Carlos turns around, eyes wide with horror. He chuckles lightly. “Maybe next week?”
“I’ll hold you to that,” says Trish.
“I said maybe,” says Carlos, retreating some more.
Trish grins at the restaurant patrons. “Hello, folks, I’m so excited to be here tonight. I know nobody ever likes to go first, so I’ll get this party started. Please do bring up those slips of paper and let me know what you wanna sing tonight, otherwise you’ll be stuck listening to me for the next three hours.”
She punches something into her machine and a guitar riff blares through the speakers—Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock and Roll.”
I try not to groan, but … come on. How am I supposed to focus on finishing this paper with that playing in the background? This is a restaurant, not a rock concert.
“Not that,” says Jude, elbowing me in the side. “Pru, look. It’s Quint.”
FOUR
My head bolts up. For a second I’m sure Jude is playing a practical joke on me. But no—there he is. Quint Erickson, loitering next to the SEAT YOURSELF sign just inside the doorway. He’s with a girl I don’t recognize—Asian, petite, with her hair tied in two messy buns behind her ears. She’s wearing denim shorts and a faded T-shirt that has a picture of Bigfoot on it with the words HIDE-AND-SEEK WORLD CHAMPION printed underneath.
Unlike Quint, who is watching Trish sing her heart out, the girl is engrossed by something on her phone.
“Whoa,” says Ari, leaning over the table and lowering her voice, even though there’s no way anyone can hear us over Trish Roxby’s guttural demand to put another coin in the jukebox, baby. “That’s Quint? The Quint?”
I frown. “What do you mean, the Quint?”
“What? He’s all you’ve talked about this year.”
A laugh escapes me, harsh and humorless. “He is not!”
“He kind of is,” says Jude. “I don’t know which of us is more excited for summer to start. You, so you won’t have to deal with him anymore, or me, so I don’t have to listen to you complain about him.”
“He’s cuter than I imagined,” says Ari.
“Oh yeah, he’s a stud,” says Jude. “Everyone loves Quint.”
“Only because his ridiculousness appeals to the lowest common denominator of society.”
Jude snorts.
“Besides”—I lower my voice—“he’s not that attractive. Those eyebrows.”
“What do you have against his eyebrows?” says Ari, looking at me as if maybe I should be ashamed for suggesting such a thing.
“Please. They’re huge,” I say. “Plus, his head is a weird shape. It’s, like … square.”
“Biased much?” mutters Ari, shooting me a teasing look that crawls straight beneath my skin.
“I’m just saying.”
I won’t relent on this point. It’s true that Quint is not unattractive. I know this. Anyone with eyes knows this. But there’s no elegance to his features. He has boring, nondescript, basic brown eyes, and while I’m sure he must have eyelashes, they’ve never once caught my attention. And with his perpetual suntan, short wavy hair, and that idiotic grin of his, he pretty much looks like every other surfboard-loving boy in town. Which is to say, completely forgettable.
I put my fingers back on the keyboard, refusing to let Quint or karaoke or anything else derail my focus. This is the last homework assignment of sophomore year. I can do this.
“Hey, Quint!” yells Jude, his hand shooting up into the air in greeting.
My jaw falls. “You traitor!”
Jude turns to me, grimacing. “Sorry, Sis. He caught my eye. I panicked.”
I take in a slow breath through my nostrils and dare to glance toward the front of the restaurant. Sure enough, Quint and his friend are making their way toward us. Quint is grinning, as per usual. He’s like one of those dopey puppies that are incapable of realizing when they’re surrounded by cat people. They just assume that everyone is happy to see them, all the time.
“Jude, what’s up?” says Quint. His attention swoops to me and he takes in my textbook and computer, his smile hardening just a tiny bit. “Prudence. Hard at work, as always.”
“Quality work doesn’t just appear out of thin air,” I say.
He snaps his fingers. “You know, I used to think that, but after a year of working with you, I’m beginning to wonder.”
My eyes narrow. “Sure was nice running into you.” My sarcasm is so thick I almost choke on it. I look back down at the