I set the application down on the counter I just cleaned at Brightside Bakery and study the words at the top of the page. The Kendrick Scholarship will be awarded to the most well-rounded student in the Saint Ambrose senior class, as chosen by school administrators. I scan the rest of the document, but there’s no definition of “well-rounded”—nothing about grades, financial need, or work experience.
“This is pointless,” I say to the empty room. Well, mostly empty. The owner’s dog, Al, a ridiculously fluffy Samoyed, thumps his tail at my words. “Don’t be happy. We’re not happy,” I tell him, but he just drools in response. Happily.
I exhale in frustration as Brightside’s owner, Regina Young, comes from the kitchen with a fresh tray of Pop-Tart cakes. They aren’t much like the real thing except for their shape and size, and the rainbow sprinkles on top. Regina makes them from vanilla cake, cream cheese frosting, and her secret-recipe jam filling, which I would eat by the bowlful if she let me.
“Why aren’t we happy?” she asks, setting the tray on the counter beside the cash register. Al leaps up at the sound of her voice and races for
the counter, then sits quivering beside it in anticipation of a treat. Which he never gets. I wish I were that optimistic about anything in life.
I slide off my stool to help her load the cakes into the display case. Regina finished making this batch early, so we have time before people start lining up at four-thirty. I’m not the only one in Sturgis who’s obsessed with these cakes. “That Kendrick Scholarship is a joke,” I tell her.
She rolls her shoulders and adjusts the kerchief she uses to cover her short twists while she’s baking, then steps back to give me access to the case door. “How so?”
The sweet, fruity smell of the cakes hits me full force, and my mouth waters. “It goes to the most ‘well-rounded’ student in the senior class,” I say, lifting my fingers in air quotes before pulling a pair of plastic gloves from a box beneath the counter. “But they don’t define it, so basically Grizz will just give the scholarship to whoever he likes best. Which means I’m screwed, since he hates me. There’s no point in even trying.” I start arranging the Pop Tart cakes in neat rows, making sure they’re exactly one- quarter inch apart.
Regina leans against the counter. “You know what I like most about you, Tripp?”
“My passion for precise measurements?” I ask, squinting at the display. “Your can-do attitude,” she says dryly.
I grin despite my rapidly souring mood. “I only speak the truth.”
“Go on, then. Keep talking,” Regina says. “Get all that negativity out of your system. Then fill out the application, send it in, and hope for the best.”
I make a face to hide the fact that I kind of like when she sounds like a mom. Well, not my mom. The last postcard I got from Lisa Marie Talbot, seven months ago, was of the casino in Las Vegas where she works. All it said on the back was Full of craps!
“I will,” I grumble. “Eventually.” Then I clamp my lips together before I can spew more complaints that Regina has already heard.
She can read my mind, though. As she changes the roll of paper in the cash register, she adds, “Offer stands, you know.”
Every time I moan about the fact that whatever financial aid package I manage to scrape together for college probably won’t cover room and board, Regina reminds me that she and her husband have a spare room, now that only two of their sons live at home. “I know it’s still Sturgis,” she said. “But if you need a change of pace, just say the word.”
I got a similar offer from my friend Shane, except it was more along the lines of “Dude, let’s just live in my parents’ apartment in the South End when we graduate.” When I took him seriously, though, and asked when we could move in, he remembered that it’s rented out. “But the place in Madrid is free,” he said. Like Spain and Massachusetts are interchangeable to someone who doesn’t even have a passport.
Whatever. It’s not as though I actually want to live with Shane. But Regina…maybe. After years of just me and my dad, hell yeah I need a change of pace. But I was hoping my next step would involve a new town too.
When I first heard about the Kendrick Scholarship, I had hope. It’s brand-new, funded through a grant from a rich alumnus, and it’s for twenty- five thousand dollars a year. For four years. That would cover some state schools, and get me close to a full ride at UMass Amherst, which is where I’d really like to go. I told my guidance counselor it’s because of their Exploratory Track program, so I could “consider potential majors based on my interests and aspirations.” The real reason isn’t admissions-essay- friendly, though: because it’s big enough, and far away enough, that I could maybe start to feel like a new person there.
