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

don’t realize I’m staring at them until Hunter’s eyes lock on mine. For a minute I have this reflexive urge to smile at him, but I fight it and probably end up looking like a psychotic clown. Hunter doesn’t react, but I notice he’s staring at my torso with something resembling curiosity.

I glance down and realize I’m still wearing Luke’s sweatshirt, which explains why Hunter’s eyes go from me to Luke and back at me again. Luke, who is blocking A.J. from even seeing Jared, is totally oblivious. Hunter turns around too quickly for me to identify what he’s thinking.

“JAILE family and Bukowski family,” Mrs. Sanchez says sternly. “I’m deducting thirty points from each of you for your lack of conduct today.”

A.J. gestures at us. “But Mrs. S, they didn’t do anything. I’m the one who—”

“That doesn’t matter, Mr. Johnson,” Mrs. Sanchez says, her face totally unamused. “One family member’s actions reflect on the rest of the family. Hopefully you learn that by the end of the year.”

A.J.’s nostrils flare, like he wants to shove Jared’s beret down his throat, and Luke positions himself in front of him again.

“This totally blows,” Luke says when Mrs. Sanchez is out of earshot.

Isaiah shakes his head. “Yeah, you pulled A.J. back way too fast. You could’ve at least let him get a punch in.”

I almost laugh.

“I’m sorry, guys,” A.J. says, shoulders slumping.

“It’s not your fault,” I say. “We did the lesson right.” Luke blinks several times, like he’s surprised I’m being cool with this.

On the way back to school, Luke manages to keep A.J. away from Jared. The whole class is buzzing as we move, the near-fight being the closest thing to action they’ve seen since I kicked a papier-mâché globe at Hunter and Brynn’s heads. Maybe I should be grateful to A.J. for putting my public meltdowns on the back burner.

We get back to RHHS about twenty minutes after the end of last period. Most of the cars have cleared from the senior parking lot, and only a few kids are hanging around the halls when I grab my things from my locker.

When I go back outside, I notice Luke unlocking his bike from the bike rack, and I peel off his sweatshirt. “Hey,” I say, jogging over and handing it to him. “Thank you. I think I would’ve lost a few limbs to frostbite if not for this.”

“You’re welcome,” Luke says, putting his arms through it and shrugging it on. He sniffs the shoulder of the shirt and wrinkles his nose. “Looks like I’m going to smell like flowers now.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, my face growing hot.

He laughs and climbs on his bike. “Don’t sweat it, Agresti. See you on Monday.”

“See you,” I say.

I watch him ride away and sigh, trying to ignore the scent of woodsy freshness lingering on my shirt.

CHAPTER 9

I don’t know that I have many talents, but over the last few weeks, I’ve gotten pretty good at pretending I’m not eating when, really, I’m scarfing down an entire sandwich … in tiny pieces. My secret lunchtime routine has escaped the notice of the school librarians, and I’m hoping I can keep it that way till June.

But it’s going to be a challenge today because I’ve packed a Thermos with my dad’s famous chicken and gnocchi soup. Its deliciousness has been calling to me like a siren song from my backpack all day. Eating something so conspicuous in total secrecy is going to be a little tough, however.

I plunk down by the computers, and check over my shoulder to see if any of the librarians have somehow wandered back here. They seem busy helping a freshman history class find information on the Revolutionary War, so my hope is that they’ll be distracted just long enough for me to eat the whole thing.

I manage to unscrew the top and pause for a moment to savor the scent of the soup. When Dad made it last night, he’d said, “You’ve seemed a little stressed lately. I thought this might help.” The weird thing is, I haven’t thought that much about Hunter the last few days, and this is extremely exciting because it means I’m totally getting over him and I may be able to—

“No eating in the library!” a voice booms.

My stomach drops as I look up to my left. Sure enough, there’s a librarian standing by the railing of the second-level annex, frowning down at me with disdain. I’m one of those kids who kind of fears any type of authority—a grown-up yelling is all it takes to make me feel bad. Being called out like this makes me feel four years old again.

“I’m sorry,” I croak as I screw my Thermos lid back on. My face is on fire as I walk past the gawking freshmen. For the rest of the school year they’re going to remember me as the girl who almost took out the entire library computer system with a Thermos full of soup.

Reluctantly, I trudge to the cafeteria, where the low hum of lunchtime hits me when I step through the open doors. Two teachers are standing by the entrance chatting. I scan the room for an empty table, but it appears as if I’m the only one who hides during lunch, because the cafeteria is pretty crowded.

“Excuse me, is this your lunch period?” one of the teachers asks.

“Uh, yeah, I’m just looking for a place to sit,” I say.

“There are plenty of seats,” the teacher says, gesturing at the tables ahead of us.

Yes, there are plenty of seats … at tables already occupied by groups I’m not a part of. Like, I’m sure the cheerleaders would just love it if I wandered over and pulled up a chair and was like “Hey, gals! Nice day, isn’t it?”

That’s when I notice Brynn and Kim are staring at me from their table. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of being smug about my friendlessness, so I take off to the left and walk as