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

is all I say because a sudden sense of doom has come over me. I don’t want to be on camera.

“Yeah, our sports reporter is out with a broken ankle and her backup has the flu.”

It hits me then. “Wait, Alisha is the sports reporter. She broke her ankle?”

“Yeah, it was a bad break,” he says, flipping through some of his papers. “She tripped in gym class. Had to have surgery and everything.”

I think back to the last time I saw Alisha. It was that day in the cafeteria, when she got pulled away by Kim. This whole time I thought she’d been avoiding me because of the breakup. I almost unfollowed her on Instagram. I’m pissed at myself for being so thoughtless and—

“So we’re short-staffed and we need someone to interview Rashad Bryant, the football team captain, about his sacks record. Do you know anything about that?”

I’m relieved to say “No.” If I don’t know what’s going on, how could I possibly interview him about it?

And if I can’t conduct the interview, I can’t possibly be on camera, and then become some serious fodder for The Buzz, or worse, give Hunter and Brynn something to laugh hysterically about, can I?

Chris waves his hand. “No worries. He’s about to break the record for most sacks in school history. You just have to ask him how he feels about that.”

I’m struck dumb momentarily. I don’t know enough about sports—jeez, I don’t know enough about this school—to be asking questions in a journalistic capacity. Particularly while on camera.

This on-camera thing is going to be a real problem.

But Chris must take my petrified silence for an affirmative answer, because he continues with, “We need to get this in before tomorrow morning’s broadcast since he could break the record during Saturday’s game.” He consults his Apple watch, oblivious to my openmouthed panic. “You’ve got about an hour before football practice ends. You can catch him after and just ask him a few questions.”

Um, no.

The only thing I know about TV journalism, outside of my beloved Weather Channel, is what I see during the ten o’clock newscast that my mom watches. And then there are those prime-time shows with those reporters who jump out of bushes to accost someone about their defective products or ask how it feels to be let off for the murder of their mistress. In all those cases, the reporters, even the jump-out-of-bushes sort, are ballsy. And bubbly. At the same time. That is so not me.

And god only knows what Jared could cook up about me stammering my way through an interview, looking like a total idiot.

I still haven’t said anything when Chris hands me one of his papers. “Here are some questions you can ask him.”

I’ve seen Rashad in the halls and in the cafeteria. He’s about six foot three and all muscle. He’s crazy popular and he’s in honors classes with Hunter, so I know he’s smart enough to figure out I don’t have much of a clue about football.

“I’m going to get in touch with Willow Goldstein, our cameraperson, and you can meet her back here in a half hour or so,” Chris says. “Okay?”

I desperately want to say, No, it’s not okay. I just wanted to own my ex, but this is something else entirely, but I still haven’t regained the power of speech. Besides, I’m afraid I’ll look like a coward. So I just nod.

Chris smiles and shuffles his papers. “You’re awesome, Ellie. Thanks.”

But when I pass out from fright?

On camera?

He’s not going to think I’m so awesome anymore.

A half hour later, after studying the mini-script and questions I’m supposed to ask, I’m standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, trying to cover the zit that’s formed right next to my nose. I take a deep breath and will the lines to ease out of my furrowed forehead. I am going to do this. I am fully capable of asking questions. It’s just talking to another human being.

On camera. And shown to twelve hundred of my peers.

Oh, who am I kidding? I exhale loudly as I turn away from the mirror. I don’t want all of RHHS snickering over my zit or taking note that I’m bloated or that my voice is really, really high when it’s recorded. I don’t want to give them anything to pick on. I was Robot Girl once, and that’s more than enough for me.

Maybe I can fake being sick. Yes, that’s it. I’ve got a sudden stomach bug or something. Chris doesn’t have to know it’s the “I just want to fly under the radar, thanks” flu.

I march back to the studio, working on my best “sick face” and practicing what I’m going to say in my head. I’m so caught up trying to look deathly ill that I almost crash into a tiny blonde girl carrying a camera and a footstool. She smiles when she sees me. “Oh, hey, you’re Mary Ellen, right? I’m Willow, your cameraperson.”

I blink down at this sprite of a girl: I’m only five foot five, but Willow is barely cracking five feet. I’m surprised she doesn’t collapse under the weight of the camera.

“It’s so great that you’re doing the sports report,” she goes on. “Like, girl power, you know?”

“Yeah, girl power,” I say weakly. There’s no way I can get out of this now. Not with Willow playing the feminism card.

“Chris says I’m supposed to help you out,” Willow says. “Have you ever been on camera before?”

“Not unless you count home movies,” I say, forcing a laugh.

“Well, then, we can practice a bit,” Willow says. “That’ll help you get a feel for it.”

Willow leads me to the hill above the football field, also known as The Nest, home to the RHHS Hornets. “We can interview him here. It’ll set the tone for the story,” she says.

Down below, football and cheerleading practices are going on simultaneously. I can hear whistles and the crashing of helmets and shoulder pads mingling with a