The Secret Recipe for Moving On

by Karen Bischer

  “You’re seriously going to let her call us assholes?” I hear Brynn bark at Hunter, and the eerie calm is gone just as quick as it came. I turn back around, stomp toward them, pull my leg back, and let my foot fly at the globe. In a rare moment of pure athletic skill, it launches in the air and hurls toward a wide-eyed Brynn and Hunter, making them both duck. The globe ends up careening toward the side of the building and slamming into the brick wall with a pathetic thud before it falls into the bushes below.

  Hunter and Brynn both stare at me openmouthed, maybe a little frightened. “Oh my god,” I hear some girl whisper in awe. Suddenly I’m shaking—there were so many witnesses. What if any teachers saw what just happened? I turn and practically sprint to my car.

  “I think her name’s Ellie,” I hear someone say behind me.

  “I didn’t know she had it in her,” someone else replies.

  That makes two of us.

  CHAPTER 5

  Almost seventeen hours have passed since the globe-kicking incident and it is more than safe to say I am still angry. I know this because my mom volunteered to drive me to school this morning, and instead of being grateful I don’t have to walk through another pouring rainstorm, I’m annoyed that she had to interrupt my stewing time. I have yet to tell my parents about the breakup or the resulting papier-mâché carnage.

  So of course my mom’s all, “Are you okay, love?” as we get in the car.

  “I’m fine,” I say, studying the chipping “Pink Pearl” nail polish on my left hand. When I made the globe, I’d pretty much destroyed the manicure I had given myself at Jodie’s house. At the time, I thought it was for a noble cause. Now the globe is a pile of paste and painted newspaper strips wadded under a bush somewhere, and my nails look pathetic for no reason at all.

  “Don’t lie, El,” my mom says as she starts the car. When I don’t say anything she adds, “You’ve come home the past two days and locked yourself in your room. And then I heard you raising your voice on the phone last night at Jodie. That’s not like you.”

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to avoid my parents forever. The night of the breakup, I’d come home from work and declared I was too tired for dinner and went straight to my room. Last night, I scarfed down my dad’s famous macaroni and cheese, and then ran to my room to call Jodie, where I filled her in on the day’s events, my voice getting higher and higher with every detail.

  “I wasn’t raising my voice at Jodie.” I pray the tears don’t come. I’d been so outraged the past half day that crying was the last thing on my mind. It was nice to not have puffy, bloodshot eyes for a bit. “Hunter and I broke up.”

  There, it’s out. And she can’t question me too much because we’re literally a three-minute ride to school and she knows I can’t be late for homeroom. Hopefully, she’ll forget all about this by the time I get—

  “Oh, honey,” Mom says, turning the car off. She turns in her seat and places her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  I shrug. I need to play this well. I can’t have her know she was right about Hunter, and I also don’t want her and Dad worried about me. They have enough on their plate right now. “I’m doing all right. It’s an adjustment.”

  “Would it be prying to ask what happened?”

  “We were just growing apart,” I say flatly, silently willing her to start the car again.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says and, to her credit, she does sound sorry. “I want us to talk about this later, if you’re up for it. We can have ice cream for dinner and watch that show you love about weather disasters?”

  Oh god, Mom, I think, as I stare out the window fighting back tears for real now. Stop being so nice to me. It’ll just make me cry more.

  “That sounds good,” I say, glad my voice doesn’t break.

  Mom squeezes my shoulder before she finally starts the car. It’s the longest three minutes of my life before I can say goodbye to her and hurry into school, where I can hopefully break down behind the closed door of a bathroom stall.

  A group of students is gathered by the main door when I come in. They suddenly fall quiet and stare at me as I pass, then start whispering when I’m a few feet away.

  “That’s her!” I hear one girl hiss. “She’s the one who freaked out yesterday.”

  “That explains it,” a guy says. “She’s like the one girl in the senior class I don’t know.”

  Of course you don’t know me, I think. It’s not like anyone was particularly friendly toward me when I first started here.

