Instant Karma - Marissa Meyer Page 0,105

I know that unless that lever piece breaks, they’re practically impossible to lose.

Unless karma wills it so.

“Um, no,” I stammer, with an apologetic smile. “I haven’t seen anything like that.”

“I can let the volunteers know to keep an eye out for it,” says Quint. “Where were you when you lost it?”

“Right over there, by the cliffs,” says Maya. “Please let me know if someone finds it. These earrings belonged to my grandma. They were…” She pauses, and my shoulders tense. Emotion is filling her voice when she continues. “She passed away last year, and they were the last thing she gave to me, and … I just … I’ve been out here almost every day since the party, searching…”

Raw guilt scratches at the inside of my throat.

But I didn’t do anything wrong. Her losing that earring was her fault. It was retribution from the universe!

“I mean, I still have one. So that’s something,” says Maya with a weak smile. “But it’s not the same.”

“I’m really sorry,” says Quint. “I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

“Thanks, Quint.” She pauses, looking from him to me. “Also … to see the two of you working together and, apparently, not contemplating murder is really bizarre. I feel like I just stepped into the Twilight Zone.”

Quint chuckles as he glances at me. “Yeah. Us too.”

“Well, it’s inspirational,” says Maya. Then, to my surprise, she takes one of the tote bags. “I guess I’ll go do my part, then?”

She heads up the beach, in the direction of the cliffs. I stare after her just long enough to see her stoop and pick up a blue flyer and cram it into the bag.

“Man,” says Quint. “That’s gotta be awful, to lose something that sentimental. My grandpa gave me an old baseball, signed by the entire team of the LA Dodgers in 1965. If something ever happened to it, I’d be wrecked.”

I take in a deep breath to try and clear the weight from my chest. “Yeah. Awful.”

“Excuse me, are you Prudence Barnett?” I swivel around to see a man in jeans and a blue Fortuna Beach sweatshirt. A large camera hangs around his neck.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Hi, I’m Jason Nguyen with the Chronicle. We spoke on the phone last night.”

“Oh yes! Hi! Thank you for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. This is a great event. I’d love to do a follow-up story to run in tomorrow’s paper. Maybe also a longer piece about the center for next Sunday. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Oh, wow. That’s wonderful. Yes, of course, but—” I glance at Quint, who looks amazed that our little event has garnered the attention of an actual journalist. “It probably makes more sense for you to talk to Quint here. His mom founded the center and he’s been volunteering there a lot longer than I have. Plus, if you need some supplementary photos for the pieces, he could show you some truly amazing ones.”

Quint’s awe fades, replaced with embarrassment.

“That would be perfect,” says the journalist. He and Quint head out to the beach, and though I try not to stare, I can’t help sneaking glances their way whenever I’m not busy answering questions from the day’s volunteers. Quint speaks so passionately, his body language exuberant, his expressions running from distraught—I imagine he’s telling stories of the sad states in which some of the animals have been found—to ecstatic as the conversation turns to more uplifting things. The patients’ unique personalities and how it feels to return them to the ocean. While he talks, the journalist takes lots of notes and occasionally snaps a picture of the volunteers and the garbage we’re collecting.

By noon, the beach is looking as spotless as if humanity had never set foot here to begin with. Quint and I help volunteers empty their totes into the bins, sorting the garbage from the recyclables. I’m surprised when some of the volunteers, who have really started to get into the swing of this altruism thing, even jump in to help us.

Finally, Quint makes a proclamation that everyone has done a great job, and thanks them for their help. While I give my prepared spiel about the center and its mission (which only take up six minutes of my life—I timed myself a few days ago), Quint calls his mom and tells her to bring the trailer around.

It’s time to release some animals back to their homes.

TWENTY-NINE

A honk draws my attention toward the boardwalk. The van, emblazoned with the center’s logo, pulls

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