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

if I know where I’m going. Worst-case scenario, I can exit through the cafeteria’s back doors and hide in the bathroom for the remainder of the period.

And then I spot Isaiah. Like the last time I saw him in the cafeteria, he’s sitting by himself at the far end of a table, the other end occupied by teachers discussing some papers. Isaiah’s back is turned, so he doesn’t see me until I’m pulling out the chair across from him.

“Hi,” I say. “Mind if I sit here?”

A look of confusion, followed by recognition, followed by just a hint of annoyance crosses his face and I instantly feel bad. I should’ve known. Isaiah is a classic introvert and just because we’re “family” doesn’t mean I can crash his solitary time.

“Hey,” he says back, finally. I take this as my okay—or, okay enough, anyway—and sit down. That’s when I notice he’s got the racing section of the Ringvale Heights Gazette folded in half on the table next to his lunch, and he appears to be marking it up with notes. I must have interrupted his horse-studying time. I want to ask him about it to be friendly, but I feel like I’ve already imposed enough.

“Don’t let me interrupt your reading,” I say. I pull out my Thermos and physics textbook to let him know that I’m going to be concentrating on studying and have no desire to be a Chatty Cathy.

He eyes me warily, but doesn’t say anything else.

I absorb myself in elementary particles. It goes down a lot easier while getting to enjoy the creamy soup, which I relish eating publicly and not having to hide.

“What is that?” I’m so startled, I literally jump a little in my seat. I look up and see that Isaiah is staring at my Thermos cup.

“It’s chicken and gnocchi soup. My dad made it. He’s a chef,” I tell him.

“Is that why you’re taking home ec, to follow in his footsteps or something?” he asks.

“No. But my dad was happy when I told him I’d signed up for it. I guess he likes that I’m taking an interest in cooking, but he knows I don’t want to be a chef.”

He nods. “My mom’s a dermatologist and my dad’s a pharmacist. I don’t want to do their jobs, either.”

“Do you want to do something with horse racing?” I ask.

His eyes start to sparkle as he nods enthusiastically. “I’d like to be a trainer. You know, the person who gets the horses in shape for races and stuff. The problem is, I only get to see them when we’re driving through the farm areas. My mom doesn’t like horse racing.”

“So you’ve never been to a racetrack?” I don’t know much about horse racing, but I assume this would be like if I’d never watched The Weather Channel or something.

Isaiah frowns and shakes his head sadly. “My grandfather was a jockey after he emigrated here from Jamaica. He got thrown from a horse, hit his head, and went blind. I guess my mom doesn’t want that happening to me. But it sucks.”

“Well, maybe someday she’ll change her mind,” I say hopefully.

Isaiah shrugs, unconvinced. Then, he goes back to his reading and I go back to mine, and it might be the best lunch I’ve had since coming to Ringvale Heights High.

For some reason, lunch with Isaiah has made me a lot more optimistic about things. Like, I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but if he’s open to me sitting there again, I’ll have found an actual lunch buddy.

A lunch buddy I didn’t meet through Hunter. This is huge.

I’m even psyched when Mrs. Sanchez tells us that today’s cooking lesson is going to be difficult. “You’ll be making sautéed vegetables, rice, and Texas toast, so you’re going to need every person in your group to pull his or her weight today in order for this to work.”

I’m closest to our apron drawer, so I pull out all four of them and place them on our kitchen counter. They’re all a little worn and none of them match. I take a faded red-and-white-striped one so that one of the guys is forced to wear the green-and-yellow flowered apron with yellow ruffles, or the one that says “I Heart Chocolate.” It’s given me my own private chuckle the past few weeks.

Brynn is also reaching down into her family’s apron drawer, which is in my direct line of sight. Like a distress signal, I kind of can’t avoid seeing the bit of red sticking up past the waistline of her jeans.

A thong. And not just any thong. A red lace thong. And Brynn once said in her most judgmental voice, and I quote, “Why would any woman subject herself to wearing butt floss?” Which means there’s only one reason for this turnaround: She’s wearing it for her boyfriend.

My insides twist on cue.

She hands Hunter an apron, and they simper at each other.

I feel my stomach churn and I steady myself on the counter with both hands. So much for being over it.

“You all right?” Luke asks as he ties on the flowery apron.

I nod but can’t say anything. Hunter and Brynn have been dating for a few weeks and are probably already boinking like crazy. I had him for eight months and could barely even bring it up in conversation.

I tie on my apron and think of my own underwear collection, which is mostly cotton with flower prints or polka dots and then Christmas trees and Santas for December. They’re cute, but definitely not sexy. Maybe Hunter dumped me because my underwear wasn’t hot enough for him?

Isaiah is looking at our recipes for the day. “I can do the rice. Who wants the Texas toast?” A.J. raises his hand, and Luke volunteers to sauté the vegetables. That puts me on “prep,” which means I get to chop the vegetables and think about Brynn and Hunter having sex while I have a knife in my hand.

Mrs. Sanchez claps her hands together. “I’ll