  Except Hunter. And Alisha.

  I think of Alisha then and wonder if she truly is on Hunter and Brynn’s side, since she tried to warn me about the Cold Fish thing before Kim whisked her off. But then again, she hasn’t tried to contact me or seek me out, so maybe she heard about the globe-kicking and thinks I’m a raging psycho or something.

  I remember The Buzz, then, and wonder if my globe-kicking is a featured item. I head to the library, where I plug in my phone and load it up. A GIF of a glittery marijuana leaf is at the top of the feed.

  HIGH TIMES

  This smarty-pants wants everyone to think she’s Miss Innocent, but our sources report seeing her smoking weed at the beach this summer. Multiple times.

  I wince. I think this might be Anna Feldman, who’s in competition with Kim for number one in our class, and who I’ve been secretly rooting for to keep Kim from being valedictorian in June.

  This is followed by a GIF of an old TV show, where two girls and a guy are embracing, all smiling.

  TEAM TRYST

  This athletic trio is quite the threesome. They were spotted at a team party disappearing into a bedroom together with multiple reports of endless groans and moans coming from behind closed doors. Now we’re wondering who finished first, second, and third?

  Yikes. Maybe there’s so much gossip grist from the RHHS rumor mill that my outburst yesterday was …

  THE KICK HEARD ROUND THE WORLD (OR AT LEAST THE SENIOR PARKING LOT)

  This new couple had their smooch sesh quashed when a certain cold fish-turned-woman-scorned let her rage be known with a swift kick. Maybe someone should’ve told her this union was in the works for quite some time?

  Wait, what? I feel the blood pounding in my temples as I read it over again. Their relationship has been in the works for quite some time?

  I can only squint at the screen, dazed with confusion. Was Hunter cheating on me with Brynn? I wrack my brain and deep down, I don’t think he was. I mean, I’d be willing to bet they definitely hooked up the night before he dumped me, and the seeds of lust were being planted a little before, if Hunter’s distant behavior meant anything. But how was their relationship in the works otherwise?

  Quickly, I click on Instagram and load up Hunter’s profile. I’m actually kind of shocked to see he hasn’t unfollowed me, even though I kicked a globe at his head. Then I realize he’s probably just waiting to see if I have some kind of psychotic episode via a sad selfie or something, so he can be all, “Phew, I’m so glad I’m not with her anymore. What a psycho!”

  I scroll through the past few weeks of Hunter’s photos, but don’t see anything out of the ordinary.

  Then I move over to Brynn’s profile and I see it right away: a selfie with Hunter from last night. She’s resting her head on his chest with her arms wrapped around him, and they’re both smiling coyly at the camera. Below it is a caption: “Nine years in the making.”

  And it’s invited one hundred and eight likes and nearly thirty comments. I fight the bile rising up in my throat as I read them.

  Carrie Torres, a cheerleader and one of the more popular girls in our class, writes: “OMG, you and Hunter are together?!?! I’ve only been waiting for that since seventh grade!”

  Jeez, even Ben Granderson, the hermit of the senior class, is in on it: “It’s about time, Panz. We all knew she was crazy about you.”

  I sit back in my seat, my breakfast threatening to eject itself from my stomach. This is probably
the “destiny” that was “in the works”: Hunter and Brynn were somehow destined for each other for years. But how obvious was it that everyone was rooting for her?

  Because Hunter asked me out and was with me for the last eight months.

  I scroll down past a few more nauseating “Yay! You’re dating” responses on Brynn’s pic, until I stumble upon one from Hunter’s older sister, Lisa: “So psyched for you, little bro. Brynn’s so awesome.”

  There’s an empty feeling in my stomach as I let this sink in. Brynn’s so awesome. Does that mean I’m not?

