I read Mr. Chavez’s words again, but this time I focus on his critique of Quint. Messy execution. Unfocused writing. So, okay. There’s that. I know it isn’t some great piece of literature. I know there are flaws.
And yet, his grade is above mine, above ours.
Steeling myself, I open the binder.
At first, as I peruse Quint’s report, I’m surprised, even a little impressed. First impressions go a long way and, well, the first impression of his paper is not at all what I expected. Rather than the typical twelve-point, double-spaced, Times New Roman affair that’s standard in all our coursework, Quint has designed the report to appear like a magazine article with two justified columns interspersed with images of wildlife and marine habitats. Each section is divided by a bold aquamarine title, and the captions beneath the photos are tidy and stylized. He even included a subtle beige footer along the bottom of each page: Marine Conservation by Way of Ecotourism|Prudence Barnett and Quint Erickson.
The overall effect is nice. Classy. Even professional. It’s not at all what I expected and I feel a tinge of regret. How was he capable of this quality of work all this time and I had no idea?
And then there are the pictures. Every page has at least one photograph and they are as breathtaking as they are horrifying. Seabirds drenched in black oil. Seals with deep gashes along their sides. Sea lions with dozens of fishhooks caught in their skin. I’ve never given a lot of credence to the idea that a picture is worth a thousand words, but I have to admit, these illustrations are very effective. My gut twists as I return to the first page.
I start to read the text, and … my opinions begin to plummet.
Typos. Misspellings. Run-on sentences. Rambling, almost incoherent statements.
Criminy. How did this guy pass ninth-grade English?
The parts I can read without cringing and wishing I had a red pencil in hand are passionate, though, and surprisingly full of relevant facts and statistics. He spends a great deal of time outlining how human behavior has negatively affected our local ecosystems. He goes into explicit detail on the declining populations of a number of marine species and how they’re being impacted by waste, pollution, and overfishing practices. It’s all way more than I would have done. After all, the report is on ecotourism, not environmental decline. But I have to hand it to him, there is a lot of science. I even learn a few things while I read, things that make me want to check his sources and see if they’re real, including a number of statistics that suggest that ecotourism itself, if not carefully monitored, can be more detrimental than beneficial to the very environments visitors are hoping to conserve.
My estimation of Quint and his work is beginning to climb again, when I finally reach the part of the paper on our suggestions for creating a vibrant ecotourism industry in Fortuna Beach. I expect the next couple of pages to be familiar. After all, this is what we discussed, on the few occasions Mr. Chavez gave us time in class to work on the project together. I’m looking forward to reading the text version of my well-thought-out plan. The resort. The sea adventures. The beach parties. All the things that will have tourists flocking to Fortuna Beach in the name of fun, exploration, and a hearty dose of philanthropy.
Except … there’s none of that. He doesn’t talk about the resort. He leaves out my brilliant array of boating and snorkeling tours. There’s not even a word about the spa with all-natural, organic treatments!
Instead, according to Quint, tourists will come to Fortuna Beach in order to … volunteer at an animal rescue center.
I groan loudly and thump my head back against my headboard. My skull still smarts, a reminder of my fall the other night.
Seriously? In all our conversations, Quint was insistent that we should focus on the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center. He thought people who truly cared about helping our oceans would love to come to the center, help care for the animals, learn about what goes into rehabilitation, and discover beneficial lifestyle changes they can make going forward.
I rolled my eyes every time he brought it up, just like I’m rolling my eyes now. Why would our community put the money into building an animal rehab center when we can have a spa? We want to attract millionaires, not hippies!
I’m fuming as I skim the last few paragraphs and turn to the final page. At least he bothered to include a bibliography, though I notice he hasn’t credited the sources where he got the photography, which is schoolwork blasphemy in my opinion.
My eye catches on one of the sources and I go still. Unlike the other listings, which are mostly websites with a couple of magazines and books thrown in for good measure, Quint has included an interview subject.
Rosa Erickson, founder and owner of the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center. Interview conducted by Quint Erickson.
“Hold the phone,” I mutter, sitting up straighter. “The rescue center is a real place?”
I grab my phone off the charger on my nightstand and do a quick search. And there it is—no official website, but a business listing with an address a couple miles north of downtown. A bit more digging and that name pops up, too. Rosa Erickson.
