traffic in Fortuna Beach is pretty much nonexistent.
Maybe he forgot the time? Or forgot that we were supposed to meet at all?
This seems likely, but it hardly makes it okay.
Maybe he’s sick?
Please. I would be so lucky.
Honestly, after seeing him at 8:00 a.m. at the center yesterday, I’d begun to think maybe I’d been mistaken about him. Maybe there is some part of him that can be responsible. That takes his obligations seriously. Maybe he’s not a total delinquent.
As soon as my watch ticks over to 1:00, making him an entire hour late, I feel my annoyance boiling over. It’s one thing to be late to class. Yes, it would have been nice to have a reliable lab partner, but whatever, I did the work myself. But to stand me up like this? On my day off? When I’ve put in all this work to help his mom and her center.
It’s inexcusable!
This rant continues in my head another ten … fifteen … twenty-two minutes, until I’m about ready to scream at the infuriating seagulls that are squawking around, searching for dropped food.
And then—then—I see him.
He’s strolling up the sidewalk, his eyes hidden by sunglasses and the afternoon light glinting off his dark hair. He’s wearing flip-flops, swim trunks, and a white T-shirt with a picture of a surfboarding octopus. He is not hurrying. He in no way looks anxious or apologetic. He looks relaxed. Too relaxed.
How is it that I can have such high expectations, for myself and those around me, while Quint can be so … so Quint. I’ve even spent the last year lowering my expectations for him, bit by bit, and still he manages to disappoint. I’ve truly asked so little of him. Just show up on time so I don’t have to explain the assignment to you every single day. Just read the chapter from our textbook beforehand so you have a clue what we’re talking about. Just take a few notes or take accurate measurements or do something useful rather than putting it all on my shoulders.
Somehow, he failed. Again and again and again. And now this. To not only be late, but to be so casual about it.
I’m positively fuming when Quint spots me and smiles in greeting.
Smiles.
That! Jerk!
My hand clenches under the table, squeezing until I can feel the pulse of my own blood in my knuckles.
Quint pauses, his eye catching on something. Please, oh please, let a seagull swoop by and drop a big one right on his head.
Or let some kid plant a half-devoured chocolate ice cream cone right into that Hawaiian-printed butt of his. (Not that I’m thinking about his butt. Oh, gross, stop it, Brain!)
Or … or … gah, I don’t care, just something horrible!
As I watch, my hand aching and images of vengeance swirling through my head, Quint stoops down and picks something off the sidewalk. I squint, trying to see what it is.
Paper? Green paper?
Hold on. Did he just find money?
Quint walks up to a nearby shopkeeper who’s sweeping his front stoop and shows him the paper. The man shakes his head. Quint steps away, looks up and down the sidewalk, but there’s no one else to ask. No one to talk to. He gives the facial equivalent of a shrug, then starts heading toward me again.
My fist slowly relaxes. What is going on here?
“Look,” he says, sliding into the chair opposite me. “I just found twenty bucks.”
I gawk at the bill in his hand. What?
He holds it toward me. “We’ll call it our first anonymous donation.” He grins. “See? We’re making a good team already.”
My brain feels like it’s shutting down. I can’t process what just happened. I feel like the universe betrayed me. I take the twenty, a little dazed, and stare at it. Maybe it’s counterfeit, and he’ll get arrested if he uses it?
But, no. I know it’s real. I know that, for whatever reason, he just got rewarded, after being nearly an hour and a half late to our meeting. Was that the universe’s doing, or just coincidence?
That would be an easy explanation, except I’m reaching a point where I’m not sure I believe in coincidences anymore.
I set the money down on the table between us.
“Wow,” I say, a little numbly. “Cool. I’ll … start a ledger.”
“Yeah. Or it can just pay for lunch. I’m starving.” He takes a tostone without asking, dips it in the chipotle sauce, and tosses it into his mouth. “Mm, so good,” he says. He doesn’t seem to