“Please. They’re huge,” I say. “Plus, his head is a weird shape. It’s, like … square.”
“Biased much?” mutters Ari, shooting me a teasing look that crawls straight beneath my skin.
“I’m just saying.”
I won’t relent on this point. It’s true that Quint is not unattractive. I know this. Anyone with eyes knows this. But there’s no elegance to his features. He has boring, nondescript, basic brown eyes, and while I’m sure he must have eyelashes, they’ve never once caught my attention. And with his perpetual suntan, short wavy hair, and that idiotic grin of his, he pretty much looks like every other surfboard-loving boy in town. Which is to say, completely forgettable.
I put my fingers back on the keyboard, refusing to let Quint or karaoke or anything else derail my focus. This is the last homework assignment of sophomore year. I can do this.
“Hey, Quint!” yells Jude, his hand shooting up into the air in greeting.
My jaw falls. “You traitor!”
Jude turns to me, grimacing. “Sorry, Sis. He caught my eye. I panicked.”
I take in a slow breath through my nostrils and dare to glance toward the front of the restaurant. Sure enough, Quint and his friend are making their way toward us. Quint is grinning, as per usual. He’s like one of those dopey puppies that are incapable of realizing when they’re surrounded by cat people. They just assume that everyone is happy to see them, all the time.
“Jude, what’s up?” says Quint. His attention swoops to me and he takes in my textbook and computer, his smile hardening just a tiny bit. “Prudence. Hard at work, as always.”
“Quality work doesn’t just appear out of thin air,” I say.
He snaps his fingers. “You know, I used to think that, but after a year of working with you, I’m beginning to wonder.”
My eyes narrow. “Sure was nice running into you.” My sarcasm is so thick I almost choke on it. I look back down at the screen. It takes me a second to remember what the assignment was.
“Quint,” says Jude, “this is our friend Araceli. Araceli, Quint.”
“Hey,” says Quint. I look up through my lashes as they bump fists. With Quint initiating, it seems like the smoothest, most natural greeting in the world, even though I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ari fist-bump anyone before. “Nice to meet you, Araceli. Cool name. You don’t go to our school, do you?”
“No. I go to St. Agnes,” she answers. “And you can just call me Ari.”
I make a face, but my head is still lowered so nobody can see it.
“And, oh, this is Morgan. She goes to the community college in Turtle Cove.” Quint gestures to the girl, who has lingered a few steps away and is watching the stage with something akin to dismay. When Quint says her name, her focus swivels to us and she produces an uncomfortable smile.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, polite but lukewarm.
There’s a round of awkward heys and hellos, but Morgan’s attention has already returned to the stage, where someone is singing a country song, crooning about cold beer and fried chicken.
“Morgan says the food here is great,” says Quint. “She wants me to try … what are they again? Ton … Tol…” He looks questioningly at Morgan.
“Tostones,” she says, returning her attention to her phone. She looks angry as she punches the screen with her thumbs, and I have a vision of some nasty text war happening between her and a boyfriend.
“They’re really good,” says Jude.
Quint gestures at the karaoke setup. “I wasn’t expecting dinner to come with free entertainment.”
“Neither were we,” I mutter.
“It’s a new thing the restaurant is trying.” Ari pushes the song binder toward the edge of the table. “Think you’ll sing?”
Quint laughs, sounding almost self-deprecating. “Naw. I’ll have mercy on the poor people of the boardwalk. Would hate to scare away the tourists so early in the season.”
“Everyone thinks they’re terrible at singing,” says Ari, “but very few people are really as bad as they think they are.”
Quint cocks his head to one side and looks from Ari to me. “I’m sorry. You’re friends with her?”
“Excuse me?” I say. “What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “I’m just so used to your criticism, it’s strange to have someone give me the benefit of the doubt.”
“Hey, look!” yells Jude. “It’s Carlos! Just in time to prevent a painfully awkward moment.”
Carlos passes by, carrying a tray of empty glasses. “Just checking on my favorite table. Are you guys joining them? Can I get you some drinks?”
“Uh…” Quint glances at Morgan. “Sure. A drink sounds good. What are these?” He gestures to our matching reddish beverages.
“Shirley Temples,” says Ari.
Quint looks confused. “That’s an actress, right?”
Ari perks up. “Have you never had one? I mean, yes, she was an actress, a kid star. But the drink … You should try one. Think joy in a glass.”
“Think diabetes and a severe lack of dignity,” mutters Morgan, still engrossed in her texting rant.
Quint casts her a look that’s almost amused, tinged with something like pity. It annoys me that I recognize this look. That it’s been directed at me almost every day since the start of the school year.
“I just realized how much you and Prudence would probably get along,” he says.
Morgan glances up, confused, and I know she’s wondering who Prudence is, but instead of asking, she says, “Why did that sound like an insult?”
Quint shakes his head. “Long story.” He nods at Carlos. “We’ll take two Shirley Temples.”
“No. Pass,” says Morgan. “I’ll have an iced coffee with coconut milk.”
“Sure thing,” says Carlos. “You’ll be joining my regulars here?”
Quint eyes our booth. It’s a big booth—could probably fit up to eight people if they wanted to feel cozy. We could definitely fit two more.
But his gaze lands on me and the icy glare I’m sending his way and he miraculously gets the hint. “Naw, we’re actually going to…” He turns. The restaurant is filling fast, but there’s a two-top table right by the stage that’s just been abandoned, half a basket of tortilla chips and some crumpled napkins left behind. “Is that table free?”
“Sure is. I’ll get it bused for you.” Carlos gestures at the songbook. “Don’t be shy, kids. We need more singers. Get those songs put up, all right? I’m looking at you, Pru.”
Quint makes a sound in his throat, something between disbelief and amusement. It makes my skin prickle. “Funny,” he says as Carlos heads toward the bar.
“What’s funny?” I ask.
“The idea of you singing karaoke.”
“I can sing,” I say defensively, before feeling compelled to add, “Sort of.”
“I’m sure you can,” Quint says, smiling—because when is he not smiling? “It’s just hard to imagine you loosening up enough to do it.”