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

is still too pissed at me to have brought it himself or if he knew Brynn’s path would cross with me before his.

Or maybe he thinks I’m liable to throw another drink in his face.

“Thanks,” I say.

“What were you doing in Hunter’s car yesterday?” Brynn asks, her eyes bright, her nostrils flaring.

“He saw me walking and offered me a ride home,” I say slowly. Approaching this like you would a possibly rabid animal caught in a trap seems the best track here.

Isaiah’s eyes are darting back and forth between us, his mouth slightly agape. I’d laugh if I didn’t think Brynn was about to pounce on me for any sudden moves.

“And what happened that all your shit fell out in the car and you didn’t even realize it?”

Uh, did Hunter not tell her we fought? Oh, wait, of course he didn’t. Then he’d have to admit how it all started, with him not wanting to go to Princeton. I let out a deep, exhausted sigh. “You’ll have to ask him that.”

Brynn’s face has now lit up an alarming shade of red. Before her head can full-on explode, I give her my most exasperated look. “I can assure you, it’s not what you think it is.”

“It better not be. Seriously.”

I don’t know what’s firing up this level of snark in me right now, but I flutter my eyelashes at her in what I hope is the most dismissive way possible. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about the Feast-Off. Hope you don’t mind working the dance because Synergy is, like, totally going down.”

Isaiah’s jaw drops even lower.

But Brynn doesn’t have a comeback for that. Instead, she makes this annoyed snorting noise and stomps off.

I pull the phone out of the bag, and much like yesterday afternoon, it’s still dead. When I look up, Isaiah’s completely wide-eyed.

“What was that all about?”

“Let’s just say I gave Hunter a good telling off yesterday. That’s none of her business, though.”

Isaiah narrows his eyes. “So you’re not sneaking around with him?” The rising angst in his voice makes me smile.

“Isaiah, do you think if I was having an affair with Hunter, I’d have toyed with Brynn like that? Hell no, I’d rub it in her face after what she did to me.”

He seems to ponder this for a moment. “And you would’ve been right. Good point,” he says finally, picking up his book again.

Too bad when he drops his head down to read, I can see Brynn scowling at me from her table.

I resume concentrating on my pudding. In roughly two hours, my group is winning the Feast-Off. Then she’ll really have something to scowl about.

It’s probably a little ridiculous that I’m daydreaming about our presumed victory during my next two classes. Even though I’ve eaten my lunch, my stomach growls at the thought of the hot, brined turkey and deliciously carb-loaded side dishes we’re preparing. I picture Mrs. Sanchez smiling beatifically at us, telling the whole class to see what a good job we did, Brynn scowling even more, and then, by some twist of fate, Jared’s team falls out of first place into dead last and has to work the dance.

When the bell rings at the end of French, I spring out of my seat and am the first one to the door. I hustle my way through the crowded hallway, dreaming of victory and tryptophan-induced contentment. The meatheads will scoff in grand meathead fashion, Jared will have to shove his beret in his mouth to keep from screaming, and Hunter, Steve, and Brynn will rue the day they laughed at my accidentally salty chocolate chip cookies. I don’t have any issues with the stoners, but I do hope they are at least a tiny bit envious of our feat.

By the time I get to the home ec room, I’m bordering on giddy. I scan the room for my family members, to share a psyched-up look with them, but they’re not at our table. In fact, they’re all gathered in our kitchen, staring into the refrigerator, their faces ranging between tense (Isaiah) and flat-out pissed off (A.J.).

“What is it?” I ask, feeling my smile evaporate.

Luke wordlessly points in the refrigerator, and there, on the bottom shelf, is our uncooked turkey sitting its roasting pan.

No. This is not happening.

That’s when I hear giggling behind me and when I look over my shoulder, I see Steve and Hannah watching this go down as if it’s a sitcom.

“What the hell?” I say, turning back to my group. “There’s no way we’re winning now. Like, seriously, what. The. Hell?”

“Agresti, it’s not that big a deal—”

My cheeks get all hot as I spin around to face Luke. “Not that big a deal? We’ve been working toward this all marking period. But clearly, I’m the only one who gives a shit.”

Luke flinches, and even Isaiah recoils, suddenly frowning.

I turn to A.J., who’s been mysteriously silent. “Why didn’t you put it in?”

He stares at me hard. “I had to take my grandma to the hospital because she fell this morning.”

My stomach drops, as if I’m on an emotional elevator that’s free-falling from the complete and total anger penthouse to the “oh crap, how can I be that stupid?” basement of embarrassment.

I find my voice. “Oh my god, is she okay?”

“She’s fine, she just had to get a few stitches,” he says, his eyes boring through me. “If you’d have checked your texts, you would’ve known that—and we might be eating turkey right now instead of staring at it in the refrigerator.”

“Texts?” I repeat, feeling my shoulders sag.

“Yeah, I asked if you could run down and put the turkey in the oven since, you know, I was indisposed.”

“I lost my phone and didn’t have it until lunch, and even then the battery was dead,” I say, becoming more than a little annoyed at his accusatory tone. “Why didn’t you text anyone else?”

“Because I figured you’d see it!” he says, practically yelling.

“And that’s my fault?”

“I thought you’d have your phone