  It hits me then that there’s no way I’d ever stack up to Brynn, even if she is a know-it-all with bratty tendencies. She’s known these people forever, and familiarity probably outweighs her flaws. She isn’t the villain in this scenario. It’s me. I had thrown a wrench in the epic love story of Hunter and Brynn, which was apparently obvious to everyone but me.

  Like, if this were a bad TV show, Brynn would be the one the audience is rooting for because she and Hunter have been friends forever, and she’s been choking back her feelings for him. She’s about to tell him when some new character—me—is foisted onto the show with the express purpose of keeping the main characters apart. Naturally, Hunter and I don’t belong together simply because Brynn and her feelings exist.

  I’m about to sign off when I get some sudden inspiration. I uncheck the box near Brynn’s name and unfollow her and then do the same on Hunter, Kim, and Steve’s profiles. I debate unfollowing Alisha, since I haven’t seen or heard from her, but something deep down tells me not to.

  I make my way out of the library. Right away I notice Hunter coming toward me, and the rage comes flooding back. If he makes eye contact with me, I plan on glaring at him as hard as I can.

  But his eyes are on his phone as he texts, and he’s smiling. Suddenly his phone rings and he answers, not even seeing me. “Hey, you,” he purrs. “I dreamed about you last night.”

  I swear to god.

  He’s so absorbed in his conversation that he doesn’t notice me pass him. Obviously he gets to be happy while I’m the one with enough emotions to fill an entire telenovela.

  And then I remember I have to see him and Brynn again in class. Together.

  I spin around and turn back to the main hall. Then I march into the guidance office and make an appointment with the office assistant.

  I’m getting the hell out of home ec, and nobody can stop me.

  * * *

  Despite not having any more run-ins with Hunter and Brynn, I’m still feeling rage-y by the time I return to the guidance office for my appointment around midday. I only have one thing on my agenda this afternoon, and it’s to not be spending last period with the lying, exhibitionist lovebirds every day. I have no idea what other elective I could possibly take, but even an extra gym class is more appealing than being in close proximity to Hunter and Brynn as they undress each other with their eyes or whatever heartless cheaters do when they’re together.

  I hear my phone buzzing from my backpack and find a text from Jodie.

  How’s it going, Lionel Messi?

  Only Jodie can make me laugh at myself right now. It’s the first time I’ve smiled in days.

  Trying to switch out of home ec.

  Don’t give them the satisfaction of running away from them!

  I’m about to respond, “Do you really want me in the general vicinity of knives and meat cleavers with those two around?” when the door opens to my counselor Mrs. Gillroy’s office. She’s wearing a dark conservative suit, which contrasts with her bright, flaming-orange blouse. If my emotions could be a color right now, they’d be that.

  “Mary Ellen, good to see you again,” Mrs. Gillroy says. “What brings you here today? Did you want to start thinking about your admissions essay for Penn State?”

  “No, but I can’t believe you remembered I want to go there.” We had a brief college discussion when I first transferred back in January. There are roughly twelve hundred kids at RHHS, which is like three hundred in the senior class alone—and yet she can recall a minor conversation she had with me.

  Mrs. Gillroy smiles. “It’s my job. Also, I loved how passionate you were about meteorology. Have you thought about joining the school TV station to get some experience being in front of the camera?”

  “I have a part-time job,” I remind her. “You know, to help pay for college.”

  She nods. “I’m aware of that, but the TV station films in the morning and they wouldn’t need you every day after school. Surely you could fit it into your schedule?”

  “Possibly. But they already have a weatherperson,” I say. “Also, I want to do the more scientific side of meteorology over broadcasting.”

  “Still, you may end up wanting to be in front of the camera later, and you can pick up some helpful skills there,” Mrs. Gillroy says. “Even if you end up in the research aspect, you never know if you’ll be called upon to be an expert on TV someday.”

  I know she’s right about this. But the thing is, I’m kind of terrified of being on camera. The idea of kids being like, “Oh my god, it’s the globe-kicking cold fish!” makes me want to puke.

