The Secret Recipe for Moving On

by Karen Bischer

  “Watch it!” I hear someone yell from behind us and all of a sudden, a figure on one of those BMX bikes flashes past, jumps the curb, and slams into a bench. The bike bounces back and its rider falls off, the bike on top of him. I suddenly feel totally guilty because, in my concern over Brynn’s chattiness, I didn’t realize we’d been walking in the bike lane.

  “I’m so—” I start, but Brynn snaps at the biker, “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

  I almost say, “You can’t be serious,” because it was our fault, but I’m more concerned with the rider. He sits up and pushes the bike off of him and I realize it’s Luke Burke, a senior who is a good foot taller than me and who has a tattoo of a lightning bolt on the back of his left calf. In other words, not someone I want to mess with.

  “I didn’t realize I had to watch where I was going since I had the right of way.” Luke smiles, but the passive-aggression is all there. Then he bends down to pick up his baseball cap, which he puts on backward, and brushes off his elbow, which has a clump of grass stuck to it. “You ladies have a nice day.” He smiles again as he locks up his bike and heads inside, and it can only be interpreted as “eat shit.”

  “He’s such a freak,” Brynn hisses, and I’m not surprised she’d think us blameless for being in the bike lane. Brynn can never admit to being wrong, and doubles down on the self-righteousness when she is.

  When we get into the school lobby, I’m relieved when she points to the left and says, “Um, my homeroom is that way.”

  “Cool, mine’s upstairs,” I say. “See you at lunch.”

  “See you,” Brynn says before speeding away.

  I wonder if I should say something to Hunter about Brynn’s odd behavior, but then, I’d actually have to see him for that to happen. As I walk to my homeroom, I pull out my phone and text him.

  Are you here yet?

  I’m still staring at my phone when someone comes through the door, holding it open for me.

  “Oh, by all means, after you,” a voice says.

  When I look up, Luke is standing there, smiling. I’m afraid if I go through, he’ll trip me or something, so I step back. “Oh—I’m—wrong stairway!” I sputter, and head for the stairwell on the other side of the cafeteria.

  I feel like Luke is going to say something behind me, but he doesn’t. Still, I walk as fast as I can, passing the cafeteria, when I suddenly spot Hunter inside. He’s talking to Kim and has this really intense look on his face. Kim suddenly walks off in a huff, and Hunter goes the other way, toward me. I position myself outside the door, and when he bangs through it, he does not look happy to see me. I start to put two and two together. Oh my god. Kim told him I lied about the weather yesterday and now her car is a big mildewy mess.

  “How are—” I start.

  Hunter just grunts.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “God, can you leave me alone for just one second?” he practically yells, and it brings tears to my eyes.

  Not sure what I’m supposed to say, I step back and let him pass. He does, without so much as a “see you later.”

  The next time I see him is supposed to be in home ec.

  Which means I have an entire torturous day to get through before then.

  * * *

  My heart is pounding when I get to the home ec room, and I’ve chewed off almost all my fingernails today. When people are upset with me, it always seems to manifest itself physically, and I’ve barely been able to concentrate all day as a result. It didn’t help that Brynn and Kim were mysteriously absent from lunch.

  To distract myself, I study the home ec room. There are five tables arranged in the middle, and five “kitchens” around the perimeter. It’s obvious much of the room hasn’t been updated since the 1970s—each kitchen’s cabinets and counters are an alternating shade of reddish orange or avocado. Also obvious is that some funding must have come in recently, because there are newer stainless steel ovens in the walls of each kitchen, and there are two stainless steel refrigerators along the back wall. The cooktop ranges in the counters, however, still look ancient.

  Steve is sitting at a table toward the front, so I take a seat with him. He scans the room and smiles. “I don’t see any kosher salt, Ellie. You’ll have to find another secret ingredient.”

  “You’re so funny, Steve,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  Steve’s still laughing when Hannah Chow, one of the Ringtones’ groupies and one of Brynn’s friends, takes a seat at our table. “What’s up?” she asks, and I’m further relieved.