“What makes you think Mr. Griswell doesn’t like you?” Regina asks, sidestepping Al to swipe a streak of dust off the display case front. All her kids went to Saint Ambrose, so she’s familiar with Grizz’s nickname, and still hyper-plugged into the PTA. Half the time she knows more about what’s going on at school than I do.
“Because of the shelves.”
“Oh, come on now.” Regina plants her hands on her hips. “He cannot possibly hold a disagreement that happened with a former contractor years ago against that contractor’s child.”
“He can and he does,” I say.
When I was younger, my dad used to occasionally do carpentry projects at Saint Ambrose. In eighth grade, Grizz asked him to make built- in bookshelves for his office, which my dad did. But when he finished and gave Grizz the bill, Grizz insisted he’d never agreed to that price and would only pay three-quarters of it. They argued for a few days, and when it was clear Grizz wouldn’t budge, Dad made his move. He went into school over the weekend, dismantled the entire shelving system, and repainted the wall like he’d never been there. Except for the note he left for Grizz: Changed my mind about taking the job.
That’s the thing about my father; he’s Mr. Mellow until you push him too far, and then it’s like a switch has been flipped. Grizz was lucky that all he got was some unbuilt shelves, but he didn’t see it that way. He was beyond pissed, so there’s no way he’s handing Junior Talbot’s kid a hundred thousand dollars for college.
“Okay, so maybe Mr. Griswell isn’t your number one fan,” Regina says. “But you know he’s not the only decision-maker right? Ms. Kelso’s got a big say. Maybe the biggest. And hmm, let me see.” She taps her chin, pretending to be lost in thought. “Wasn’t she just in here asking you for a favor the other day? A favor that you foolishly declined to provide?”
“No,” I say.
“Oh, come on, Tripp.” “I’m not doing it.”
“You’re saying no to free college?”
“I’m saying no to that committee. It’s too weird,” I protest. Regina folds her arms and glares. “It would be weird for me to help make a memorial garden for someone I…” I pause, swallowing hard. “Someone I found.”
I’ve spent years trying to forget that day in the woods with Mr. Larkin, although not for the reasons Regina might think. So I guess I can’t blame her for believing that the Larkin Memorial Garden Committee is a good opportunity, and not a total fucking nightmare.
“It’s not weird. It’s respectful and helpful,” Regina says. “And maybe healing.” Her voice turns as gentle as Regina ever gets, which isn’t much, but still. Points for effort. “You deserve to heal as much as anyone else, Tripp.”
I don’t answer her, because my throat might as well be filled with cement. I can handle a lot, but not Regina Young earnestly telling me what I deserve when she doesn’t know shit about the things I’ve done. “Besides, you know damn well Ms. Kelso needs some muscle,” she adds. “There’s heavy work involved, and you Saint Ambrose boys aren’t famous for filling up the volunteer committees.” She steps back behind the counter and points a finger at me. “So stop whining and do it, or I’ll fire your pasty ass.”
“You’re bluffing,” I say, although I’m honestly not sure. And I’d hate to lose this job. Regina pays better than anyone else in Sturgis, and Brightside is kind of like a second home. One that’s a lot cleaner and better- smelling than my first home.
The bell on the front door jingles, and a half dozen guys wearing yellow-and-blue-striped jerseys beneath their parkas tumble inside, laughing and shoving at one another. Fall lacrosse season might be over, but indoor league is still going strong. “What’s good, T?” Shane calls in a booming voice, dropping his bag beside one of the large window tables. Then he gives my boss his most charming smile. “Hey, Regina. We’ll take all the Pop-Tart cakes, please.”
Regina shakes her head. “You get two apiece and that’s it,” she says as the other guys start grabbing napkins and drinks. “I’m not running out before my regulars get here.”
Shane puts his hand over his chest like he’s clutching a wound, shaking a strand of dark hair out of his eyes. My father calls Shane “Ronaldo,” after some European soccer star Dad claims he looks like. “How, after all this time, are we not considered regulars?” Shane demands.
“Two each,” Regina repeats sternly, her mouth lifting slightly at one corner. Even though Shane is always on his best behavior around her, she can never decide whether to be amused or annoyed by him.
“One day,” Shane sighs, flopping into a chair. “One glorious day, you’ll let me have all the cake I want, and my life will be complete.”
“Your life is too complete as it is,” I say. He grins and flips me off.
