Page 123

“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? Butit 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 abigprize. 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 definitelynotgoing 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… itdoesfit 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.”