Nathan Barrett had made a promise to himself at the start of term: no more doing Grant Miller’s homework. No shortcuts. No favors. Just focus.

For the first few days at Ridgefield Academy, it was easy. Grant hadn’t returned yet, and Nathan had the dorm room to himself. He studied quietly, stayed ahead in Latin and French, and for once, felt like he was starting the term on solid ground.

Then Monday came, and so did Grant.

“Barrett!” Grant dropped his suitcase with a thud and grinned like he owned the place. “Tell me you missed me.”

Nathan looked up from his textbook. “Sure. Like a stomach bug.”

“Still sharp,” Grant said, tossing his coat on the bed. “Hey, how bad is French this year?”

“Depends how much you plan on actually doing,” Nathan replied.

Grant pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. “We’ve got a paragraph due tomorrow, right? Want to help a friend out?”

Nathan leaned back in his chair. “I already wrote mine.”

Grant gave him a look. “And?”

“And I’m not writing yours too.”

Grant laughed. “Who said anything about writing the whole thing? Just get me started. You know how Hugo is—he won’t even read it if the first sentence is trash.”

“I’m serious,” Nathan said. “No more.”

That night after dinner, Grant hung back. The room was dim, the desk lamp throwing a yellow circle over Nathan’s notes. Grant sat on the bed and folded his arms.

“I’m just asking for five lines,” he said. “You’ve done it before.”

Nathan didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the corner of his desk, where his finished paragraph sat. Clean, neat, his name at the top.

“I said I wouldn’t.”

Grant didn’t press. “Alright,” he said, after a beat. “Guess I’ll figure something out.”

The next day, Mr. Hugo handed back the assignments. “Barrett, well written,” he said. “Miller.”

Grant’s paper was blank.

“See me after class,” Hugo said curtly.

At lunch, Grant dropped his tray beside Nathan’s. “So, that went well.”

Nathan kept eating.

Grant shrugged. “Look, I’m not mad. I get it. You’re doing the whole ‘new leaf’ thing.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

They sat in silence for a bit. Grant poked at his potatoes. “Still it sucks taking the hit.”

“You could’ve written something. Even if it wasn’t great.”

“Yeah.” He paused. “Maybe.”

A few days later, another writing assignment was posted. This time, Nathan didn’t say anything. He worked through his own outline quietly, head down. Across the room, Grant stared at a blank page.

After a long while, Grant looked up. “How do you say ‘we used to visit’ again?”

Nathan didn’t move for a moment. Then he said, “Nous rendions visite.”

Grant nodded and scribbled it down.

Nathan turned back to his work. He didn’t write the sentence—but he hadn’t stayed silent either.

Just enough.

_{“Just Enough” by Bright Bunny Books © 2025. Retelling of Chapter 5 of Straight Forward by Lucy Ellen Guernsey, originally published in 1859.}

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“Just Enough” is intended for middle and high school students, particularly those in grades 7–10, who can relate to academic pressure, peer influence, and making values-based decisions.