“Turns out, not just rumors,” he says. “They were importing their meat from some factory farm, despite their whole advertising schtick—grass-fed, pasture-raised, free-range … whatever. But it’s more than that. That farm was just fined for some pretty big health-code violations.” He shudders.
I’m staring at Quint, but all I’m seeing is that billboard and the spray-painted X.
LIES.
“Morgan actually helped draw attention to the story,” Quint adds. “Remember that petition thing I was telling you about? I guess activists have been trying to get these farms shut down for years, and it’s finally paid off. Pretty cool, right? It’s like all that social-studies-in-action stuff that Mrs. Brickel is always talking about.”
I tap my pen against my lip, staring out at the ocean. “So, don’t be mad. I appreciate your hard work with Blue’s Burgers, and this is an awesome donation they’ve agreed to. But … do you think it will look bad for us to partner with them so soon after they’ve been involved with this huge scandal? I mean … animal cruelty, health violations … and we’re an animal rescue center.”
“I know, there’s an irony here,” says Quint. I look at him. His eyes are on my pen, on … my mouth. They shift immediately out to the ocean. “But we weren’t planning to do a vegetarian menu, other than for guests who request it, and Blue’s assured me that they’ve already established some new relationships with local farms. Farms that have been certified humane this time. They want to move on from this as quickly as possible.” He shrugs. “They’re a landmark business. They’ve been here since the sixties. They deserve a second chance, right?”
His gaze returns to mine. I smile. “Everyone does.”
He shifts an inch closer and looks down at the notebook. “So, how are we doing?”
“Great, actually. Kwikee’s Print Shop agreed to print all our flyers and posters pro bono, I’ve got tons of people giving us stuff for the silent auction, and the folks at Main Street Bakery are already dreaming up dolphin-shaped cookies and starfish-topped cakes for our dessert.”
“Sweet.”
I roll my eyes at the pun, though I’m not entirely sure he was trying to make one. “That pretty much takes care of the auction and catering. Which leaves only entertainment, rentals, decorations, AV equipment, and … the big one.” I look up from the binder. “A venue. Oh! And we still need to decide how we’re going to handle ticket sales, and how much we’re going to charge for them.”
“I know there are websites that handle tickets for things like this, and I think you can set it up to deposit straight into your bank account,” says Quint. “I’ll talk to Shauna about it and see about getting something linked up on the website.”
“How much should we charge?”
He looks at me. I look at him. We’re both clueless. What’s the going rate for a ticket to a fundraising gala? The sort of fancy, but not super pretentious kind? The sort being planned by two teenagers who’ve never done anything like this before?
“I’ll look into it,” I say, making a note.
“What if we keep the ticket prices low,” says Quint, “but include an option for people to make additional donations when they buy their tickets? Kind of like an honor system. You pay us what you think this ticket is worth.”
I consider this. It’s a little risky—what if no one pays anything extra? But it could also swing the other direction. People could end up paying way more than we would dare charge them.
“I like it,” I say. “Takes the pressure off us to figure out what it’s worth, at least. And what do we have to lose?” I turn to the “Tickets page” of my notebook and jot down Quint’s idea. “Also,” I say, flipping back to the fundraising section, “I thought, in addition to doing the silent auction, maybe we could also do a raffle? Like for a big prize. Something really cool. People could buy as many tickets as they want, but everyone would have a chance of winning, so it wouldn’t just be for the richest person in the room.”
He drags a hand through his hair, thinking. A lock of hair tumbles back over his forehead in a way that makes my stomach clench. “A big prize. It should be something unique, that they can’t just go out and buy. Like, maybe a private tour of the center?”
“That could work…,” I say. “Or we could name the next rescue after them?”
Our heads are bobbing, but neither idea feels quite … right.
“Well, let’s keep brainstorming on it,” I say, putting a star next to that item.
“I was thinking,” says Quint, “if this goes well, this gala could become an annual thing we do for the center.”
“Yeah, that crossed my mind, too. Every year could be bigger and better than the last.”
He crosses his ankles. “Do you ever think things might not go according to your master plan?”
“Well, the beach cleanup wasn’t quite the financial success I’d hoped it would be. And there was our biology project that completely tanked.”
“Yeah, but both times you assumed they’d go great, right? And here you are, sure that the gala will go great. You don’t give up.”
I doodle a starfish in the corner of the paper, filling in around it with swirls of seaweed. I’m not a great artist, but I read somewhere years ago that doodling while taking notes helps with knowledge retention, and the habit has stuck. “What would be the point of giving up?” I ask. “You keep trying enough things and something’s bound to work, eventually.”
“I don’t think that’s how most people would see it, but I like that you do.”
I press my lips tight to keep them from turning up in a bashful smile. “Well, this gala is definitely not going to be great if we don’t figure out a venue, and soon.”
“And why can’t we just have it at the center again?”
“The center smells like dead fish.”
He grunts. “Your standards are almost impossibly high sometimes, you know that?”
I glare at him, but there isn’t much heart to it.
“Okay,” he says, scanning the boardwalk as if in search of inspiration. “Can we have it here on the beach? Can hardly beat that view. And we could rent one of those giant tents they use for weddings.”
