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Seriously? In all our conversations, Quint was insistent that we should focus on the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center. He thought people who truly cared about helping our oceans would love to come to the center, help care for the animals, learn about what goes into rehabilitation, and discover beneficial lifestyle changes they can make going forward.

I rolled my eyes every time he brought it up, just like I’m rolling my eyes now. Why would our community put the money into building an animal rehab center when we can have aspa? We want to attract millionaires, not hippies!

I’m fuming as I skim the last few paragraphs and turn to the final page. At least he bothered to include a bibliography, though I notice he hasn’t credited the sources where he got the photography, which is schoolwork blasphemy in my opinion.

My eye catches on one of the sources and I go still. Unlike the other listings, which are mostly websites with a couple of magazines and books thrown in for good measure, Quint has included an interview subject.

Rosa Erickson, founder and owner of the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center. Interview conducted by Quint Erickson.

“Hold the phone,” I mutter, sitting up straighter. “The rescue center is a real place?”

I grab my phone off the charger on my nightstand and do a quick search. And there it is—no official website, but a business listing with an address a couple miles north of downtown. A bit more digging and that name pops up, too. Rosa Erickson.

“You jerk!” Dropping the phone onto the blankets, I launch out of bed and begin to pace. I don’t know if Rosa is Quint’s mom or aunt or grandma or what, but they must be related. How could he have neglected to mention that this rescue center he was so set on including is an actual, existing place? And that he has a personal connection to it? If I’d known that, I would havecompletely reworked my plan for the project. We could have focused on the impact of rescue centers in a community or done some cool hands-on demonstration of the sort of work the center does. We could have invited this Rosa person to come and talk to the class, or maybe even gotten permission to take our classmates on an awesome field trip.

We could have knocked this project out of the park!

How could Quint have kept this a secret? And, maybe more important,why? Why didn’t he tell me?

I stop pacing and stare ice-daggers at the report. I’d flipped it back to the front when I jumped up from the bed, and there’s that sticky note again. That C, mocking me.

I can understand Mr. Chavez’s note better, at least. There’s almost nothing between my street model and Quint’s paper that suggests we were a team, working together on one cohesive project. But that’s notmyfault, and I refuse to let my GPA fall because Quint couldn’t deign to fill me in on this hugely relevant piece of information.

I grab my phone and check the address of the rescue center again.

I don’t care about Mr. Chavez and his rules. I’m going to redo this project and I’m going to make it so brilliant, he’ll have no choice but to award me the grade I truly deserve.

TWELVE

Dad is in the kitchen, sitting at the table by himself with a cup of coffee and the newest issue ofRolling Stonemagazine.

He glances up when I come in, then checks the time on the stove. “Up before eight o’clock! Aren’t you on summer vacation?”

“Dad, when have you ever known me to sleep in past eight, vacation or otherwise?” I slide a slice of bread into the toaster. There’s a new bunch of bananas on the counter, but I don’t feel like mucking around with the blender this morning. “I’ve got things to do, you know.”

“Do you?” Dad says, with a slight chuckle. “Not too much, I hope. Your mom and I actually have a few ideas for how you can spend your time this summer.”

I frown at him, instantly on edge. “Like what?”

“Well…” He uses one of those subscription cards to mark his place and closes the magazine. “We were going to wait and discuss this with you at dinner, but since you asked. We thought it might be time for you and Jude to start helping out at the store.”

I stare at him. Helping out at the store?

Therecordstore?

The next three months flash through my mind, full of clueless tourists who think that an old-school vinyl store iswow, such a novelty,versus the obnoxious music “aficionado” who likes to rant on and on about how digital musichasno soul, man,versus the people who come in trying to sell their grandfather’s collection and can’t comprehend why we’ll only pay them fifty cents for a beat-up copy ofHotel California.

I stare at my dad and I know that laughing out loud is the wrong tactic, so instead I say simply, “Huh.”

That’s it. That’s all I can think to say.Huh.

My dad, sensing my utter disinterest, swiftly morphs from jolly and hopeful to chastising. “It’s a family business, you know. And you are a part of this family.”

“Yeah, no, I know,” I say quickly. “It’s just…” I stall, searching for an excuse. Any excuse. Any excuse other thanI have zero desire to spend my summer stuck behind the counter of your dingy record store, smelling like mothballs and telling the regulars that, no, sorry, we haven’t gotten in any new hair metal since last week.

“It’s just… I was… thinking of volunteering,” I hear myself say.

Wait. What?