“You jerk!” Dropping the phone onto the blankets, I launch out of bed and begin to pace. I don’t know if Rosa is Quint’s mom or aunt or grandma or what, but they must be related. How could he have neglected to mention that this rescue center he was so set on including is an actual, existing place? And that he has a personal connection to it? If I’d known that, I would have completely reworked my plan for the project. We could have focused on the impact of rescue centers in a community or done some cool hands-on demonstration of the sort of work the center does. We could have invited this Rosa person to come and talk to the class, or maybe even gotten permission to take our classmates on an awesome field trip.
We could have knocked this project out of the park!
How could Quint have kept this a secret? And, maybe more important, why? Why didn’t he tell me?
I stop pacing and stare ice-daggers at the report. I’d flipped it back to the front when I jumped up from the bed, and there’s that sticky note again. That C, mocking me.
I can understand Mr. Chavez’s note better, at least. There’s almost nothing between my street model and Quint’s paper that suggests we were a team, working together on one cohesive project. But that’s not my fault, and I refuse to let my GPA fall because Quint couldn’t deign to fill me in on this hugely relevant piece of information.
I grab my phone and check the address of the rescue center again.
I don’t care about Mr. Chavez and his rules. I’m going to redo this project and I’m going to make it so brilliant, he’ll have no choice but to award me the grade I truly deserve.
TWELVE
Dad is in the kitchen, sitting at the table by himself with a cup of coffee and the newest issue of Rolling Stone magazine.
He glances up when I come in, then checks the time on the stove. “Up before eight o’clock! Aren’t you on summer vacation?”
“Dad, when have you ever known me to sleep in past eight, vacation or otherwise?” I slide a slice of bread into the toaster. There’s a new bunch of bananas on the counter, but I don’t feel like mucking around with the blender this morning. “I’ve got things to do, you know.”
“Do you?” Dad says, with a slight chuckle. “Not too much, I hope. Your mom and I actually have a few ideas for how you can spend your time this summer.”
I frown at him, instantly on edge. “Like what?”
“Well…” He uses one of those subscription cards to mark his place and closes the magazine. “We were going to wait and discuss this with you at dinner, but since you asked. We thought it might be time for you and Jude to start helping out at the store.”
I stare at him. Helping out at the store?
The record store?
The next three months flash through my mind, full of clueless tourists who think that an old-school vinyl store is wow, such a novelty, versus the obnoxious music “aficionado” who likes to rant on and on about how digital music has no soul, man, versus the people who come in trying to sell their grandfather’s collection and can’t comprehend why we’ll only pay them fifty cents for a beat-up copy of Hotel California.
I stare at my dad and I know that laughing out loud is the wrong tactic, so instead I say simply, “Huh.”
That’s it. That’s all I can think to say. Huh.
My dad, sensing my utter disinterest, swiftly morphs from jolly and hopeful to chastising. “It’s a family business, you know. And you are a part of this family.”
“Yeah, no, I know,” I say quickly. “It’s just…” I stall, searching for an excuse. Any excuse. Any excuse other than I have zero desire to spend my summer stuck behind the counter of your dingy record store, smelling like mothballs and telling the regulars that, no, sorry, we haven’t gotten in any new hair metal since last week.
“It’s just … I was … thinking of volunteering,” I hear myself say.
Wait. What?
My dad lifts an eyebrow and says sardonically, “Volunteering? Where, the boardwalk?”
Indignation flares inside my chest. It can’t be that surprising that I would volunteer my time to a worthy cause. All through middle school I tutored a couple of kindergarteners and first graders after school, twice a week, which mostly just meant I would sit and read picture books to them, but still. I believe in good deeds and charity. I may not have had much time lately, but the idea that I would do something philanthropic shouldn’t garner suspicion.
“No, not the boardwalk,” I say, mocking his dismay. “It’s this place called, um, the Fortuna Beach Rescue Center. They take in distressed animals. Sea lions and stuff. And help them get better.” At least, I assume this is what they do. I skimmed most of those pages in Quint’s paper and still only have a vague notion of this rescue center’s purpose.
“Oh,” says Dad. I know this oh. I can hear pages of confusion written into that oh.
Oh, I didn’t realize you liked animals. Oh, it’s been so long since you talked about any sort of volunteering. Oh, I thought you were planning to spend your entire summer vacation with Ari, eating ice cream and counting the days until it becomes socially acceptable to start obsessing over college applications. (Not before the start of junior year, evidently, though I do have a checklist started for when the day comes.)