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

seat four chairs away from him, lest I have any more urges to hit him.

Ms. Ahmed, the school secretary, is staring at me openmouthed. It’s probably the egg, but maybe it’s the fact that a girl and guy got in a fistfight. “And your name is?” she asks.

“Mary Ellen Agresti,” I say.

She nods, then disappears into the principal’s office.

“We’re totally going to get suspended, you know,” Jared says.

“Yeah, well, maybe you’ll think of that the next time you mock me or my group,” I whisper harshly. “Or anyone else for that matter on your stupid gossip page. You’re lucky I’m a girl with no upper body strength and not any of the guys you mention who could do some actual damage.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that, and it’s not like he can respond anyway. The door to the principal’s office opens, and Ms. Ahmed ushers us in, closing the door behind us with an ominous click.

Three days’ suspension. Yes, I got the maximum penalty because, as Mr. Golding reminded us, there’s a zero-tolerance policy at RHHS for fistfights.

Amazingly, Jared didn’t argue it. Probably because he realized we have witnesses to his constant harassment of our group, which I was quick to bring up. But also, I never mentioned The Buzz, and I think he was waiting for me to talk about it. He probably figured a three-day suspension for fighting is a whole lot better than the trouble he’d get into for his pet project.

We’re dismissed long after the bell rings (because of our clean records and because it’s the end of the day, Mr. Golding let us go without our parents having to come pick us up. But he made it clear he was calling them), and after I go to the bathroom to get the egg out of my hair, I head to my locker. Basically, I do anything possible to delay going home, where I’m sure my mom is going to freak out on me after Mr. Golding’s phone call.

I can see a light on in the home ec room, and I peer inside to see Mrs. Sanchez surrounded by cleaning supplies, trying to get up the mess from the eggs.

“Mrs. Sanchez?” I say, putting my backpack down. “I’m so sorry for disrupting class like that and making such a mess. I swear to god, it’ll never happen again.”

Mrs. Sanchez studies me for a minute, then sighs and stands up. “I must say, in all my years of teaching, no one has ever used food as a weapon.”

I don’t know if she means this as a joke or not, but since she’s not chewing me out for my lack of conduct, I figure she doesn’t hate me. “Let me help you,” I say, grabbing some paper towels and Windex. “I just want you to know, I’m not a violent person. I have no idea where that came from.”

Mrs. Sanchez bites her lip as I start to scrub the floor. “I think I know where it came from. I know Jared isn’t the easiest to get along with.”

“Still,” I say, slightly relieved she knows I’m not a raging psycho, or at least thinks I’m a raging psycho who has her reasons. “I could’ve handled it better.”

“Well, I will say your group was very disappointed today,” Mrs. Sanchez says, and it’s like I’ve been stabbed in the heart. “I felt worse for them as a whole than for anything else.”

Not worse than me, I guarantee that.

“What happened to the turkey?” I ask.

“It’s still in your refrigerator,” she says, pointing to our kitchen. “I told the boys I’d take it by the church down the street for their soup kitchen.”

“I can take it over to the church now, if that’s okay,” I say, wiping the last of the egg from the floor.

“That would be lovely. I’ll call them to let them know you’re on your way,” Mrs. Sanchez says.

I march over to our refrigerator and carefully grab the roasting pan, which is now covered in tinfoil. Even though the pan is sturdy and has handles, it’s a bit awkward to carry because of the weight of the turkey, plus the weight of the books in my backpack. I pretend like it’s super easy to walk as I make my way out of the room.

I turn to Mrs. Sanchez before I walk out the door. “Were the guys really pissed at me?”

“I wouldn’t say that. But like I said, they did seem disappointed.”

I must look as pained as I feel because Mrs. Sanchez gives me a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. They’ll forgive you.”

I can only hope she’s right. Because I’m not exactly sure I’d forgive me if I were them.

I carry the turkey through the main hall and am glad there isn’t anyone left at school to see me. I’m sure I’d get some quizzical looks carrying this massive tin-foiled thing down the halls.

It’s starting to snow when I get out to the nearly empty parking lot, big, fat dry flakes, the kind that will totally stick and give us a nice few inches before it lets up. Unfortunately, since my hands are full, I can’t pull my hood up, and flakes start smacking me in the face as I walk.

“Agresti!” I turn around and am totally shocked to see Luke leaning on the bike rack. He looks as if he’s been waiting outside for a while, if his red cheeks are any indication. I try not to think about how ridiculously cute he is, all rosy-cheeked and windblown.

“Hey,” I say, unable to look him in the eye.

“I was hoping I might run into you. Are you all right?”

I nod, feeling a little relieved that he at least doesn’t hate me. “My knee’s a little banged up, but I’ll live.”

“And what was the verdict from Golding?”

I shake my head and sigh. “I got my first suspension. That’ll be something I’ll proudly tell my grandkids about, I’m sure.”

Luke throws his head back and laughs, which delights me. “Man, I