Page 49

But how would I get Quint to sign off on it?

“So,” I say, trying to act interested, “how many more buckets do we need to clean?”

“All of them.”

I freeze, one hand gripping a cold, slippery body. “All of them? You mean everything in… in there?” I use the fish to gesture at the refrigerator.

“That’s right,” he says. The cruel glint in his eyes is back. “We go through tons of fish every week. We get it delivered by the crate load.”

I look at the refrigerator. The bucket. The fish in my hand. “Yippee.”

Quint chuckles. “Not the glamorous life of a volunteer you had in mind? Maybe you’d be more suited to”—he thinks for a second—“leading a Girl Scout troop or something.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think that would get me far with Mr. Chavez.”

He grunts. “Tell me, do you even like animals?”

I open my mouth, but hesitate. I don’tdislikethem, but I know that isn’t the same thing. Finally, I confess, “We had a gerbil when I was a kid. I liked him well enough.”

For a moment, Quint doesn’t move. He just holds my gaze, as if waiting for something more.

Then he throws his head back and laughs. “Awesome,” he says. “You’re a shoo-in.”

I bristle, but there’s not much more to say, so we both get back to work. Now that I know we’re expected to get through all those buckets, I force myself to move faster. No matter how disgusted I am, I will not give Quint any reason to call me lazy. After all, that’s my line.

“So,” he says, once we’ve finished our fifth bucket, “the healthier animals get the whole fish—those are the ones that have been here awhile and have more or less figured out the eating thing. But when they first get here, they’re usually so weak and dehydrated, they need some added assistance. Which means, step two: fish smoothies.”

I blanch. “Tell me that’s not what it sounds like.”

He grins and points to an industrial-size blender. “It’s exactly what it sounds like.”

It’srevoltingis what it is. Quint and I spend the next forty minutes chopping the heads and tails off yet more fish, tossing them into a blender along with some corn syrup and Pedialyte, and watching it all turn into a goop of guts and scales and sharp little bones. The smell, impossibly, gets even worse. By the time we’re passing the last batch off to another volunteer, who will feed it to the recent rescues, I’m once again rethinking my conviction. This cannot be worth a good grade. Not an entire summer of this.

I’ll tell Dad it didn’t work out. I’ll find another way to research animal habitats and our sensitive ecosystems.

Quint wipes down the counter, giving me odd, knowing looks from the corner of his eye. “Ready for your lunch break?”

My stomach lurches at the thought of food. My distaste must be evident because he starts chuckling again as he throws the towel into a bin. I can tell he’s enjoying this, the torture he gets to inflict on me. “I actually can’t believe you’re still here.”

“I said I’d help, didn’t I?” It’s annoying, to think he can see right through me. How I’m dying to bolt for the exit the first chance I get. But I haven’t yet. Maybe to prove something to myself or my parents or even Mr. Chavez, though I can’t help but suspect that part of it might be wanting to prove something to Quint, too.

He’s still eyeing me, not trying to hide that he’s suspicious. Staring me down. Waiting for me to cave and admit that this is absolutely not what I signed up for. That I’ll be saying goodbye now, thanks.

I plant one hand on my hip, daring him to test my resolve.

“Well?” I say, breaking the silence. “What next? Do we bake them octopus pies? Maybe a crab cake?”

His cheek twitches. “Crab is too expensive. But they do like squid.”

I gag quietly. “Yum.”

“What, you’ve never had calamari? It’s delicious.”

“Everything is delicious when you deep-fry it.”

“Come on. If you haven’t been scared off yet, I suppose I should give you the grand tour.”

I have the feeling that this all might have been a test and, somewhat shockingly, I seem to have passed. We step out into the hallway, and Quint starts explaining the various rooms and workstations. This is where the animals are first inspected—vitals taken, blood drawn, checked for wounds. This is the surgery room. Laundry. Dishes. This is where the animals that are in critical condition are kept, the ones that need constant monitoring. Storage and admin offices upstairs, along with a break room and small kitchenette because, according to Quint, my appetite will return eventually. I’m not sure I believe him, but fine.