Page 62 of Instant Karma

I blink, realizing that Quint probably doesn’t know about the graffiti. “Oh. I was just thinking about this billboard I saw, advertising Blue’s Burgers? Someone had vandalized it, and I was just thinking how, you know, to me, eating a cheeseburger isn’t exactly a question of morality. But Morgan would probably disagree.”

“Oh, she would disagree with all the raging fires of hell,” says Quint. Then he shrugs. “I mean, she’s cool. I like Morgan a lot. She’s really smart and super fun to work with. But when it comes to the meat industry and the humane treatment of animals, she is”—he takes a second to search for the right word before settling on—“passionate.”

Something tells me he’s usingpassionateto describe Morgan the same way he useddedicatedto describe me.

“I guess that’s good to know,” I say. “Honestly, she mostly just seemed rude the other night.”

He grimaces. “She did, didn’t she? I know I shouldn’t apologize for other people or anything, but she’s not usually so disconnected. I guess there was, like, this big online petition thing going around, trying to get the government to shut down some local factory farms that have been caught using inhumane practices. So she was writing emails to all our local politicians and trying to blow it up on social media.”

Factory farms? Is this connected to the billboard incident, too?

But Blue’s Burgers gets their meat from cows that graze happily on fresh green grass all day. That’s what all their advertising has been telling us for years. They don’t have anything to do with some shady factory farms.

And even if they did, Morgan was still committing a crime. The universe still punished her for it.

Quint goes on, looking a tiny bit embarrassed when he adds, “Not that she couldn’t have stopped for two seconds to give your friend her attention or some applause or something. And you too, for that matter.”

I shrug, feeling suddenly self-conscious. Again, I think about his gaze on me, the way he’d toasted me with his Shirley Temple as I left the stage.

“You were really good, by the way.”

It takes a moment for Quint’s words to register.

“I don’t think I said that yet,” he continues. “But you were.” He’s suddenly intent on his nachos, like choosing a chip with the perfect amount of cheese-to-pork-to-jalapeño ratio is a life-or-death situation.

I blush again, but this time it spreads all the way down my throat and across my chest.

“Thanks,” I say quietly. I have to clear my throat. “But I know I don’t have a great singing voice. You don’t have to—”

“No, I know. That’s not…” He hesitates. “I mean, your voice is fine.”

“Fine,” I say with an erratic laugh, “is barely a step above tolerable.”

“That’s not what I meant. You were…” He trails off.

“I’m flattered,” I deadpan.

He shakes his head. “I’m just trying to say, you were…” He flicks his wrist through the air, trying to summon a word or maybe trying to convey his meaning through a flourished gesture, but the message isn’t translating.

I should probably appreciate the twin telepathy I have with Jude more than I do. Clearly, communication is hard.

“I was?”

His fingers stall, then clench briefly, before swooping down and grabbing a chip off the pile. “Never mind.”

My knee starts to bounce anxiously under the table. I find myself staring at him, even as he turns his head and fixes his attention resolutely on the sliver of beach that can be seen beyond the buildings on the other side of the street.

His cheeks. They look redder than before, too.

Which I amobviouslyimagining. Or maybe he forgot to put on sunblock—an amateur mistake here in Fortuna Beach.

That must be what it is.

“You just seemed really confident up there,” he says, speaking a little too fast all of a sudden.

“I’m a pretty confident person in general.”

“Believe me, I’ve noticed. But it was more that… you looked like you were having a lot of fun. That’s all.”

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