The Secret Recipe for Moving On Karen Bischer (read my book .txt) 📖

when I first transferred back in January. There are roughly twelve hundred kids at RHHS, which is like three hundred in the senior class alone—and yet she can recall a minor conversation she had with me.

Mrs. Gillroy smiles. “It’s my job. Also, I loved how passionate you were about meteorology. Have you thought about joining the school TV station to get some experience being in front of the camera?”

“I have a part-time job,” I remind her. “You know, to help pay for college.”

She nods. “I’m aware of that, but the TV station films in the morning and they wouldn’t need you every day after school. Surely you could fit it into your schedule?”

“Possibly. But they already have a weatherperson,” I say. “Also, I want to do the more scientific side of meteorology over broadcasting.”

“Still, you may end up wanting to be in front of the camera later, and you can pick up some helpful skills there,” Mrs. Gillroy says. “Even if you end up in the research aspect, you never know if you’ll be called upon to be an expert on TV someday.”

I know she’s right about this. But the thing is, I’m kind of terrified of being on camera. The idea of kids being like, “Oh my god, it’s the globe-kicking cold fish!” makes me want to puke.

Mrs. Gillroy is staring at me, so I say, “I’ll think about it,” to get her off my back a bit.

“Good,” she says, then consults a folder on her desk. “Ah, so you’re here to switch a class.”

“I want to switch out of Life Skills,” I say, and she immediately raises her eyebrows in surprise.

“That’s intriguing. It’s one of our most popular electives. Is it not demanding enough for you?’

Don’t try reverse psychology on me, lady. Not today.

“I’m just not sure I need to understand budgeting and cooking and sewing and all that at seventeen,” I say, knowing it probably sounds completely lame.

Mrs. Gillroy smiles. “If you’re not going to learn it now, when are you? Being on your own in college will probably come as less of a shock if you have some idea of what it’s like to be self-reliant.”

“I am self-reliant,” I say, and I know it comes out super defensive.

She stares at me hard, as if she’s trying to figure out if she should say what’s on her mind. Finally, it comes out. “I feel like this may be coming from somewhere else. Honestly, in all my years of doing this job no one has ever wanted to drop that class from their schedule.”

Oh, crap. What if my blowup yesterday got all the way to school administration? I feel heat creeping up my neck into my face. “I—”

“Is there something you’re trying to avoid? Or someone, maybe?”

I can’t help it when it comes flying out of my mouth. “You try being in close proximity to the guy who broke your heart and his new girlfriend for the next nine months.”

She eases back in her seat and tents her fingers. “So you want to drop this informative, helpful class—that will help you for the rest of your life—because you can’t move on from an old relationship?”

“Old? He just dumped me two days ago. And he moved on really quickly. He may have even been cheating on me.” I add that last part because, really, is the gravity of adultery lost on anyone?

But Mrs. Gillroy is unmoved. She just stares at me, like I’m somehow trying her patience. “Mary Ellen, do you really want to be the type of person who runs away from difficult situations? Who can’t take a challenge?”

Spending an entire school year with Hunter and Brynn isn’t my idea of a challenge, it’s out-and-out torture. Still, knowing that Mrs. Gillroy obviously doesn’t see my unending heartbreak as a good enough reason to drop a class, I can’t think of anything to say.

“Exactly,” she says, taking my steamed silence as confirmation. “Which is why I’m denying your request to switch out. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, you know?”

It is going to kill me to see Hunter and Brynn be all lovey-dovey with each other, but I know I can’t win this fight.

“You don’t look so thrilled with this,” Mrs. Gillroy says.

I clench my teeth, kind of fed up with her unsympathetic platitudes. Everything I say to her gets countered back to me, so I just shrug as angrily as possible.

“Well, if there’s anything else I can help you with, let me know.”

“Yup,” I grumble, grabbing my backpack.

“Make an appointment with me when you start filling out your college applications!”

Maybe I should forget about meteorology and change my career choice to guidance counselor, since all you apparently have to do is dole out clichés and make people feel bad about feeling bad. That sounds easy enough to me.

But then I guess that would be unchallenging, wouldn’t it?

Sigh.

CHAPTER 6

I’ve got a huge case of “don’t mess with me” by the time I get to the home ec room. If I have to spend the rest of the year watching this train wreck, then I intend to let everyone know how unhappy I am to be here. It’s better than being the sad and hurt victim, which is probably what Hunter is expecting me to be.

Hunter and Brynn arrive at the same time. Their heads are bent together, and they’re smiling as if sharing some sweet, cute little secret.

Vomit.

When they see me glaring at them, both of their faces stiffen and they swallow hard as they sit down at our table. I’d like to think they’re feeling guilty, but I’m not sure either is capable of it. More than likely they’re afraid of me, because Brynn makes a point to leave an empty seat between us. Like that space will stop me from kicking another globe at her or something.

After the bell rings, Mrs. Sanchez leans on her counter and peers at our table over her glasses. “It appears as if Paul Wilder has been expelled for