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 not my fault, 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 of Rolling Stone magazine.
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?
The record store?
The next three months flash through my mind, full of clueless tourists who think that an old-school vinyl store is wow, such a novelty, versus the obnoxious music “aficionado” who likes to rant on and on about how digital music has no 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 of Hotel 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 than I 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?
My dad lifts an eyebrow and says sardonically, “Volunteering? Where, the boardwalk?”
Indignation flares inside my chest. It can’t be that surprising 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 this oh. I can hear pages of confusion written into that