be able to make it work.” I hum thoughtfully. “Sometimes I think, if either of my parents had any business sense, their lives would be so much easier. I never want to worry about money like they do.”
My thoughts go back to that wad of cash in my backpack. The box of silverware in the pawnshop. I swallow.
“That, I can understand,” says Quint. “I know Mom doesn’t want me to worry, but it’s impossible not to. This center is her passion, but it’s also her livelihood. If it fails…” He doesn’t finish the thought. I wonder what Rosa would do if she couldn’t run the center anymore. “But money isn’t everything. She works really hard here and it’s always a struggle to keep things going, but I don’t think she’d want to do anything else.”
I don’t respond. Sure, money may not be everything … but it is something. I can’t imagine working as hard as Rosa, or my parents for that matter, and still having so little to show for it, no matter how much I love my work.
“Let me guess,” I say, cocking my head speculatively. “You’ve given precisely zero thought to where you want to go to college, or what you want to study.”
“Not zero thought,” he says a little defensively. “I may not be working off a five-year plan like some people…”
“Ten, actually.”
“My mistake.” He rolls his eyes. “But right now, I’m pretty sure I’ll be taking a gap year.”
My gasp is so horrified that Quint looks legitimately concerned for a second.
“A gap year? Oh, come on. That’s just a fancy way of saying you’re either too lazy to go to college or too indecisive to pick one.”
“Whoa. Uh-uh.” He points a finger at me. “Just because it isn’t your plan doesn’t make it a bad one.”
“It just delays the inevitable! If you’re going to go to college, then go to college! Why mess around, wasting a whole year of your life … backpacking Europe or whatever cliché thing you think will make you ‘well-rounded.’” I make air quotes.
Quint crosses his arms over his chest. “For your information, studies have shown that people who take gap years regularly perform better in college once they get there.”
I narrow my eyes, unconvinced.
“Look it up,” he says mildly.
“I don’t want to drain my phone battery,” I grumble.
“You don’t want to admit that I could be right. Again.”
“We’ll see.” I huff. “So what do you plan on doing during your year of slackery? Please tell me you won’t actually be backpacking through Europe.”
“Australia, actually. I want to dive the Great Barrier Reef before it’s too late.”
My eyes widen in surprise. I spend a moment mulling this over. “Okay, that’s actually kind of a neat goal.”
“Translation from Prudence to English: That’s a brilliant idea, Quint. You should totally do that.”
I shake my head. “Not so fast. You don’t need a whole year to do that. Why not just go on summer vacation?”
He starts to fidget, adjusting the towel behind his back. Crossing and uncrossing his ankles. “I don’t want to just rent some gear, spend a day at the reef, and check it off my bucket list. I want…” He hesitates, his expression becoming almost serious. “So … my ultimate plan, if you must know, is that I want to get my scuba-diving license and spend the year building up my portfolio. My … photography portfolio.” He picks at some lint on the blanket. “When I do go to college, I’d like to study art and design. Maybe minor in photography. I’d love to do underwater photography eventually, but the equipment is expensive, and my best chance is to get a really great scholarship. And for that…”
He doesn’t finish, but I’ve already connected the dots. “You need a great portfolio.”
“It’s one thing to take photos of the animals here at the center, but if I could have more underwater experience when I apply, I really think it would help.”
I stare at him, even though, for some reason, he’s stopped meeting my eye. My opinion of Quint does another flip. “You could be in National Geographic someday.”
He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he finally looks up at me. “One can dream, but that’s … I mean, their photographers are top-notch. I don’t know that I could ever…”
“You could. You will,” I say, with surprising conviction. “You’re so talented.”
He drags a hand through his hair. “Naw. Average at best. But I do love it, so … we’ll see.”