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

doesn’t finish in last place,” Mrs. Sanchez says. “And for the record, any group in this class can finish in last, even those who appear to be front runners now. There’s a long way to go till this term is over.”

Luke smiles at us and nods as if to say, “See?”

And it makes me hot and flustered again. Ugh.

That night, I realize there’s a reason I never go to parties: Dressing for the occasion makes me PMS-levels of grouchy. I am definitely not one of those girls who can put an outfit together effortlessly. I stand in front of my full-length mirror and my frowning reflection practically dares me to chuck it out the window.

I’m certain I don’t have the right clothes for Alisha’s party. Like, I’m sure the girls who do go out every weekend must get gussied up and look like something out of a Zara window. I will never be able to pull that off, and they’ll stare at me and whisper about my lack of fashion sense.

I settle on a close-fitting brown V-neck sweater over a cream-colored camisole with lace trim. I’ve got my jeans and my favorite pair of brown leather boots. Basically, this would’ve been an outfit I’d wear if Hunter had said, “Let’s go out, just the two of us,” back when we were dating. But how am I supposed to know if this passes for high-school-party chic?

My phone rings then and it’s Jodie, probably calling to run her outfit by me. Or maybe she worked up the nerve to ask Joaquin to come with us—they’ve been chatting a bit since the football game. We haven’t really talked since Tuesday because her parents took her on a road trip to Georgetown, their alma mater, for a college visit.

“Hey, lady. Ready to observe your first keg stand?”

Jodie is silent for a moment, then clears her throat. “I can’t go.”

“Did your parents find out?” I say.

“No,” she says, her voice flat and quiet. “I had a panic attack.”

I’m so confused that I have to sit down on my bed. “When? Why? Are you okay?”

“I didn’t tell you, but my parents and I wanted to test flying, in case I get into USC. We were going to fly down to DC since it’s a short flight. Except I couldn’t get on the plane because I had a panic attack at the gate. We didn’t even end up going to Georgetown.”

“Oh, Jodie, I’m so sorry,” I say, my heart breaking for her.

“It’s over. I can’t go to USC.”

“You can still apply, though,” I say, trying to latch on to some sliver of hope. “Maybe you could drive or take the train there.”

“Then I’d never really be able to come home. That takes too long. It’s just not realistic.”

I’ve never seen this side of Jodie. She’s not the type to be melodramatic or feel sorry for herself. She must have truly come to a final decision about this, and there’s no way around it.

“Forget the party,” I say, looking for my bag. “I’ll be right over.”

“No, El, don’t,” she says quietly. “I really can’t be around anyone right now.”

“But—”

“Honestly, I just want to be alone. Besides, Alisha seemed to really want you there and she’s so nice. Don’t let her down.”

“Well, I can—”

Jodie gives tight laugh. “No, you don’t have to swing by after the party, either. Trust me, I really just want to be alone to process this.”

“Okay,” I say, still not wanting to believe that her entire college dream has just crashed down.

“Don’t take it personally, okay?” she says. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow. I promise. And please don’t tell anyone.”

“All right,” I say. “I’m really, really sorry.”

When we hang up, I just stare at my phone. I feel as if it’s been decided I’m not going to USC, that’s how hard I’ve been rooting for Jodie to get in. She’s wanted to go there since I met her.

What little celebratory spirit I had has been sucked out by the phone call and I totally don’t know if I can go to this party by myself. But then I remember Alisha and how excited she was for me to come. I allow myself a big sigh, then pull myself off the bed and grab my coat.

When I make my way downstairs, Mom is curled up on the living room couch, clipping coupons and watching what looks like a documentary on the Incas and Machu Picchu. Part of me aches to just climb in the recliner and pull the mothball-smelling afghan over me, and indulge my inner nerdiness with my mother.

“I’m gonna head over to Alisha’s,” I say. Mom thinks I’m going over there for a game night with a few classmates.

“Do you want a ride?” she asks, muting the TV.

It’s cold and dark outside and the prospect of being transported to Alisha’s house in a warm car is inviting. But it’ll be obvious to my mom that there’s more than a game night going on when she sees all the cars outside Alisha’s house, so I’m going to have to suck this one up and tough it out.

“That’s okay. Alisha lives over on Daffodil Lane, so it’s close,” I say.

“Well, if you need a ride back, call.”

“Will do,” I say, heading into the front hall.

“Have fun,” Mom calls as I open the front door, and part of me wonders if she knows that there’s going to be more than just Monopoly and Boggle at Alisha’s.

Almost instantly, I regret not taking the ride. It’s unseasonably cold for late October, and there’s a sharp wind blowing, which makes my nose sting and my eyes water. I pull my hat down over my ears, then fold my arms and march headfirst into the wind.

Alisha’s house is older, like mine, and it’s set back from the street, with a long gravel driveway leading up to it. There are already a bunch of cars lining the driveway, and I can hear music thumping from her house, where it seems