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

Luke smiles, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He ends up waving at the driver of the truck, a guy from my gym class, Evan Fishman.

“I finished my training sesh and swung by the park, but you weren’t there,” Greta says, climbing out of the truck. Her face is flushed, and I assume she’s invigorated with athletic energy, because Greta doesn’t seem the type to blush at the sight of her beloved. She turns around and smiles dazzlingly at Evan, who winks and waves before driving off. Greta gets close to Luke, and he leans down to give her a quick peck on the lips. I’m silently grateful that no full-on PDA takes place.

“Ellie just profiled me for the school TV station,” he says.

Greta eyes me up and down. “Oh, right. You’re the girl who did that interview where Montague went crazy. That was awesome.”

I don’t know if she means the interview itself or Montague’s antics, but I say “Thanks,” anyway.

“Are we still doing dinner at your house tonight?” Greta asks, turning back to Luke.

“Yeah. My mom told me to ask you because it’s chicken casserole night.”

“Great,” Greta says, linking arms with him. “She makes the best chicken casserole and I’m starving.”

It’s sort of awkward walking with them, and they thankfully veer toward a cute tan bungalow with dark-green shutters. Two rows of gorgeous yellow and purple chrysanthemums line the walkway leading up to the house and its inviting-looking porch swing. It’s like something out of a lemonade commercial. “This is me,” Luke says, jerking his thumb in the direction of the house. His voice almost sounds apologetic.

“Oh, okay. Thanks again for the interview.”

“When do I get to see it?” Greta asks.

“Tuesday morning,” I say.

“Awesome,” she says, then narrows her eyes. “Like, I want to make sure this thing really happened and you weren’t, like, hooking up or something.”

Horrified, I glance at Luke, whose eyes are huge, his mouth hanging open.

Greta laughs loudly. “Oh, man. The looks on your guys’ faces! Like you two would ever be together.” She’s a mess of giggles as she climbs the stairs to the house.

Luke lingers behind, his smile betrayed by his furrowed brow. “You’re good to get home from here?”

“Of course. It’s only a few blocks away,” I say, plastering on my own smile. “See you in class.”

I move forward, hoping that I’m not sweating as badly as I feel like I am. I peek over my shoulder and see that Luke is on his porch steps, watching me. He raises his arm and waves.

I wave back and start walking again, forcing myself to think about my history homework, what I’m getting Jodie for her birthday in January, my college applications …

Basically anything besides what Greta has just said.

CHAPTER 12

If someone told me a few weeks ago that Luke and I would be friends, I’d sincerely ask if they’d been smoking crack. But we kind of are friends now. Like, since the interview, we say “hi” in the halls (Luke seems to like excitedly cheering “Agrestiiiii!” whenever he spots me), and we’ve walked home from school together three times. We’ve even started texting every now and then—mostly discussing assignments in classes where we have the same teacher, but sometimes Luke sends a funny GIF or YouTube video.

And in home ec a week after the interview, I’m folding aprons and humming Beyoncé’s latest hit when Luke starts dancing along.

I stop mid-hum and peer up at him.

“Don’t stop the music, I’ve got a good groove going,” Luke says, spinning around and dropping a bowl full of baking utensils into the sink. “But hold it just a second because I have to run this bag of flour back to the pantry.”

“Yeah, Ellie, thanks for getting that stuck in my head,” A.J. says as Luke scurries off.

Mrs. Sanchez reminds us then to have our monthly budget ready by this coming Friday. “And this week I want you to find a family activity that fits in your budget and factor that into your planning.”

There’s a knock on the classroom door then, and Mrs. Sanchez goes to answer it.

“Great, our family can, like, take a walk up the block,” A.J. mutters.

“There has to be something cheap they could do,” Isaiah says as he shakes excess flour off his T-shirt.

It’s only then that I notice Bryce Pratt and Anthony Ruggio are eyeing Isaiah from Jersey Strong’s kitchen on the other side of ours. Or should I say, they’re eyeing Isaiah’s shirt, which has a running racehorse printed on it. Bryce covers his mouth as he laughs, then says something to Anthony, who peeks around Isaiah to get a look.

I can see what’s going to happen here, and I’m already not amused. Mrs. Sanchez is totally distracted, talking to Mr. Lee, the woodshop teacher.

“Why are you so into horse racing? Are you like a bookie or something?” Bryce says.

“Or are you, like, into horses in a sexual way?” Anthony says, which makes Bryce crack up.

Isaiah, to his credit, doesn’t bludgeon them with our rolling pin, like I would. “I’m very interested in thoroughbred racing,” he says, as if that’s going to be enough for them.

Bryce clutches his hand to his chest. “Well, if it’s thoroughbreds, then it must be a worthwhile pursuit.”

I narrow my eyes. “Leave him alone.”

Over Bryce’s shoulder, I see Luke come out of the pantry, taking in the situation.

Anthony finds this completely hilarious. “Aww, what, are you two in Gamblers Anonymous together or something?”

“Gamblers Anonymous, yes!” Bryce cackles, offering a high five.

There’s such a surge of anger in me in that moment that I almost feel as possessed as I did when I kicked the globe at Brynn and Hunter.

“That’s not even remotely funny. And, for your information, we’re going to Glenwood Park for our family activity,” I say hotly, even though it’s a total lie. “Because I like horse racing, too.”

Isaiah and A.J. are gaping at me like I’ve lost my mind, but Luke pulls his phone