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My dad lifts an eyebrow and says sardonically, “Volunteering? Where, the boardwalk?”

Indignation flares inside my chest. It can’t bethatsurprising that I would volunteer my time to a worthy cause. All through middle school I tutored a couple of kindergarteners and first graders after school, twice a week, which mostly just meant I would sit and read picture books to them, but still. I believe in good deeds and charity. I may not have had much time lately, but the idea that I would do something philanthropic shouldn’t garner suspicion.

“No, not the boardwalk,” I say, mocking his dismay. “It’s this place called, um, the Fortuna Beach Rescue Center. They take in distressed animals. Sea lions and stuff. And help them get better.” At least, I assume this is what they do. I skimmed most of those pages in Quint’s paper and still only have a vague notion of this rescue center’s purpose.

“Oh,” says Dad. I know thisoh.I can hear pages of confusion written into thatoh.

Oh,I didn’t realize you liked animals.Oh,it’s been so long since you talked about any sort of volunteering.Oh,I thought you were planning to spend your entire summer vacation with Ari, eating ice cream and counting the days until it becomes socially acceptable to start obsessing over college applications.(Not before the start of junior year, evidently, though I do have a checklist started for when the day comes.)

But Dad doesn’t say any of this. Instead, he says, “I’ve never heard of it.”

“No, I hadn’t, either. A friend told me about it.” I visibly shiver at the idea that Quint is afriend,but I turn back to my toast, which has just popped, and focus on slathering it with peanut butter.

“Is this for school?”

I hesitate. “Sort of? And also, just… you know. I thought it’d be good to do something for the community, and our local… marine… habitats.” I drop the knife into the sink. “I thought I’d go there today and see if they could use my help.” I hesitate, smiling uncertainly, before asking, “Is that okay?”

His brows pucker in the middle. “Well,” he drawls slowly, uncertainly. I can see the wheels whirring in his head as he tries to determine the best parental approach. Insist that your child help with the family business in order to build personal responsibility and a strong work ethic, or encourage this unexpected interest in altruism and animal welfare? Finally, he clears his throat. “I tell you what. You go talk to them today and see if it seems like a good fit for you, and I’ll talk to your mother about it, and we’ll reconvene at dinner tonight.” He finishes this statement with a pleased nod. I can practically see him congratulating himself on another parenting dilemma, conquered. Or, at least, postponed until Mom can give her input. “Do you need me to drive you there?”

“No, thanks. I’ll take my bike. It’s only a couple miles away.”

He nods again, but then seems to reconsider something. “You know, Pru, I was teasing before, about spending your time at the boardwalk. You’ve worked hard this year. You deserve to relax during your vacation. So… volunteer at this rescue place or come hang at the store with me or whatever works out. But don’t forget to get out and enjoy the sunshine sometimes, too, all right?”

I stare at him. He says it so innocently, but I can’t help but feel like there’s a tiny, hidden attack in his words.Don’t work so hard that you forget to have fun.

Why is everyone so concerned that I don’t know how to have fun? To relax? Yes, I work hard. Yes, I believe in practicality and efficiency and excelling at the things I do. What’s so wrong with that?

I don’t say any of this, though. Instead, I give Dad a tight smile. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll take it under consideration.”

He sighs at me. “You do that.” He turns his attention back to his coffee and his magazine, enjoying his last moments of peace before the rest of my siblings begin to stir.

I grab my toast and head out the door. I haven’t quite decided how I feel about my little white lie by the time I’m strapping on my bike helmet and cramming the last bite of toast into my mouth. Under no circumstances had I considered volunteering my summer hours at some nonprofit organization—at least, I’m assuming the center is nonprofit, though even that is unclear. Either way, if I had intended to volunteer somewhere, I would have chosen something like writing newsletters for our local YMCA or starting a Little Free Library on Main Street or organizing bake sales in order to send some kid in an impoverished third-world country to school or… something. But sea turtles and otters or whatever it is they work with at this place? I mean, I have nothing against sea animals. And I do need to fix our project for Mr. Chavez, and this seems like a sure way to do it.

But still. It’s not exactly the cause of my heart.

Maybe, if things don’t go well today, I can come up with a plan B. Find some other organization to volunteer my time at—something a little more fitting to my interests—and tell my parents there’s been a change of plans.

Curating a Little Free Librarywouldbe fun…

I pause, frowning at this thought. Something tells me very few people would agree with this sentiment. Is it possible thatmyidea of fun, relaxing, enjoyable activities is really so far afield from everyone else’s?

But does that mean something is wrong with me, or them?

I shake my head. Whatever I decide about volunteering, at least it will look great on college applications. A summer spent at a sea animal rescue center may not have been the original plan, but I can see how it will have long-term benefits. I’m envisioning all the heartwarming application essays I’ll be able to write explaining how I managed to make the world a better place through my selfless dedication. My future résumé will be a step above other candidates’ for having spent a portion of my time in such impressive service.

This is good, I tell myself repeatedly, as my legs pump against the bike pedals.

This is for the best.

It certainly beats out a summer spent at the record store, anyway.

The salty wind is refreshing against my cheeks, blowing through my hair. The morning is warm but pleasant. I pass loads of people walking their dogs, and even some kids splashing through the sprinklers on their front lawn. I pass an old man mowing his grass and a bunch of house painters setting up scaffolding. I pass more people on bikes—some in suits, some in swim trunks. We give each other neighborly smiles.

I stop outside a convenience store, waiting for the traffic light to change. The car beside me has the windows down and I smile when “Good Day Sunshine” comes on over their speakers. I tap my fingers against the handlebars, humming along. I even picture myself singing this song at karaoke night—if we go back for karaoke night.

Hecklers and spilled drinks aside, it was kind of fun.

I’m still distracted, thinking that maybe I would consider doing a duet with Ari, when the light for crossing traffic turns yellow. I adjust the pedals, getting ready to go, when I glance toward the convenience store parking lot. A shiny SUV is pulling into a parking spot.