Nothing More to Tell Page 3

  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, aiming for a nonchalant tone. I don’t need Charlotte wondering why I’m suddenly incapable of performing the simplest tasks. “Considering she doesn’t live here anymore.”

  Charlotte lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe she moved back.”

  “Too bad for her,” I say, handing over a perfect coffee. “There you go.”

  “Thank you, Tripp,” Charlotte says, turning away without paying. She knows I’ll put it on Shane’s card. She heads back to the table but doesn’t pick up her coat from the empty chair. Instead she just stands there with an expectant smile until one of the guys sitting next to Shane moves over so she can take his seat.

  Charlotte doesn’t give Shane an inch of space. She never has, since they became an official couple at the end of eighth grade. He used to be just as Velcro’d to her, but lately I see signs that all that togetherness might be starting to wear on him. Like now, when his mouth tightens as Charlotte settles herself beside him. But then he relaxes into a welcoming smile, and I wonder if I’m imagining things.

  It’s not like I’d ever ask. Shane, Charlotte, and I have been friends for almost four years, but we’re surface friends. We talk about school, or TikTok, or sports, or Charlotte’s favorite subject, which is Shane-and-Charlotte. There’s a much longer list of things we don’t talk about, including the unspoken rule that we’ve lived by since eighth grade.

  We never, ever talk about what happened in the woods that day.

  I’m standing in the birch grove in the woods behind Saint Ambrose on Wednesday afternoon, music blaring through my earbuds as I watch my breath fog the air while I wait for Shane Delgado. It’s not quite mid-April, one of those unseasonably cold days that feel like an extension of winter, and the trees aren’t fully green yet. I’m not sure the timing is right to, as Ms. Singh put it, “Create a leaf collection showcasing the diversity of species in the area,” but oh well. Nobody asked for my opinion.

  My three-ring binder is thicker than I need for a twelve-leaf project, its plastic sleeves full of leaves I plucked from my backyard this morning. I figured I might as well get a head start, because I’ve been Shane’s lab partner since January and I know for a fact that I’ll end up doing all the work.

  Shane is the type of Saint Ambrose kid who skates by because he doesn’t have to worry about hanging on to a scholarship. He doesn’t have to worry about anything. He’s so relaxed, in fact, that he’s known for taking the occasional nap in our class coatroom. Teachers even joke about it, in a way they never would if I were the one falling asleep whenever I felt like it.

  I know it’s pointless to be jealous of somebody like Shane, but today I am. Today I wish I were him—or anyone, really, except me.

  My interview after Mr. Larkin’s murder was the first time I’d ever been inside a police station. We’d frantically called our parents—well, Shane’s parents, even though they were at work in Boston, because everybody knew instinctively that my dad wasn’t equipped to deal with the situation. The Delgados contacted the Sturgis Police, and we all met up in the Saint Ambrose parking lot so we could lead the officers to Mr. Larkin. Everything was a blur, so surreal that I barely remember it, until we were brought to the station to give our statements.

  When my dad showed up, I was taken into a small room, away from Shane and Charlotte. I understood, even then, that the police needed to know if our stories matched up. I pushed the image of Mr. Larkin out of my mind and did my best to answer Officer Patz’s questions. I thought back then that he was in his forties, like my dad, because most adults looked middle-aged to me. Especially ones with receding hairlines. I learned later that Officer Patz was just twenty-five then, the same age as Mr. Larkin.

  “Why were you in the woods, Tripp?”

  “Doing a leaf collection project for science class. We’re supposed to identify twelve species and mount the leaves in our binders.” I’d brought my binder with me to the station. Someone had taken it when I’d arrived and then, about half an hour later, given it back.

  “Why were you with Shane and Charlotte?”

  “Shane’s my lab partner, and Charlotte is his friend.”

  “Why didn’t they have binders like yours?”