  That’s when Luke Burke walks in the room.

  This can’t end well.

  He sees me and smiles. “You again!” he says, and takes a seat at the table next to mine.

  “I’m—” But I can’t finish what I want to say because Paul Wilder, the school’s biggest bully, stalks into the room. He’s about six foot five and is built like an eighteen-wheeler, and today he’s wearing a thick chain with a Master Lock around his neck. His face is stony and pulls up a chair across from Luke. “Hey, man,” Luke offers. Paul tilts his chin at Luke in greeting, but doesn’t say anything.

  And then Hunter arrives. It’s like instinct right then because I’m suddenly delighted to see him … until I remember he’s angry with me and I have no idea why. He takes the seat next to Steve. Then Brynn walks in and wordlessly sits on the other side of Hunter. She starts digging around her backpack while Hunter looks uncomfortable.

  And then it dawns on me: Maybe they’ve had a fight, too. It would explain why Brynn was so weird around me this morning. But I have no idea what Brynn and I could’ve both done to make him so upset.

  As the bell rings, a short woman with long, curly black hair and glasses strolls in with a mug of tea. “Hello, all. My name is Mrs. Sanchez,” she says. “And this is Applicable Life Skills for Young Adults.”

  She sets her mug down on the counter at the front of the classroom, leaning on the counter as she takes attendance. When that’s done, she starts shuffling some papers. “I started this class a few years ago when it became obvious to me that many in your generation are lacking the skills of self-sufficiency.”

  “Whatever,” Paul coughs from the table next to mine.

  Mrs. Sanchez fixes him with an amused stare. “I suppose you could run a household effectively, Mr. Wilder?”

  Paul leans back in his chair. “Running a household? That’s women’s work.” A.J. Johnson, a senior with close-cropped bleached-blond hair who I’ve seen working at the local deli, starts to laugh from the seat next to Paul.

  I expect Mrs. Sanchez to go on a long feminist tirade like I would, but instead she smiles and says, “Well, what does that say about you, then, being in this class?”

  “It says I want an easy A,” Paul replies, his face suddenly stony.

  Hey! We actually have something in common. Who knew?

  “Well, Mr. Wilder,” Mrs. Sanchez says. “I regret to inform you that this class is all about responsibility and is not in any way designed to give its students an automatic A. And while it’s intended to make all of you eventually thrive in independence, you will be working together as a team, or a family in this case, and that may make it harder. Each table will be considered a family, and you will be competing against the other families in class for points every week. You will only be as strong as your weakest link.”

  I wonder if I’m considered the weak link at this table, since almost everyone has eaten my failed chocolate chip cookies.

  “You earn the points by completing your tasks in a timely fashion, for turning in good work, and for showing teamwork, among other things,” Mrs. Sanchez says. “And this is the one time in life where you can choose your family, so if you’d like to be at a different table, you can move now.”

  I glance around at the other tables in the classroom. The hipster/literary journal kids are sitting together to our left, a group of full-time stoner types behind them. Behind us is a snickering group with two football players I
recognize, Bryce Pratt and Anthony Ruggio, because they are ridiculously well-built and have overly gelled hair. They’re joined by two girls I’ve seen around—both with perfectly flat-ironed hair, both always with their heads bent together, gossiping, and hissing harsh “ohmygawwwds.”

  Then there’s the table to our right, which is all guys; Luke, Paul, A.J., and a short, skinny kid with huge brown eyes, Isaiah Greenlow, who I think is a junior, and whose diminutiveness seems completely out of place among these giants.

  Everyone seems content with where they are sitting, so no one moves. But I notice Mrs. Sanchez looking at our group. “Hmm, a group of five,” she says. I see her scanning the room, and I know she’s going to suggest one of us go to another table, but then she says, “Well, everyone else is full, so you’ll have to make do.”

  With that, Mrs. Sanchez passes out a syllabus and starts explaining what we’re going to be doing this year: grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, sewing, learning how to make minor household repairs, budgeting, and bill paying.

