and outline the best plan for ecotourism the state of California has ever seen.”
He spins back so fast I nearly crash into him for the second time that day. His thick eyebrows are drawn tight, making his features look almost severe. I’m startled to realize he’s angry. Not irritated. Not mildly annoyed. This is actual anger.
Quint Erickson doesn’t get angry.
I take a step back, though I’m not proud about it.
“Do you ever listen to anything anyone else says?”
I blink at him.
“In case you weren’t paying attention, we took in a new rescue today, which means Mom and the vet already have enough to deal with, and we’re suddenly short-staffed, which leaves me to clean two dozen pools and feed almost a hundred animals, and you and I both know that you didn’t come here today so you could slop around buckets of fish guts.”
I grimace.
“On top of that, Mr. Chavez made it very clear that he would only accept revisions if they’re a team effort, and there is no power in the universe that could get me to spend another minute working with you.”
I gape at him, speechless. His breathing is ragged, his cheeks red. It’s a side of Quint I’ve never seen before, and it takes me a second to realize … he’s not just mad, though clearly I’ve done something to upset him. No. He’s stressed.
Laid-back, not-a-care-in-the-world Quint Erickson actually takes this job seriously.
When I don’t say anything, he turns and walks away. His words echo around me. No power in the universe …
I try to dig up my own anger. He can’t just walk away. He has to help me with this project. He has to at least let me try.
I squeeze my fist, trying to summon that very power, because he’s wrong. Maybe the universe could persuade him to do this project with me. Or it could at least punish him for being such a jerk about it.
I stand there, shoulders tense, fist clenched, and wait.
Until—
Something hard clobbers me on the head.
“Ow!” I yelp, spinning around. The push broom that had been hanging from a couple of wall pegs a second before clatters to the floor. I rub the side of my head where it hit me.
“What?” says Quint. I turn back to see that he’s stopped walking and is scowling at me, like he thinks I might have just hit myself with the broom in order to get his attention.
As if.
“That broom just attacked me,” I say.
He snorts. It’s a mocking sound, and one I find patently unfair. After all, it did attack me. And it hurt!
Except, I know that it wasn’t really the broom. It was something much bigger.
What’s the big idea, Universe?
“Should I call the doctor?” Quint says.
I glower as I pick up the broom and hang it back on the pegs, checking that it’s secure before I hastily step away. When the broom doesn’t make any more sudden movements, I face Quint again. “Look. I know this last year was miserable. I don’t want to redo this project any more than you do. But I cannot get a C!”
“Not my problem.” He starts to turn again.
“I’ll make you a deal!” I’m practically shouting now.
Quint stops walking. He massages his brow. “I’m not interested—”
“You help me with this report. Not a lot, just enough to show that we did it together. You know, tell me more about the center, and maybe we can spend just a few minutes brainstorming ideas about how we could tie it into the local tourism?”
He rolls his eyes skyward. “Great. A brainstorming session. My favorite.”
“In return,” I say, my heartbeat quickening, “I’ll work here for … for a week. Every day. You don’t even have to pay me.”
He looks at me askance. “Yeah, because … volunteers generally don’t get paid. You know that, right?”
I flinch. “Of course I know that. I’m just saying … you’re shorthanded, you’re overwhelmed—”
“I’m not overwhelmed.”
“Your mom certainly seems to be.”
To this, he doesn’t argue.
I press a hand to my sternum. “I’m here. I can work. You know I have a strong work ethic. I can”—I brace myself—“schlep fish guts, or whatever you need.”
He watches me, and for the first time I can tell I’m making progress.
I attempt a smile. I’m getting dangerously close to begging, but all that matters is that he says yes.
But he doesn’t say yes. Instead, he says, “Four weeks.”
I sneer. “Four weeks? Every day? Um, no. I think there might be child labor laws—”