around it with swirls of seaweed. I’m not a great artist, but I read somewhere years ago that doodling while taking notes helps with knowledge retention, and the habit has stuck. “What would be the point of giving up?” I ask. “You keep trying enough things and something’s bound to work, eventually.”
“I don’t think that’s how most people would see it, but I like that you do.”
I press my lips tight to keep them from turning up in a bashful smile. “Well, this gala is definitely not going to be great if we don’t figure out a venue, and soon.”
“And why can’t we just have it at the center again?”
“The center smells like dead fish.”
He grunts. “Your standards are almost impossibly high sometimes, you know that?”
I glare at him, but there isn’t much heart to it.
“Okay,” he says, scanning the boardwalk as if in search of inspiration. “Can we have it here on the beach? Can hardly beat that view. And we could rent one of those giant tents they use for weddings.”
“Not a terrible idea,” I muse, “but what would we do for restrooms? Port-a-potties?”
We both grimace.
“Let’s keep it on the maybe list,” I say, writing it down. “We’d probably need to get permits, but … it does fit the theme.”
“Hold on. There’s a theme?”
I frown at him. “Saving the lives of helpless sea animals?”
“That’s a mission, not a theme.”
“Close enough.”
He shakes his head. “No, no. We should have a theme. A real one. Like prom. ‘Under the Sea’ or whatever.” He snaps his fingers. “I vote pirates.”
“Pirates?”
“Picture it. We can give out those chocolate gold coins in the gift bags, and all the staff will wear eye patches.”
I wait until I’m sure he’s joking before I allow myself to laugh. “I don’t know. A theme seems sort of cheesy.”
He raspberries his lips. “Please. People love a party theme. You know how kids always have themes, like—My Little Pony or Batman or whatever? It’s like that, but a grown-up version.”
This argument does nothing to convince me.
“I mean,” says Quint more forcefully, because he can see I’m not getting it, “that it brings everything together. The invitations, the posters, the decorations, even the food! Plus it can make it easier to make decisions, too. Should we go with the starfish cookies or the submarine cookies? Well, which one is more in line with the theme?”
“Submarine?” I gasp and smack Quint with the back of my hand. “That’s it! That’s our theme! We’ll base it on ‘Yellow Submarine’ by the Beatles. My parents have tons of memorabilia we can use for decorations. Our ads can say something like … ‘Come aboard our Yellow Submarine, and learn about … sea animals … oft unseen’?”
He snorts. “Okay, Shakespeare.”
“It’s a rough draft.”
His lips twist to one side and I can tell he’s thinking about it, before he slowly nods. “All right, I can get behind that. But next year … pirates!”
I laugh and write “Yellow Submarine” across the top of my notebook, before scanning my lists, again—pages and pages of lists. We’ve made great progress this week, but it feels like every time I cross something off, I think of two more things to add. “Once we have the venue figured out, we can set up the ticket sales and then get serious about advertising. And I’m going to talk to some local media, too. I bet I can get the Chronicle to run a story about it, and there’s a radio station out of Pomona College that might be interested in interviewing your mom. Do you think she’d be up for it?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Great.” I jot down a few notes. My thoughts are spinning in a thousand directions and I feel like I can’t capture them fast enough. I need to get organized. Make a plan.
“What about the theater?”
“Hm?”
“For a venue. How about having it at the Offshore Movie Theater?” Quint pulls his feet back up on the bench. His legs are restless, his knees jogging in place. I’ve seen him like this before, this excited energy burning through him. I’m beginning to think that movement might be his version of list-making.
“We could have the presentation in the auditorium,” he goes on, “and they have that huge lobby we could use for the dinner tables. I know they have weddings there sometimes. And we had our eighth-grade dance there. Remember?”
“I didn’t go.”
“Oh. Well. It was nice. Plus, we wouldn’t have to worry about AV equipment. I’m sure they have everything we’d