  Because they knew they could dump all the work on me and I’d do it. That was the truth, but I didn’t say it, because Saint Ambrose scholarship kids are supposed to be grateful, not bitter. What I actually said was “They forgot.”

  “Where was Charlotte’s partner?”

  I couldn’t get away from Brynn Gallagher; even when she didn’t show up, she was there. “I don’t know” is all I said, and he didn’t push it.

  “Did you, Shane, and Charlotte ever separate? Lose sight of one another?”

  Before my mother left, she rarely talked to me like a parent. Lisa Marie left the basics of life, like how to brush my teeth or prepare a bowl of cereal, to my father. But sometimes she liked to ramble about things she found interesting when I was nearby. It was more like she was talking near me than to me, but I still soaked it up. More than once, she said, “The world would be a better place if more people knew when to stop talking. Everyone says too much, all the time. Ask them a simple question, and they’ll give you their entire life story. No one cares! Just say yes or no. It doesn’t even matter which one is true.”

  I rubbed the callus on my thumb with my forefinger and said, “No.”

  “Not even for a minute or two?”

  “No.”

  “And how did you happen across Mr. Larkin?”

  This was the important part, I knew, so I took a few seconds to organize my thoughts before answering. “We were near the edge of Shelton Park—you know, where people go to watch birds sometimes? There was this huge tree branch that had fallen, like it had been struck by lightning or something. Charlotte said it would be easy to find good leaves on it. So we walked toward it, and then we saw something white behind the branch. It was a sneaker.”

  “Did you know right away that it was a sneaker?”

  “No, I thought maybe it was trash. A paper bag or something. But then we got closer—”

  “How much closer?”

  “I don’t know. Close enough to tell it was a sneaker.”

  “Okay. And then what?”

  “Then we saw Mr. Larkin.”

  We spent a lot of time on that part. It felt like hours, Officer Patz asking question after question about Mr. Larkin and the space around him. Did we know he was dead right away? Did we touch him? Did we see or hear anyone nearby?

  “There was a rock next to him. It was big and sharp and—it had blood on it.”

  “How did you know it was blood?”

  “It was red, and it…looked wet.”

  “Did you touch it?”

  “Shane did. He picked the rock up and turned it over, and got blood all over his hands. Some got on his pants too.”

  “Did you think that was a good idea, to pick up the rock?”

  A long pause, while I stared at four deep, even scratches on the table’s surface and imagined they’d been put there by a demon claw. Some creature the Sturgis Police had tried to capture and hold but couldn’t.

  “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t really think about it at all.”

  “Anything else you want to tell me, Tripp?”

  “No. There’s nothing more to tell.”

  When we were finally done, Officer Patz thanked me and sent me home with my father. Dad heard later, through the grapevine, that all three of us had said exactly the same thing. Everyone was sympathetic about how traumatic the experience of finding the dead body of our teacher must have been, and our neighbors kept dropping off casseroles and desserts for me and Dad. They hadn’t done anything like that four years before, when my mother had taken off. I guess it’s not much of a tragedy when people choose to leave.

  Then, less than a week later, I got called back to the police station.

  “Tripp, are you aware that money was stolen from your school recently?”

  Of course I was aware. The money had gone missing at the end of March, and it had caused an uproar at Saint Ambrose. It was practically the only thing Brynn had been writing about in the Sentinel for weeks.

  “Yeah. It was for the eighth-grade field trip to New York.”

  “Do you know how much it was?”

  “No. A lot, probably. Now the scholarship kids can’t go, so nobody gets to.” This had caused a lot of division in our class, between the paying kids and the scholarship kids. Saint Ambrose liked to pretend we were all the same, but everyone knew who was who.

  “Did you know Mr. Larkin was heading up the school’s investigation of that theft?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Tripp, I’m going to share some information with you that recently came to light. The money stolen from your school was found in Charlotte Holbrook’s locker last Friday during a routine search at Saint Ambrose. What do you think about that?”