He had that right. “How do you know?” I asked. “I didn’t think you and Kennedy were friends.”

“I’ve had PE with him since kindergarten.”

Sawyer appeared beside our booth with a tray. He wore a Crab Lab T-shirt. A white waiter’s apron was tied around his waist. His blond hair seemed even brighter than usual in the dimly lit restaurant. He set a diet soda in front of me and a glass of iced tea in front of Brody.

“Thanks,” I said. “We missed you at the beach yesterday.”

“You could have found me right here.” He moved to the next table.

Brody squeezed a lemon wedge into his tea. “Did Sawyer take our drink orders?”

I thought about it. “I guess not. I always get a soda, though.” I tasted it. “Diet.”

“And I always get tea.” Brody tasted his. “Sweet tea. I guess he’s cut out the taking-your-order step.”

“Does that make him a good waiter or a very bad waiter?”

We both laughed. When we couldn’t sustain that anymore, we both looked toward Sawyer as if he would give us something else to say. Especially after I’d shared how self-conscious I was about being quiet, I couldn’t run out of words now! I wanted to talk about Kennedy some more, and then again, I didn’t.

Suddenly I was aware of how Brody and me sitting together in this dark booth would look to anyone else from school. I reminded myself that we had a perfectly legitimate excuse to be here together.

I dredged up the courage to say, “I wish I’d applied for yearbook editor.”

“Really?” Brody asked.

“Yeah . . .” I examined the paper placemat. “Maybe Kennedy would have gotten the position anyway, but I avoided even trying. It would be torture to have to tell people what to do and deal with them if they didn’t.”

Brody nodded. He knew plenty about that from being quarterback.

“But I didn’t apply,” I said. “And now Kennedy is in charge of the yearbook. He’s in charge of me. I thought he had an eye for design, which is what made me like him in the first place. It turns out that he just talks the talk. I cringe every time he sets one of the photos I worked so hard on at some weird angle, or makes it so small that the detail is lost, or so large that the resolution won’t support the image.”

“I don’t know anything about that stuff,” Brody said, “but even I can tell you’re great at what you do. Everybody is saying you take terrific photos for the Superlatives. You have a reputation for making people look better than they do in real life.”

I laughed. “It’s called lighting.”

“You shouldn’t downplay it,” he said. “People will keep these yearbooks. When they show them to their kids in twenty years, they may not recall posing for the photos, but they’ll see your results. You’re framing how they’ll remember themselves forever.”

You always make me feel better, I thought.

“I guess you’re majoring in art in college,” he said.

“That was my plan,” I said. “My mom told me a few minutes ago that I should drop my photography jobs, forget college, and help her run the B & B.”

“No,” Brody said in the authoritative tone that was becoming familiar.

“ ‘No’ what?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “that’s all wrong for you. People who cater to tourists around here are outgoing. You like meeting people, but only from behind a camera lens. You don’t want to interact with strangers constantly. That would be a nightmare for you.”

I laughed at how right he was. “My mom says it would look quaint, just what Yankees are looking for, a mother-daughter B & B.”

“Who cares how it looks?”

“She does,” I said. “And, hey—speaking of how things look—that shot I snapped of you and Will and Noah at the 5K will be on the front page of the local paper tomorrow.”

“Wow!” he exclaimed.

“Yeah! I’m sure it’s because you’re a local celebrity.”

He gave the restaurant a parade wave.

“But I was so much prouder of that picture than I’ve ever been of some sweet beach scene. I’ve studied form and color and setting up the perfect static shot, but what really excites me is catching people in action, the way a photo can tell the story of who they are. Maybe I shouldn’t go into art after all. I could try photojournalism.”

He opened his hands. “That would be great. Why don’t you do it?”

I shrugged. “You have to be brave to do that. You can’t stand on the sidelines. You wade into the thick of things. Otherwise you won’t get the picture. Tia says I have an adventurous spirit without any wiles. I have the instinct to get myself into trouble, but not the courage to stay there or the wherewithal to get out.”

“Tia said that?”

“Well, not in so many words.”

He sat back. “That doesn’t sound like something Tia would say to you. It sounds really discouraging.”

“Oh, you’re right. She just laughs at me for being adventurous, or for wanting to be adventurous. But I’m not daring like her.”

Sawyer reappeared beside us with an even bigger tray than before. He set my plate in front of me—a green salad with shrimp, avocado, and mango: yum—and served Brody a huge fish sandwich with grilled vegetables. There was no “Does everything look okay?” from Sawyer. He tucked his tray under his arm and headed for the kitchen.