Instant Karma - Marissa Meyer Page 0,132

because he’s been leaning his brow against my hair as I’ve clutched ever tighter to his arm. “Some people.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, one hand settling into my lap. “Some people.”

My fingers curl into a fist.

A song starts to blare from the screen. The girl jumps, dropping the phone. The song keeps playing, a peppy pop song I remember being really popular when I was a kid.

Quint snorts. “I think the name of this song is ‘Rude,’” he says, giving me an amused look. “Fitting.”

The girl scrambles to find the phone on the floor, while more people join the chorus yelling at her. “Turn it off!” “What are you doing?” “Quiet down!”

She manages to pick up the phone, and I have to cover my mouth to keep from laughing as she hits every button she can, swiping the screen left and right, toggling the switch on the side. Nothing works. If anything, the music just gets louder. Why you gotta be so rude?

Finally, an employee of the theater arrives and insists that she leave the theater.

As she’s led out of the auditorium, head hung with embarrassment, the whole crowd cheers.

* * *

The shark is dead. The sun is setting. The ending credits begin to roll. The theater lights come back up, and the audience enthusiastically applauds.

I release a long, traumatized breath. I’m clinging to Quint like a barnacle. I’ve probably left permanent impressions where my fingers have been digging into his arms, but if he’s bothered by it, he hasn’t given any indication.

I slowly turn my head and see him grinning at me.

“So?” he asks. “What’d you think?”

I’m not entirely sure how to respond. Despite being absolutely horrified, I actually did like the movie. The writing was good, as were the characters. The shark was … well, an animatronic shark from the seventies, but the idea of the shark was chilling.

“I have a question.” I retract my hands from his arm and turn to face him more fully. He shifts toward me, waiting.

“Quint?” I say.

“Yeah?”

“No, that’s my question. Quint? Your mom—your sea-animal-loving mom—named you after that guy? Not just a shark hunter, but some surly, cranky, reclusive shark hunter?”

Quint is laughing. “He’s a war hero!”

“He’s a jerk. He does nothing but mock and bully that poor … what was the other guy’s name?”

“Hooper.”

“That poor Hooper the whole movie, and then he gets devoured by a shark! Honestly, were your parents trying to traumatize you? Why couldn’t they name you after the main guy? Chief…”

“Brody.”

“Brody! They should have named you Brody. That’s not a bad name.”

“It is a fine name. Unfortunately, it was already taken.”

“By who?”

“Our dog.”

“You have a dog?”

“We did when I was little. Brody the golden retriever. My parents worried that if they named me Brody, too, people wouldn’t get the reference and they’d think I was named after the dog. So … Quint it was.”

I almost can’t comprehend this. Shaking my head, I swing my arm toward the rolling credits. “He. Hunts. Sharks! It’s like the embodiment of everything your mom is against!”

“I know, I know. But believe it or not, she really likes this movie. And she was a big fan of Peter Benchley, the guy who wrote the book, because he ended up becoming a huge advocate for the protection of sharks.” He lowers his voice to a secretive whisper. “I think he had a lot of guilt to work through. Oh, and also, my parents’ first date was to see Jaws. An anniversary showing, right here at the Offshore Theater. So … there was that.” He shrugs. “I’ve come to terms with it.” His eyes are shining. The theater is quickly emptying out. Some of the employees have begun making their way through the front rows, sweeping up popcorn and stray candy wrappers. We should probably go, but I don’t want to.

“So what happened to Brody?” I ask, hoping it isn’t a touchy subject. “The dog, I mean.”

“He went with my dad after the divorce,” says Quint, munching on another handful of popcorn. We’ve barely made it halfway through the bucket. “He passed away a few years ago, and my stepmom replaced him with”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“a pug.”

“Oh?” My eyebrows rise at his dramatic tone, but I have no idea why. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s hilarious,” he says. “My dad hates lapdogs. At least, he used to. I’m pretty sure if you asked him now he’d say they’re the best thing ever, because what’s he gonna do? She loves that dog! He was a rescue

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