s teasing me, but my heart rate hasn’t calmed down yet and I don’t have the willpower to be annoyed. Or amused.
“Did you … see anything?” I say, suddenly self-conscious. What must it have looked like? The snap of my fingers, watching the beachcomber like some obsessed stalker. And then for her to find something so precious …
But Quint o
nly looks confused. “I saw a gyro stand back there, and now I’m starving.” He peers at me, but must be disappointed when I don’t even crack a smile. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Nothing! Nothing.”
His eyebrows rise. Funny how his eyebrows almost seem to speak a language all their own—and I think I’m beginning to understand them. “Two nothings always means something.”
“Oh, you’re a psychologist now?” I glance over my shoulder. The beachcomber has started walking away, still swinging her detector back and forth with as much patience as before. I wonder if I’m imagining the extra bounce in her step.
“So?” Quint says.
“So, what?”
“So, have you ever been metal detecting before?”
“Oh. No.” I tuck a stray hair behind my ear. I’m giddy with the new realization that my power works both ways. I probably should have figured it out sooner, with Quint and that money he found, but I was too irritated then.
But now—oh, the possibilities—I can punish and I can reward. It makes perfect sense. I’d just been so eager to right wrongs before that I hadn’t considered how karma flows in two directions.
I realize that Quint is staring at me and a flush spreads down my neck. I turn my attention to him, trying to concentrate, trying to act normal. “What were we talking about?”
“Metal detecting,” he deadpans.
“Right. Yeah. I don’t know. It seems like it would take up a lot of time just to unearth a lot of junk.”
He shrugs. “I have an uncle who used to be really into it. I went with him a few times. It was kind of fun. You never know what you’ll find. It is mostly a lot of junk, but on one trip I found a watch. Got forty bucks for it at the pawnshop.”
“Wow. Score.”
“I’m not gonna lie. I felt like I’d dug up Blackbeard’s treasure.”
“Do you ever think that you might be too easy to please?”
His eyes spark with a challenge. “Do you ever think you might be too hard to please?”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t like wasted time. You know that.”
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