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“You’ve got this.” I give him an encouraging punch in the shoulder and we go our separate ways.

The sand beneath my steps has turned to clouds as I stroll back toward Ari, feeling like all the power in the universe is at my fingertips.

ELEVEN

I wake up early the next morning, the smell of woodsmoke clinging to my hair, proof that the bonfire party was real. That I didn’t dream it all up. There’s a logical voice in my brain still insisting that this whole karmic justice thing is only wishful thinking, but I do my best to shush that voice.

I lie in bed thinking of all the times I’ve been frustrated at the unfairness of life. At the students who slack off and still somehow manage to earn the teacher’s approval. The bullies who never seem to get caught. The jerks who rise to the top of the social ladder.

Well, not anymore. At least not in Fortuna Beach.

There’s a new judge in town.

I’m giddy as I get up and move through my usual routine of making my bed, brushing my teeth, getting dressed. The day feels full of potential. Mylifefeels full of potential.

I check the clock: 6:55 a.m. on the first full day of summer vacation. I’m dressed and ready, lipstick and everything, and still, the rest of the house continues to sleep. I know I should be exhausted, since Jude and I didn’t come home until after midnight, but I’m wide-awake.

I sit on the edge of my bed and drum my fingers against my knees. I usually love this time of day, when I’m the only one in my family awake. The serenity and solitude feel like a rare gift to be cherished. Whenever possible during theschool year, I try to get up so I can get some things accomplished without being pestered by my parents or sisters, but now I feel like I’m in limbo.

No homework. No projects. Nothing to do.

I glance over at my bookshelf, thinking maybe I’ll read for a while, but I know I won’t be able to focus.

My eyes land on the stack of folders and notebooks I emptied from my backpack the night before, all sitting neatly at the corner of my desk.

Quint’s binder sits at the very top, that forlorn seal peering up from the cover.

I pick it up. That hateful sticky note greets me and I make a face. I don’t want to open it. A huge part of me wants to tear this report into tiny pieces and toss it out the window, but that would be littering, so I don’t. Nevertheless, I’m confronted with something almost like fear as I carry the report back to my bed and settle into my pillows.

Fear of what, though? That I might have been wrong all this time? That Quint, in a shocking twist to all, might actually have done good work? That the words in these pages will be well-written, thoroughly researched, and altogether brilliant? That maybeIwas the weak link in our partnership?

I read Mr. Chavez’s words again, but this time I focus on his critique of Quint.Messy execution. Unfocused writing.So, okay. There’s that. I know it isn’t some great piece of literature. I know there are flaws.

And yet, his grade is above mine, aboveours.

Steeling myself, I open the binder.

At first, as I peruse Quint’s report, I’m surprised, even a little impressed. First impressions go a long way and, well, the first impression of his paper is not at all what I expected. Rather than the typical twelve-point, double-spaced, Times New Roman affair that’s standard in all our coursework, Quint has designed the report to appear like a magazine article with two justified columns interspersed with images of wildlife and marine habitats. Each section is divided by a bold aquamarine title, and the captions beneath the photos are tidy and stylized. He even included a subtle beige footer along the bottom of each page:Marine Conservation by Way of Ecotourism|Prudence Barnett and Quint Erickson.

The overall effect is nice. Classy. Even professional. It’s not at all what Iexpected and I feel a tinge of regret. How was he capable of this quality of work all this time and I had no idea?

And then there are the pictures. Every page has at least one photograph and they are as breathtaking as they are horrifying. Seabirds drenched in black oil. Seals with deep gashes along their sides. Sea lions with dozens of fishhooks caught in their skin. I’ve never given a lot of credence to the idea that a picture is worth a thousand words, but I have to admit, these illustrations are very effective. My gut twists as I return to the first page.

I start to read the text, and… my opinions begin to plummet.

Typos. Misspellings. Run-on sentences. Rambling, almost incoherent statements.

Criminy. How did this guy pass ninth-grade English?

The parts I can read without cringing and wishing I had a red pencil in hand are passionate, though, and surprisingly full of relevant facts and statistics. He spends a great deal of time outlining how human behavior has negatively affected our local ecosystems. He goes into explicit detail on the declining populations of a number of marine species and how they’re being impacted by waste, pollution, and overfishing practices. It’s all way more than I would have done. After all, the report is on ecotourism, not environmental decline. But I have to hand it to him, there is a lot of science. I even learn a few things while I read, things that make me want to check his sources and see if they’re real, including a number of statistics that suggest that ecotourism itself, if not carefully monitored, can be more detrimental than beneficial to the very environments visitors are hoping to conserve.

My estimation of Quint and his work is beginning to climb again, when Ifinallyreach the part of the paper on our suggestions for creating a vibrant ecotourism industry in Fortuna Beach. I expect the next couple of pages to be familiar. After all, this is what we discussed, on the few occasions Mr. Chavez gave us time in class to work on the project together. I’m looking forward to reading the text version of my well-thought-out plan. The resort. The sea adventures. The beach parties. All the things that will have tourists flocking to Fortuna Beach in the name of fun, exploration, and a hearty dose of philanthropy.

Except… there’s none of that. He doesn’t talk about the resort. Heleaves out my brilliant array of boating and snorkeling tours. There’s not even a word about the spa with all-natural, organic treatments!

Instead, according to Quint, tourists will come to Fortuna Beach in order to… volunteer at an animal rescue center.

I groan loudly and thump my head back against my headboard. My skull still smarts, a reminder of my fall the other night.