“Want to do the stickers?” Jude asks, holding up the label maker.
“Nope.” I sit on the stool behind the cash machine. It’s been slow, even for a Tuesday, so I’m not too worried that a customer is going to ask me to ring up their purchase. Dad keeps trying to train me to work the register, but I’m not interested. I’m counting down the days until summer ends, when I can be free of the store. When I can immerse myself in homework and college planning and as many extra-credit assignments as I can sink my teeth into. I will distract myself like my life depends on it.
Until then—it’s just day after tedious day.
Dad gives Jude a hundred reminders about running the store before he leaves, even though he’s only going to be gone for half an hour. I ignore them both and boot up the laptop. The report is open, waiting for me. I read over the last sentence I wrote. Or tried to write.
Ecotourism can benefit many ocean habitats by
By … what? My brain is mush, as it has been every time I’ve tried to work on this awful paper. The thought of researching, taking notes, drawing conclusions, and implementing my findings makes me dizzy. It all feels like an insurmountable amount of work. The deadline for resubmitting our projects is only a few days away, but I’ve made painfully little progress. Every time I get stuck, I imagine talking to Quint about it and how we would come up with some brilliant solution together, and it would be easy and fun and—
And then I catch myself mid-daydream and plummet back to earth.
I don’t even know why I’m wasting my time. Without Quint’s participation, Mr. Chavez probably won’t even accept the revised report.
The worst part is I don’t even know if I care. About biology. About this report. About my grades. Any of it.
I procrastinate—again—by grabbing my phone and checking the rescue center’s Facebook page. It’s a form of self-torture I’ve become adept at lately. Quint has been doing a great job of keeping it updated and incorporating a lot of the strategies we talked about. Videos showing the sea lions at play. Photos of former patients, with captions describing their unique personalities and interesting stories about them. Interviews with the volunteers explaining why they’re passionate about working with sea animals.
Most of the photos on the page are taken by Quint—at least, I assume so—because he’s hardly ever in the pictures himself. But every now and then there will be one where I can see him in the background. Hosing down a pool or feeding a bucket of fish to the seals, and the yearning that tugs at me upon seeing these grainy candid shots is overwhelming.
I know I should stop looking, but I can’t. No matter how much it hurts.
And, oh, it does hurt.
And then the hurt makes me angry.
And the anger makes me sad.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
How can the universe allow this? How can I sit here, betrayed and devastated, while Quint goes on with life as usual? Karma has abandoned me. There is no justice. There is no universal reprieve.
An update about Luna and Lennon catches my eye. I smile to see a short video of the two of them passing a ball back and forth with their noses. The caption spells Lennon’s name “Lenin,” like the dictator, which is how I know Quint wrote it. My heart twists.
Update: Lenin and Luna have been offered a permanent home at a respected zoo! We’re excited that they will be placed together, and be able to enjoy many more years of friendship (or something more?). We will post more info as their transfer date and details are confirmed.
I don’t know if I’m happy or sad at the news. What if I never see Lennon again?
The bell jingles on the front door.
“Hey, Ari,” says Jude.
“Hey, Jude. Pru.”
I turn off my phone and look up to see Ari strolling through the aisles, her fingers skimming over the tops of the records in their bins. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “You’re off today.”
“Yeah, but I thought I’d check on you. See if you needed some moral support.”
Ah—because the gala is tonight. I’m doing my best to forget, though the universe keeps throwing it back in my face.
I was shocked at first to learn that they planned to continue with the gala at all. How could they do it without me? It was