  I try to catch Hunter’s eye while this is going on, but his eyes are fixed to the syllabus. This is getting ridiculous. I’m talking to him when we’re leaving class, and I don’t care if it pisses him off.

  The bell rings just as Mrs. Sanchez is explaining that our next class will be learning the basics of budgeting. “Unless dealing with money is also women’s work,” she says, directly to Paul. He doesn’t seem to have any interest in what she’s saying, because he takes off pretty much as soon as the bell rings.

  I rush to pack up my things because Hunter is moving quickly, and I almost wonder if he’s trying to ditch me. An icy feeling creeps into my stomach as I follow him out of the classroom, and practically sprint to keep up with him.

  “Hunter,” I say, hoping I don’t sound desperate, or out of breath for that matter. “What’s going on?”

  He doesn’t answer. This is not fair. It’s like this sudden wave of anger comes over me, pushing out the fear for a minute, and as we come into the parking lot, I grab his arm.

  “Hunter! What is your problem?”

  He flings his arm up, knocking my hand off of him, and turns to me. His brown eyes are practically black, and his mouth is set in a thin line. I have no idea who this person is in front of me right now.

  “My problem,” he says through clenched teeth, “is that I can’t deal with you clinging on me. Didn’t Kim talk to you?”

  For a moment I’m weirdly relieved that he’s talking to me and that maybe now that I know what’s wrong, we can—wait. Clinging on him? Kim?

  “When did I ever cling on you? I just asked what—”

  “I can’t do this,” he says, and opens his car door.

  My stomach is churning at this point. “Can’t do what?”

  “This,” he says, gesturing between us. “I can’t be with you anymore.”

  “Where is this coming from?” I ask, feeling faint. It’s as if he’s pulled a pin from somewhere inside me with those words, and all my energy is draining out.

  “It’s been coming for a while,” he says, and gets into the car. He goes to slam the door, but I grab it.

  “Why are you doing this? Is this about yesterday? You said we were okay.”

  Hunter has one hand on the car door and the other on the steering wheel. He’s staring straight ahead, but then he turns his head toward me and his eyes are so cold that I know I don’t want to hear what’s going to come out of his mouth next. But he says it anyway.

  “I don’t love you, Ellie.”

  I feel so weak and dizzy, it’s like my soul is being sucked out of me, and I can’t even respond. I’m honestly afraid I’m going to throw up. My hands slide off his car door, and Hunter takes that opportunity to slam it shut. He then quickly starts the car, backs out of the space, and drives away, his eyes on the road the whole time.

  And I just watch him go.

  CHAPTER 3

  “I’m going to cut his nuts off!”

  This is Jodie’s solution to my world falling apart. And it would totally make me laugh if I wasn’t completely devastated and sobbing hysterically in my place of employment.

  “And then I’m going to hurl him into a fiery pit of lava,” Jodie says, stroking my hair as I snuffle. “And then I’ll make sure the Ringtones don’t do some cheesy memorial concert for him.”

  The sight of Jodie in our old St. Catherine’s uniform, a green-and-blue plaid skirt and white polo shirt, with her signature red USC hoodie should be comforting to me. And it is. But it also makes me feel even more sad that I won’t have her with me to face the awfulness tomorrow. I mean, it’s a pretty safe bet that all of my RHHS “friends” are going to be taking Hunter’s side, sending me back to being alone again.

  “I’ll pray for a volcano to pop up somewhere in the tristate area just to see that happen,” my manager Richard says. For someone who’s had to deal with his employee being a bawling mess for the last two hours, he’s handling this surprisingly well.

  Even though coming to Cityscape Shoes was the last thing I wanted to do after being dumped, I figured it was probably better than going home, where I’d have to admit to my parents that yes, Hunter was indeed aloof and therefore a bad boyfriend. A bad ex-boyfriend. But the store’s halfway-between-our-houses location meant Jodie, who cut her Chinese class when she got my breakdown via text message, could stop in and see me. The fact that she’s so completely angry over this actually makes me feel the tiniest bit better.

  “So help me god, I’m about to DM him on Instagram and tear him a new one,” she seethes.

