“Yeah, sort of,” he says. “But if I don’t come in for a few days, it hits me all over again when I come back.”
While we’re working, another volunteer comes and stacks the prepped bowls on a metal cart before wheeling it away down the hall. I watch, dismayed, as our hard work disappears.
“Hold on. We don’t get to feed them?”
“We’re on food prep duty, not feeding duty.”
I turn to him, aghast. “But how do I get to be that volunteer? The one that gets to see their cute little faces, all excited over food?”
“For starters, you volunteer for more than twenty minutes,” says Quint. “If you really stick this out for four weeks, you’ll get to feed them eventually.”
I frown. It’s clear he thinks this is a passing phase, and I can’t blame him. Despite our deal, I’m not sure I can imagine coming back to this place day after day. I feel like I’ve already seen enough to rope the center and its mission into my ecotourism plan. I can’t exactly expect tourists to pay for the pleasure of sorting stinky dead fish, but feeding the animals seems like it would hold some appeal.
But how would I get Quint to sign off on it?
“So,” I say, trying to act interested, “how many more buckets do we need to clean?”
“All of them.”
I freeze, one hand gripping a cold, slippery body. “All of them? You mean everything in … in there?” I use the fish to gesture at the refrigerator.
“That’s right,” he says. The cruel glint in his eyes is back. “We go through tons of fish every week. We get it delivered by the crate load.”
I look at the refrigerator. The bucket. The fish in my hand. “Yippee.”
Quint chuckles. “Not the glamorous life of a volunteer you had in mind? Maybe you’d be more suited to”—he thinks for a second—“leading a Girl Scout troop or something.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think that would get me far with Mr. Chavez.”
He grunts. “Tell me, do you even like animals?”
I open my mouth, but hesitate. I don’t dislike them, but I know that isn’t the same thing. Finally, I confess, “We had a gerbil when I was a kid. I liked him well enough.”
For a moment, Quint doesn’t move. He just holds my gaze, as if waiting for something more.
Then he throws his head back and laughs. “Awesome,” he says. “You’re a shoo-in.”
I bristle, but there’s not much more to say, so we both get back to work. Now that I know we’re expected to get through all those buckets, I force myself to move faster. No matter how disgusted I am, I will not give Quint any reason to call me lazy. After all, that’s my line.
“So,” he says, once we’ve finished our fifth bucket, “the healthier animals get the whole fish—those are the ones that have been here awhile and have more or less figured out the eating thing. But when they first get here, they’re usually so weak and dehydrated, they need some added assistance. Which means, step two: fish smoothies.”
I blanch. “Tell me that’s not what it sounds like.”
He grins and points to an industrial-size blender. “It’s exactly what it sounds like.”
It’s revolting is what it is. Quint and I spend the next forty minutes chopping the heads and tails off yet more fish, tossing them into a blender along with some corn syrup and Pedialyte, and watching it all turn into a goop of guts and scales and sharp little bones. The smell, impossibly, gets even worse. By the time we’re passing the last batch off to another volunteer, who will feed it to the recent rescues, I’m once again rethinking my conviction. This cannot be worth a good grade. Not an entire summer of this.
I’ll tell Dad it didn’t work out. I’ll find another way to research animal habitats and our sensitive ecosystems.
Quint wipes down the counter, giving me odd, knowing looks from the corner of his eye. “Ready for your lunch break?”
My stomach lurches at the thought of food. My distaste must be evident because he starts chuckling again as he throws the towel into a bin. I can tell he’s enjoying this, the torture he gets to inflict on me. “I actually can’t believe you’re still here.”
“I said I’d help, didn’t I?” It’s annoying, to think he can see right through me. How I’m dying to bolt for the exit the first chance I get. But I haven’t yet. Maybe to prove something to myself