Maybe it’s because when she’s about to say something she knows I won’t like, Brigid tugs on her ear.
Just like Brook fiddles with her lip ring.
“What is it?” I ask.
She sighs, knowing she can’t hold it off. I know something’s up. “I’m giving it to Melissa.”
I sneak a look across the newspaper meeting room, where a perky girl in a fuzzy orange sweater taps away on her phone. With a cool expression, I turn back to Brook. “Melissa doesn’t write features.”
Melissa writes gossip columns on drunken college student mishaps from the campus police blotter. Melissa wouldn’t know an Oxford comma from a winky face.
“Well, she’s expressed an interest,” Brook’s pen tapping steadily increases. “Which, honestly, is more enthusiasm than you’ve had for the piece since the beginning of the semester.”
Ouch. That stings.
I hold my ground, however. “I’ve written the Valentine’s Day article the past two years.”
Brook sighs again. She drops into the chair next to mine and leans close. The bulk of our Monday morning meeting, where she checks updates on assignments and hands out new ones, is over. Most of the staff have already gone on to their next class, though a few of us stayed after. The small room in the back of the English building is reserved for newspaper staff only, so the space is ours to do with as we please, including work on articles or other homework in a quiet environment. While it’s conducive to writing, it’s not so much to staff reporters getting a set down.
“Listen,” Brook says. “Last year’s article was great—I didn’t even know free movie nights on campus were a thing. You totally saved my ass. My girlfriend would have killed me if we didn’t have V-Day plans. And your idea for this year’s article is good, too.”
“So what’s the problem with it now?”
“It’s just…” That lip ring wiggles again. “You and Ashton broke up.”
My mouth forms a flat line. “I fail to see how that has anything to do with my assignment.”
“Kennedy, you’re writing like you’re still dating him. I can’t put out an article for couples when the person who wrote it was recently dumped”—Stinging wound? You look like you could use some salt—“It would ruin the paper’s credibility.” She tilts her head at our fuzzy fellow staff member. “Melissa’s been on the single circuit for a while. She’s got a fantastic idea about dating apps that will appeal to our audience.”
I want to argue her logic. Want to stomp my foot and yell that Melissa will have to pry that article out of my cold, dead hands. But that comes from a deep place inside me. The one that still checks Ashton’s social media posts and cries over old photos of us.
“Fine,” I say through a clenched jaw.
Brook seems relieved I don’t put up much of a fight. Only because I understand where she’s coming from, and I respect her judgment. Even though I don’t agree with it.
“Perfect. Thanks, Kennedy.” She drinks her coffee. When I think she’ll leave to check on this week’s issue layout, she sets down her cup and leans in again. “Since this frees up some of your workload, I have something else I want you to take on instead.”
I click open a new document on my computer.
“You know the engineering building on the south quad, Prescott Hall?” I nod, taking notes. That side of campus has been a maze of orange cones and men in hard hats since my freshman orientation. “Construction’s due to finish at the end of the semester. Alpha Beta Beta announced their annual spring fundraiser proceeds will go to purchasing supplies for the building.”
I’m familiar with ABB. Ashton’s frat had had many mixers with them while we’d been together. Not only are they one of the more popular sororities at Lakewood, but they’re easily the wealthiest, with a generous alumni donation program and fundraisers out the wazoo.
Once, Ashton brought me as his date to an ABB mixer. It had been a full-out English high tea. Complete with bone china teapots, cups and saucers, polished silver spoons, dainty gourmet cucumber sandwiches, and fifty different types of boiled leaf juice.
I’m a coffee snob myself. As evidenced by the piping hot roast in my colorful coffee mug, flavored with butter rum and cinnamon—Rylie’s Christmas present had been a whole collection of syrups for our home kitchen. I’m still experimenting with them, and each new blend is a caffeinated delight.
“So you want me to cover the fundraiser?” I ask Brook.
She nods. “In part. The building’s named after some bigwig developer that used to go to school here. He donated a hefty amount for the honor—”
“Wait.” My fingers halt over the keyboard. I look at her. “Do you mean Nolan Prescott? The prosthetics software engineer?”
She nods, eyes wide with excitement.
“He’s a genius. And loaded.” Which is why Ashton had eagerly read every news journal item covering the guy.
“And,” Brook taps her pen on the desk between us. “His daughter’s a student here. She’s in ABB.”
I frown. Wealthy alumni’s daughter goes to school at university. Donates enough money to have a building named after him. Daughter’s sorority raises funds for said building. Reeks a lot like nepotism to me.
“I want you to write a profile on her,” Brook says. “Find out what it’s like being the child of a filthy stinking rich mastermind. We’ll run the article right after the fundraiser. Trust me, Kennedy, this is way more worthwhile to you than any ditzy holiday article.”
She stands, taking her coffee and her red pen with her. Then, she asks, “Oh, by the way, what’s the status on the rest of the football roundups?”
I avoid her gaze by picking up my coffee.
After the regular football season ends (and depending on if the Lakewood Leopards make it to championships—which they had, though they’d lost the semifinal), The Weekly runs a series called Leopard Leap, a collection of interviews from the entire football team. Each