“Not a terrible idea,” I muse, “but what would we do for restrooms? Port-a-potties?”
We both grimace.
“Let’s keep it on the maybe list,” I say, writing it down. “We’d probably need to get permits, but … it does fit the theme.”
“Hold on. There’s a theme?”
I frown at him. “Saving the lives of helpless sea animals?”
“That’s a mission, not a theme.”
“Close enough.”
He shakes his head. “No, no. We should have a theme. A real one. Like prom. ‘Under the Sea’ or whatever.” He snaps his fingers. “I vote pirates.”
“Pirates?”
“Picture it. We can give out those chocolate gold coins in the gift bags, and all the staff will wear eye patches.”
I wait until I’m sure he’s joking before I allow myself to laugh. “I don’t know. A theme seems sort of cheesy.”
He raspberries his lips. “Please. People love a party theme. You know how kids always have themes, like—My Little Pony or Batman or whatever? It’s like that, but a grown-up version.”
This argument does nothing to convince me.
“I mean,” says Quint more forcefully, because he can see I’m not getting it, “that it brings everything together. The invitations, the posters, the decorations, even the food! Plus it can make it easier to make decisions, too. Should we go with the starfish cookies or the submarine cookies? Well, which one is more in line with the theme?”
“Submarine?” I gasp and smack Quint with the back of my hand. “That’s it! That’s our theme! We’ll base it on ‘Yellow Submarine’ by the Beatles. My parents have tons of memorabilia we can use for decorations. Our ads can say something like … ‘Come aboard our Yellow Submarine, and learn about … sea animals … oft unseen’
?”
He snorts. “Okay, Shakespeare.”
“It’s a rough draft.”
His lips twist to one side and I can tell he’s thinking about it, before he slowly nods. “All right, I can get behind that. But next year … pirates!”
I laugh and write “Yellow Submarine” across the top of my notebook, before scanning my lists, again—pages and pages of lists. We’ve made great progress this week, but it feels like every time I cross something off, I think of two more things to add. “Once we have the venue figured out, we can set up the ticket sales and then get serious about advertising. And I’m going to talk to some local media, too. I bet I can get the Chronicle to run a story about it, and there’s a radio station out of Pomona College that might be interested in interviewing your mom. Do you think she’d be up for it?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Great.” I jot down a few notes. My thoughts are spinning in a thousand directions and I feel like I can’t capture them fast enough. I need to get organized. Make a plan.
“What about the theater?”
“Hm?”
“For a venue. How about having it at the Offshore Movie Theater?” Quint pulls his feet back up on the bench. His legs are restless, his knees jogging in place. I’ve seen him like this before, this excited energy burning through him. I’m beginning to think that movement might be his version of list-making.
“We could have the presentation in the auditorium,” he goes on, “and they have that huge lobby we could use for the dinner tables. I know they have weddings there sometimes. And we had our eighth-grade dance there. Remember?”
“I didn’t go.”
“Oh. Well. It was nice. Plus, we wouldn’t have to worry about AV equipment. I’m sure they have everything we’d need.”
I chew the tip of the pen. “It’s not a terrible idea.”
“Which I know translates to ‘Wow, Quint, you’re a genius!’” He leans toward me. “I’m beginning to speak Prudence.”
I laugh, then close my notebook and hook the pen over the cover. “Should we go check it out?”
“The theater? Naw, let’s wait for tonight.”
“Tonight? It’s just two blocks away. Why not go now?”
“Because we’d be early. The movie doesn’t start until seven.”
I frown at him. “What movie?”
“The special screening of Jaws.”
I freeze. Gawk at him. Picture a sharp dorsal fin and blood in the water and that iconic music thumping through my chest. Bu-dum, bu-dum, bu-dum.
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Quint counters.
“I’m not watching it.”
“Yes, you are. I already got tickets.”
“Well—” I hesitate. “You did?”
I can feel heat climbing up my chest, my throat, spreading across my cheeks, and think maybe if I blush deeply enough he’ll start to think it’s a sunburn.
“I did. These special showings always sell out early and I didn’t want to miss out. Come on. It’s a classic. And you need to meet my namesake.”
“You mean, Captain Quint? The shark hunter?”
“The one and only.”
“Quint—I’m already afraid of sharks!”
He scoffs and nudges me with his shoulder. “It’s an animatronic shark from the seventies. I think you can handle it. And we’ll be scoping out the theater for a potential venue. It’ll be productive.”
I groan. “Oh no. You’ve discovered the magic word.”
“Told you. I’ll be fluent in Prudence-speak soon enough.”
I have no desire whatsoever to see Jaws. Having lived here my whole life, I’ve spent years scanning these waves for shark fins, sure that—despite all the statistics telling us how sharks really aren’t that dangerous to humans and how you’re more likely to die in a plane crash or get struck by lightning than ever get bit by a shark—I was certain that if there was ever a shark attack at Fortuna Beach, it would be me getting devoured.
I know myself well enough to know that seeing the most famous shark-attack movie ever made is a terrible idea. I know I’m going to regret it.