  Mrs. Gillroy is staring at me, so I say, “I’ll think about it,” to get her off my back a bit.

  “Good,” she says, then consults a folder on her desk. “Ah, so you’re here to switch a class.”

  “I want to switch out of Life Skills,” I say, and she immediately raises her eyebrows in surprise.

  “That’s intriguing. It’s one of our most popular electives. Is it not demanding enough for you?’

  Don’t try reverse psychology on me, lady. Not today.

  “I’m just not sure I need to understand budgeting and cooking and sewing and all that at seventeen,” I say, knowing it probably sounds completely lame.

  Mrs. Gillroy smiles. “If you’re not going to learn it now, when are you? Being on your own in college will probably come as less of a shock if you have some idea of what it’s like to be self-reliant.”

  “I am self-reliant,” I say, and I know it comes out super defensive.

  She stares at me hard, as if she’s trying to figure out if she should say what’s on her mind. Finally, it comes out. “I feel like this may be coming from somewhere else. Honestly, in all my years of doing this job no one has ever wanted to drop that class from their schedule.”

  Oh, crap. What if my blowup yesterday got all the way to school administration? I feel heat creeping up my neck into my face. “I—”

  “Is there something you’re trying to avoid? Or someone, maybe?”

  I can’t help it when it comes flying out of my mouth. “You try being in close proximity to the guy who broke your heart and his new girlfriend for the next nine months.”

  She eases back in her seat and tents her fingers. “So you want to drop this informative, helpful class—that will help you for the rest of your life—because you can’t move on from an old relationship?”

  “Old? He just dumped me two days ago. And he moved on really quickly. He may have even been cheating on me.” I add that last part because, really, is the gravity of adultery lost on anyone?

  But Mrs. Gillroy is unmoved. She just stares at me, like I’m somehow trying her patience. “Mary Ellen, do you really want to be the type of person who runs away from difficult situations? Who can’t take a challenge?”

  Spending an entire school year with Hunter and Brynn isn’t my idea of a challenge, it’s out-and-out torture. Still, knowing that Mrs. Gillroy obviously doesn’t see my unending heartbreak as a good enough reason to drop a class, I can’t think of anything to say.

  “Exactly,” she says, taking my steamed silence as confirmation. “Which is why I’m denying your request to switch out. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, you know?”

  It is going to kill me to see Hunter and Brynn be all lovey-dovey with each other, but I know I can’t win this fight.

  “You don’t look so thrilled with this,” Mrs. Gillroy s
ays.

  I clench my teeth, kind of fed up with her unsympathetic platitudes. Everything I say to her gets countered back to me, so I just shrug as angrily as possible.

  “Well, if there’s anything else I can help you with, let me know.”

  “Yup,” I grumble, grabbing my backpack.

  “Make an appointment with me when you start filling out your college applications!”

  Maybe I should forget about meteorology and change my career choice to guidance counselor, since all you apparently have to do is dole out clichés and make people feel bad about feeling bad. That sounds easy enough to me.

  But then I guess that would be unchallenging, wouldn’t it?

  Sigh.

  CHAPTER 6

  I’ve got a huge case of “don’t mess with me” by the time I get to the home ec room. If I have to spend the rest of the year watching this train wreck, then I intend to let everyone know how unhappy I am to be here. It’s better than being the sad and hurt victim, which is probably what Hunter is expecting me to be.

  Hunter and Brynn arrive at the same time. Their heads are bent together, and they’re smiling as if sharing some sweet, cute little secret.

  Vomit.

  When they see me glaring at them, both of their faces stiffen and they swallow hard as they sit down at our table. I’d like to think they’re feeling guilty, but I’m not sure either is capable of it. More than likely they’re afraid of me, because Brynn makes a point to leave an empty seat between us. Like that space will stop me from kicking another globe at her or something.

  After the bell rings, Mrs. Sanchez leans on her counter and peers at our table over her glasses. “It appears as if Paul Wilder has been expelled for his little stunt the other day.”