Regina comes up beside me and tugs at my sleeve. “I need to get some muffins into the oven,” she says. “Put Al in the back, would you?” Technically Al isn’t supposed to be in the dining area, so even though nobody in Sturgis cares—including Regina’s cop regulars—he always goes into the storage room once it gets crowded.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, with a salute that she ignores as she shoves the kitchen door open and lets it close behind her. I lure Al away with the promise of a cookie, which he falls for every time, and offer a bowl of water as a consolation prize. Then I get back behind the counter and ring up a giant order on a bunch of different bank cards.
As soon as I finish and everyone is sitting down to eat, the door jingles again, and a girl steps inside. “Playtime’s over, Shaney,” I hear one of the guys mutter. “Your wife is here.”
Shane’s grin only slips for a second before he calls out “Hey, babe” and accepts a kiss from Charlotte. “Want some cake?”
“No, I’ll just get coffee,” Charlotte says. She’s wearing a black coat with a lot of buttons and straps, and takes her time undoing them all before draping it over the back of an empty chair.
“Black with honey?” I ask as she approaches.
She rests her hip against the counter. “You know me well.”
“You realize that’s a weird combination, right? I’ve been working here almost two years, and you’re the only person I’ve ever met who puts honey in their coffee.”
Charlotte’s lips curve into a smile. “I like to stand out.”
She has no problem doing that. Charlotte is the kind of girl who’s heard You should be a model her entire life. No awkward stage, ever, for Charlotte Holbrook. It’s not like there’s any one thing about her that’s extraordinary. When Regina asked me to describe Shane’s girlfriend, I said, “She’s pretty. Brown hair, blue eyes, a little taller than you.” Then Charlotte walked in, and Regina shook her head.
“Pretty,” Regina muttered under her breath. “That girl is pretty like Mount Everest is high.”
While I get Charlotte’s coffee ready, she says, “Did you check the intranet today?”
“No. It’s winter break,” I remind her.
“I know, but class rosters went up, and I wanted to see who I’ll be spending my final semester with.” I just grunt, and she lightly swats my arm. “Some of us care about things like that, you know. Anyway, guess whose name I saw?”
“Whose?” I ask, uncapping a bottle of honey and squeezing it over Charlotte’s cup.
“Brynn Gallagher.” Charlotte’s eyes drift toward Shane’s table as he lets out a loud laugh, so she doesn’t notice me almost drop the honey. I don’t think Charlotte knows that Brynn and I used to be friends; in all the years that Charlotte and I have hung out, we’ve discussed Brynn Gallagher exactly never.
“What?”
“Brynn Gallagher,” Charlotte repeats, returning her attention to me.
Then she frowns. “Tripp, that’s too much.”
Oh shit. It’s honey overload in Charlotte’s coffee. “Sorry,” I say, dumping the whole thing out so I can start over. There’s no point trying to convince her to accept the extra sweetness; Charlotte is rigid about her coffee-to-honey ratio. “Did you say ‘Brynn Gallagher’?”
“I said it twice,” Charlotte says, eyes narrowed as she watches my second attempt.
“That’s weird,” I say, trying to sound casual. I don’t want Charlotte to start questioning why I suddenly can’t manage the simplest tasks. “Considering she doesn’t live here anymore.”
Charlotte gives a small shrug. “Maybe she moved back.”
“Too bad for her,” I reply, handing over a perfectly made coffee. “There you go.”
“Thanks, Tripp,” Charlotte says, turning away without paying. She knows I’ll charge it to Shane’s card. She heads back to the table but doesn’t pick up her coat from the empty chair. Instead, she stands there with an expectant smile until one of the guys next to Shane scoots over to make room for her.
Charlotte doesn’t give Shane an inch of breathing room. She never has, not since they officially became a couple at the end of eighth grade. He used to be just as glued to her side, but lately, I’ve noticed that all the constant togetherness might be getting to him. Like right now, when his mouth tightens as Charlotte sits beside him. But then his expression softens into a welcoming smile, and I start to wonder if I’m just imagining things.
It’s not something I’d ever bring up. Shane, Charlotte, and I have been friends for almost four years, but we keep things light. We talk about school, TikTok, sports, or Charlotte’s favorite topic: Shane-and-Charlotte. There’s a much longer list of things we avoid, including the unspoken rule we’ve lived by since eighth grade.
We never, ever talk about what happened in the woods that day.
