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He gives me a look, like I shouldn’t even have to ask. “For starters, you used the Papyrus font for the headers.”

“So? What’s wrong with Papyrus?”

He makes a gagging noise.

I cross my arms, offended. “That board was fine.”

“I’m sorry, but I could have done better. And then we could have used my photos, too. Tied it in with the report. The whole project would have been so much better if you hadn’t insisted on doing everything yourself. And if you can’t see that…” He shakes his head, then throws up his hands in exasperation and gets out of his chair again. “Whatever. We’re just going in circles now.”

“Yourphotos?” I say, standing up, too. I glance up at the wall, those framed pictures again. Although those three pictures weren’t in the report, they’re similar to ones that were. “Quint. Did you take these?”

He turns toward the wall, as if needing to be reminded what’s there. “I thought you knew that.”

“And the ones in the paper, too?”

He doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t have to.

My gaze travels down the line of photos, each neatly framed. They’re stunning, each one full of emotions that dig straight into the gut. They could be in an exhibit at an art gallery. They’re definitely deserving of something better than this shoddy break room, at least.

“There! That!” says Quint, pointing at my face.

I jolt, surprised. “What?”

“That’s what I’m asking for. Just a little bit of appreciation. Is that so hard?”

I laugh, but it sounds a little dazed. Because… maybe I am. I’m definitely impressed, which is almost just as weird.

“Quint, these are good. Really good.”

He shrugs. “Naw. I mean, the subject matter is pretty intense, so…”

“No, it’s more than that. I took a one-week photography class when I was in middle school and the teacher was always talking about light and shadow andangles and… I don’t know. I didn’t get most of it. I didn’t really have an eye for it, you know? But these…”

“Aw shucks. You’re making me blush.”

I turn back to him, and though he’d sounded joking, he actually does look like I’ve made him uncomfortable.

“You’re an artist,” I say, a little bewildered.

He makes a hearty guffaw of a sound. “Um, no. It’s just a hobby. I mean… I don’t know. I’ve thought it could be cool to be a photographer, maybe, someday. I’d really love to do underwater photography.” He waves his hand. “But it’ll probably never happen.”

I slowly look up, meeting his eyes. The eyes of this boy who, it turns out, I hardly know at all. We sat next to each other for two whole semesters, and yet it feels like there’s a complete stranger standing before me.

An artist. A volunteer. The sort of person who rescues sea otters in his spare time.

He has his hands tucked into his pockets, looking almost self-conscious as he studies his own photos. While I was left breathless by the pictures, I can see that he’s critiquing them in his mind. Something tells me he has no idea how good they are.

And the truth is, I couldn’t say with absolute certainty that they’re any good, either. I don’t have an artist’s eye. I don’t know about light and shadows, angles and dimension. All I know is that when I look at these photos, they bring a mixture of emotions storming through me. They make mefeel.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you to help with our assignments.”

It takes him a second, but when he responds, his voice is light, almost jovial. Good old laid-back Quint. “I forgive you,” he says. Easy as that. “But first, can I grab my phone and record you saying that again? For future reference.”

I glower, but there’s no heat behind it. I look back at the photos. “You could sell these, you know.”

He snorts.

“I’m serious. In fact…” I point at the image of the sea turtle caught up in all the garbage. “I think this is the image we should use on our posters for the beach cleanup. Although”—I shrug at him—“you’re the designer, so I guess it’s your call.”