Page 4 of The Beach Shack Legacy

“I know. But in a cap and gown? Historic.”

The morning moved forward. Tyler went back to prep, still pink. Anna returned to the grill, and the first sizzle of butter on the flat-top cut through the room like a starting bell. Joey asked Bea two more questions about CalArts parking regulations and then went to check on a delivery that wasn’t due for another hour.

Margo sat at the counter, tote beside her, painting smock still on, drinking coffee in a kitchen she didn’t run anymore. She stayed for a second cup.

Stella leaned against the counter and looked up. Hundreds of shells pressed into plaster and paint, every one of them carried in by somebody who thought a morning was worth keeping.

Three weeks until graduation. Bea had CalArts and a roommate named Sage and a campus map she’d already memorized.

Stella had a caddy of sugar packets she hadn’t filled and a camera full of pictures of other people’s plans.

CHAPTER TWO

Bea drove the way she did everything—with enthusiasm and an incomplete understanding of the rules.

“That was a yellow,” Stella said, gripping the door handle as they sailed through the light at Broadway.

“It was lime green.” Bea adjusted the rearview mirror, which she used primarily to check her hair. “Yellow is a suggestion.”

“Lime green.” Stella braced a sneaker against the floor mat as the light went behind them.

“It had a green quality.” Bea took the curve without slowing down.

“Yellow is a warning.”

“Agree to disagree.”

They were in Anna’s car—a twelve-year-old Civic with a temperamental air conditioner and a passenger-side window that only went down three-quarters of the way. Bea had commandeered it after lunch, claiming that picking up caps and gowns was a milestone event that required independent transportation and a ceremonial coffee stop.

“Coffee,” Bea said, turned onto Forest without signaling, and decided which coffee place she wanted. “We’ll be late.”

“We’re not late. Pickup’s open all afternoon,” Stella said. “You drive like you just learned last year. We’ll be lucky to get there at all.”

“I did learn last year. That’s a perfectly normal amount of driving experience.” Bea turned into the drive-through lane and nearly took out a sandwich board. “What do you want?”

“Iced coffee. Large.”

“Boring.”

“But reliable.”

Bea ordered herself something with oat milk and lavender and a name that took fifteen seconds to say. Stella’s iced coffee came in a plain cup. They took Forest back up toward school with the windows cracked, the June air warm and sweet with jasmine from somebody’s yard.

The high school parking lot was busier than Stella expected. Graduation was still three weeks out, but the lot was full of seniors—in small groups, leaning against cars, sitting on the low wall by the gym. The energy was different from a regular school day. Louder. More electric. Everyone performing their own version of Almost Done.

Bea found a spot at the far end and they walked across the blacktop toward the gym, where a hand-lettered sign taped to the door read CAP & GOWN PICKUP—SENIORS ONLY.

Mr. Reeves was holding the gym door open with his hip when they came through it—dress shirt untucked, coffee in hand, the frazzled look of a teacher in the last three weeks of school. “Walsh. You’ve got your cap and gown. Where’s my proposal?”

“It’s coming.”

“It’s been coming for two weeks,” he said, one eyebrow cocked.

“It’s coming faster now.”

He pointed at her with his coffee cup and sloshed it. “This week, Stella.” And then he was gone, already calling after someone else down the hallway.

The line inside the gym stretched from the folding tables at the far wall back to the bleachers. Two women Stella didn’t recognize checked names off lists and handed out plastic-wrapped bundles—navy blue gown, matching cap, a tassel still in its cellophane sleeve. Lindsey was behind them at a third table, surrounded by stacks of paper and looking like she hadn’t sat down in six hours.