  “Don’t do that!” I say, suddenly alarmed. “He’ll think I put you up to it.”

  “Wow, Jodie, this is a whole other side of you. You’re always so sweet and jokey,” Richard says. “Who knew?”

  Richard is in his forties, but he gets along with Jodie and me really well. He hates television clichés as much as Jodie does, and Richard and his husband, Roy, are big weather nerds, like me. I feel bad that he’s being subjected to high school drama right now, but not enough to stop crying.

  “Please, he’s totally lying to Ellie,” Jodie says. “‘I don’t love you’? What kind of bull is that? He told her he loved her right in front of me two weeks ago when we went to the boardwalk.”

  Knife. In. The. Heart. I know Jodie didn’t say it to hurt me, but a whole new wave of tears starts when I remember the moment she’s talking about, when I won him a “Made in New Jersey” water bottle via the get-the-frog-on-the-lily-pad game and he was all, “I love this woman!”

  “Maybe there’s something going on at home?” Richard wonders. “This did seem sudden, didn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jodie says. “He’s clearly going through something and making Ellie think she’s to blame. That deserves a good telling off, if you ask me.”

  “But Ellie’s too nice for that,” Richard says.

  “Guys,” I hiccup, waving my hand, “I’m right here.”

  “He has a point,” Jodie says. “You are too nice. I know you, Ellie. Don’t let this slide.”

  And suddenly, Jodie’s anger has transferred to me. She’s right. In twenty-four hours, Hunter has gone from a normal boyfriend to dumping me in the middle of a parking lot, after we said we were going to have sex. I don’t know how you make a decision like that, then decide you’re completely indifferent about your girlfriend, but it’s not fair.

  After Jodie leaves and I work the rest of my shift without shedding another tear, I plan out what I’m going to write, and when I got home, I let it all out in a text:

  While I guess I have to respect the fact that you want to end our relationship, the way you went about it was completely ass-y. You allegedly don’t love me, but having been your girlfriend for the past eight months, I figured I’d deserve something better than getting dumped in a parking lot. I am completely confused, since yesterday we decided to have sex, and today you want nothing to do with me. All I’m asking for is an explanation. You at lea
st owe me that.

  I hit SEND before I can change my mind and write something sappy. I sit back in my chair and wait. Then I read over the text again to see if it has the right emotional impact. Then I sit back in my chair again, until checking to see that I texted Hunter’s cell number and not his parents’ landline. Every time I pick up the phone, I’m forced to see my phone wallpaper, which is a picture of Hunter and me at the top of the Ferris wheel at the local fair. We’re smiling with our heads touching, and there’s a beautiful sunset behind us. So I quickly delete the pic and replace it with a photo I took of a vicious-looking purple anvil cloud during a hailstorm a few weeks ago.

  I try to think if there have been any warning signs of Hunter being a heartless bastard over the last few months. Aside from the last week of him being a little distant, the biggest issue I had with him were his friends, who I knew I didn’t really like from the first time we hung out. It was a game night at Hunter’s house with Kim, Steve, and Brynn. I was fairly sure the date was going horribly, since Kim kept steering the conversation to classes I wasn’t taking and I found something so weird about Brynn’s seemingly forced friendliness.

  I figured since they’d been longtime friends, they’d have Hunter’s ear and tell him to ditch me, and I made myself okay with that idea because I really wasn’t jibing well with his group. But something went right, because he asked me out “just us” the next week. We went to the local diner where we talked more about the Ringtones than anything else, but when I gave him some song suggestions, he called me a “genius,” and I was delighted to be thought of so highly. Especially since the last time I had really been around guys, they were calling me names and throwing ketchup packets at me.

  So when he kissed me, I felt like I had hit the lottery, even if upon our first kiss, my first kiss ever, he shoved his tongue in my mouth right away and kind of slobbered on me. But I figured no one was perfect, and maybe he was just inexperienced with the whole kissing thing, like me. Besides, he was cute, and he liked me. And it meant I wouldn’t have to sneak lunch in the library anymore. What more could I ask for?