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

cheer that includes a lot of clapping and chanting, “Sting you, fling you, the Hornets are gonna bring you pain.”

Willow hands me a microphone, then climbs up on her stepstool and aims the camera at me. “Remember to talk into the mic. And smile, too.”

When Willow nods, I project my voice as loudly as I can. “When the Hornets face the Ford Hill Tigers—”

Willow moves the camera down for a minute. “Talk loud, but don’t scream,” she says. She then gives me the thumbs-up. “You’re doing great!”

We work at this for about five minutes when music starts blasting from the field.

“Is that going to interfere with the sound?” I ask.

“It might,” Willow says. “Let’s wait for Rashad in the senior parking lot. There won’t be anything going on there to distract us.”

“Sounds good,” I say, giving silent thanks that one of us knows what she’s doing.

While we’re waiting, we manage to record the intro for the story. And I only need six takes to finally get it right.

Since Rashad is for all intents and purposes a giant, it’s not hard to spot him when he makes his way into the parking lot a half hour later. When he sees us waiting on the curb, he stops short.

“Hey, R-R-ashad,” I say. “CouldIaskyouafewquestions?”

He stares at me blankly and I’m terrified that this is someone else I’ve mistakenly thought was Rashad Bryant for the last nine months.

“It’s for RHHS TV,” Willow pipes up, plopping down her footstool and climbing up on it.

I nod. “We want to ask about you breaking the school record for sacks.”

Rashad checks his phone. “Okay, but I’ve only got five minutes. I have to pick up my sister at karate practice.”

Five minutes? I feel my hairline break out in sweat. There’s no room for mistakes with only five minutes.

Rashad motions for us to follow him to his car, where he drops his backpack on the trunk, rubs his hands together, then looks at us expectantly.

Willow lifts up her camera and she nods at me with a big smile. “We’re rolling!”

“Uh, okay. So, Rashad, when—”

Willow lowers the camera. “Your microphone!” she reminds me.

“Oh,” I say, suddenly remembering that I’m holding it. Rashad gives me a wary glance and I pray he can’t see my hands shaking. “Okay, so, Rashad, when did it first occur to you that you’d break the school record for tackles?”

“You mean sacks?” he asks, his face totally neutral.

I feel my face turning bright red. “Oh, god. Yeah, sorry.” Ugh.

Rashad doesn’t even have to think. “I’d say last October. I had a good first few games and Coach Abbott was like, ‘Hey, you know you can break Joe Howard’s record, right? And I was like, ‘Okay, that’s something to strive for.’”

I smile and nod, which seems to encourage Rashad to open up about how he met Joe Howard last year at a banquet. Thank goodness, I think I’m actually going to get through this. But as he goes into how Joe was chock-full of advice, there’s a strange snarling “arrr” noise—it almost sounds like a vicious cross between gasping and gargling—from somewhere to the left.

“You started as a quarterback. How did you make your way into defense?” I ask, just as there’s a more audible “arrr, arrr.” I begin to fret that some kind of hellmouth has opened behind me and that a bloodthirsty demon is about to unleash its fiery wrath on us. I mean, that would be my luck. I can’t turn around because the camera is straight on me, probably capturing the look of paralyzed fear on my face.

Rashad doesn’t seem fazed at all, and answers above the murderous sounds behind us, which are growing louder.

And then I remember: Montague. As if on cue, I spot the white German shepherd behind the chain-link fence beyond Rashad’s shoulder. And he’s dragging one of his infamous cinder blocks around while making those heinous noises. When he makes eye contact with me, his tail wags excitedly. And then, I swear to god, he nudges the gate open with his nose and practically prances toward us, tail whipping back and forth, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

I see Willow’s face go slack from behind the camera. I feel my own face stiffen as Montague’s thick tail whacks me in the leg and he starts barking excitedly. Why? Why is this happening right now? When I’m already making a fool of myself for the dumbest of reasons? It takes everything in me to keep my hand from shaking and my eyes on Rashad and keep my face looking neutral instead of the all-out panic that’s suddenly coursing through me.

Rashad, though, doesn’t miss a beat, as he launches into a story about how he once played quarterback and defensive tackle in one game. And he does all this while petting Montague, who keeps jumping up, trying to lick Rashad’s face.

Just one last question, thank god.

“Any thoughts on playing Ford Hill?”

“Yeah,” Rashad says, rubbing his hands together. “We’re going to tear them apart.”

“Arrr! Arrr!” Montague dances around between us.

I smile at Rashad and turn back to the camera, knowing I look like a crazy woman, and say the first thing that pops into my head. “And it seems Montague would agree!”

Willow waves her hand, reminding me I have to add, “The Hornets play here at The Nest on Saturday afternoon at one p.m. Back to you in the studio,” and with that, we’re done.

When I turn back around, Rashad is actually smiling and cooing, “Who’s a good boy?” as he leans over and pets Montague, who has now rolled over on his back for a belly rub.

“I have no idea how you stayed so calm,” I say with a laugh, as I lean over and scratch Montague’s ears. “I thought I was going to lose it.”

Rashad shrugs. “Aw, he just wanted to make friends. And I know we were short on time, so I tried to be professional about it.”

I smile at him gratefully. “Thanks.”

The three of us quickly make our