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He shakes his head. “No, no. Weshouldhave 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. Shouldwe 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 theChronicleto 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 thatmovementmight 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 ofJaws.”

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.