But somehow, I hear the words coming faintly from my mouth. I, too, am trying to sound nonchalant. “Fine. You win. I’ll go.”
He thrusts both fists into the air. “Yes. Music to my ears.” Bringing his hands back down, he claps once and then rubs his palms together. “Okay. Let’s consider the venue problem solved for now. Man, I am full of answers today. Give me something else. I’ll have this gala planned in time for popcorn.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Under any other circumstances, I would be extremely nervous. It’s the first time I’ve ever been to a movie with a boy, at least, one that I’m not related to. But I’m not thinking about Quint and the way my heart trips when he looks at me. I’m not even thinking about the movie we’re about to see, one that I’ve done my best to avoid.
As we walk past the ticket booth and step into the theater lobby, I have thoughts only for the gala. I’m scanning the paneled walls, the concessions counter, the light fixtures. It’s a cool old theater, dating back to the late 1920s and the era of silent, black-and-white films. Just like Quint suggested, the lobby would definitely be big enough for dinner service, and according to their website, which has a page that gives details about renting the theater for special events, they can seat up to three hundred people. There’s a neat art deco vibe to the crown moldings and chandeliers. The parquet flooring is dated, the wall paint is a little dingy, and the smell of buttered popcorn is overwhelming—but I can probably overlook all that.
“This could work,” I whisper, leaning in to Quint, who is standing in the concessions line. “We could set up the auction table along that wall, and use this counter for the desserts.” I tap my finger against my lower lip, nodding. “I like it.”
Quint hums to himself. “Butter, yes or no?”
I glance at him, and it takes me a second to realize he’s the next person in line. “Yes. Of course.”
“Oh, good. If you’d said no, I was going to make you get your own.”
We’re among the first people to arrive, so once we enter the theater, we’re able to claim a couple of seats nearly dead center, but I don’t sit down. I’m turning in circles, considering the small upper balcony, where we could seat former donors as a VIP perk. And the stage upfront, where Rosa could give a speech. Given that this is a theater, we could even put together a video that shows footage of the center and the animals. We could show some of our recent rescues, and some of our releases.
Beaming, I drop into my seat. “I have a job for you.”
He looks tentatively curious, but once I explain the idea of having a video to show at the gala, he’s 100 percent on board. As the theater slowly fills up and the same slideshow of paid local advertisements rotates on the screen for the billionth time, Quint and I talk about whether or not we should try to have live music (I haven’t had any success in finding an orchestra that would play for free) or if putting together a playlist is good enough. We go over the list of auction items that businesses have already pledged, and who we might still try to approach. I go over my plans for selling raffle tickets, even though we’re still not sure what prize to raffle off.
I’m surprised how many people fill the theater by the time the lights dim. There’s a different atmosphere here than any movie I’ve ever been to, and it’s clear that a lot of people in the audience come to this special showing every year. There’s an excited energy in the air as the opening credits begin to play. The music strikes me—the classic bu-dum, bu-dum, bu-dum that has become synonymous with shark attacks. I gulp and lean closer to Quint. I feel him peering at me, but I don’t return the look. I’m already thinking, once again, that this is a horrible idea. Why did it have to be Jaws? But I’m stuck now, and … well, it doesn’t seem so awful once I feel the warmth of Quint’s shoulder pressed against mine.
Aaaaand … now I’m nervous.
&
nbsp; All the questions I’ve been ignoring arise unbidden in my thoughts. Is this a date? Why didn’t he ask anyone else to come with us? Why didn’t he make me get my own popcorn? The enormous bucket balancing on the armrest between us feels momentous.
But a quick glance at Quint suggests that I’m the only one thinking about any of this. He’s tuned in to the movie, mindlessly tossing popcorn into his mouth.
I sink into my chair and try not to overthink. For once, Prudence, don’t overthink.
The audience, it turns out, is into this film. Really into it. Within the first few minutes, people are shouting at the screen—Don’t do it, Chrissie! Stay out of the water! I gulp, gooseflesh crawling down my arms when it becomes clear what’s about to happen to the girl skinny-dipping on the screen. I turn my head, ready to bury it in Quint’s shoulder if I need to, and he scoots closer to me, as if encouraging me to use his shoulder at will.
Which I do.
The movie is terrifying … and also not. The idea of it is the worst part, the suspense of knowing that the shark is nearby whenever that ominous music begins to play. It isn’t long before I’m gripping Quint’s arm, my fingers digging into his sleeve. He doesn’t pull away.
On the screen, a shark has been caught—a tiger shark. The townspeople have it hanging from a hook on the dock as the mayor of Amity Island tells the media that the predator responsible for the recent attacks is dead. The audience around us shouts at the mayor: It’s not the right shark! Boo!
“Poor shark,” I find myself muttering.
Quint gives me a knowing nod. “Terrible, right?”
Terrible—because it actually happens.
The movie goes on. Tourists flock to the beaches. Chief Brody’s young sons go out into the water—
A small blue screen catches my eye. I frown, distracted. Someone in the next row is looking at their phone.
I tilt forward. They’re … scrolling through Instagram? What the heck?
Someone behind me notices it, too, and yells, “Hey, turn off your phone!”
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