The Secret Recipe for Moving On

by Karen Bischer

  “What’s with all the canned goods?” Isaiah says, noting that our table is stacked with cans of beans and vegetables and tuna. The Bukowskis’ table has a bunch of cleaning supplies on it. The Bakers’ table is stacked with toothpaste and moisturizer.

  Before I can answer, Luke comes in and takes a seat with a neutral “hey” to everyone. I don’t make eye contact when I say it back. I do, however, make the mistake of noticing that he’s wearing a royal-blue, long-sleeve shirt that probably brings out his eyes to a crazy degree, the fabric hugging his arms and chest in all the right places.

  He probably did this on purpose to torture me. To show me what I’m missing. As if I’m the one who masqueraded as a nice guy and lied about not breaking up with their significant other. I force myself to stare at my hands.

  And then Mrs. Sanchez saves my life.

  “Okay, everyone, today we’re going to organize all the PTA donations for the St. Mark’s homeless shelter.” She gestures at our tables and then at several large boxes on the floor next to her. “Since this isn’t our usual class assignment, I’m going to break up the routine a bit and put you in different groups. There won’t be any points for this.”

  A.J. and Isaiah both slump in their seats. Luke stares at the boxes, so I have no idea what he’s thinking. I fight really hard to not look relieved, but seriously, this is fantastic news.

  “I’ll give you a slip with a category on it, and then you’ll join everyone else who draws that category,” Mrs. Sanchez says, extending a small brown bag toward my table.

  Isaiah and A.J. both pull out slips marked “toiletries.” Luke gets canned goods. I hold my breath as I pull out a slip marked “cleaning products.” I’m so relieved I smile at Mrs. Sanchez, a silent thank-you for sparing me an afternoon of awkwardness.

  “All right, cleaning products!” Hunter whoops from behind me.

  No.

  I spin around in my seat to confirm that we’re in the same group, and, sure enough, Hunter is waving around a slip identical to mine. Brynn is frowning at hers, so I’m guessing that means she’s not in our group.

  Before I have a chance to ask Isaiah or A.J. to switch with me, they’ve wandered over to the table that has the stacks of toothpaste. Brynn shuffles over to them, along with Bryce.

  I probably shuffle just as slowly to the table that’s piled with paper towels, bleach, and laundry detergent … where Jared is already standing. We’re joined by Hannah, who hasn’t said two words to me since Hunter dumped me. I inhale deeply and close my eyes, and when I open them, I see that Luke has landed himself with a girl from Jersey Strong and two girls from the Bakers, and they’re already laughing about something.

  “Of course,” I mutter to myself, trying to ignore the twinge in my stomach.

  On our table, there’s a clipboard with a chart on it, which we have to fill in with the products we have. It seems like it’ll be a good distraction, so I grab it. We work silently for a few minutes, until Jared seemingly gets bored and leans on the table, resting his chin on his hand. Then he grins devilishly, his eyes flitting between Hunter and me. “Is this weird for you guys, working together?”

  “No, is it weird for you?” Hunter says with an amount of sarcasm I didn’t know he had in him.

  “Oh, right, you guys were simpatico at the party,” Jared says, tossing a roll of paper towels like a football. “Although I think that might be because someone has moved on.”

  I feel my cheeks flush and I hope the alarm I feel in my gut doesn’t register in my eyes. I just glare at him, maddeningly unable to come up with anything to say.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Sanchez leaves two boxes next to our table and we can start packing things into them.

  I notice that Brynn is bossing her group around, clipboard in hand, pen over her ear. I can hear her condescendingly explaining why she should be in charge of the chart. I lock eyes with A.J., who gestures like he’s strangling himself, which gets me to chuckle. But I can’t even hear myself over the loud peals of laughter coming from the canned goods table. Luke is pretending a box is so heavy that he can’t lift it, delighting his female partners. I exhale through my nose slowly.

  “What’s the matter, Ellie? Missing certain family members?” Jared asks and sticks out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout.

  “Do you, like, even have a life outside of trying to start shit?” Hannah says, narrowing her eyes at Jared, surprising me.

  But he’s still staring at me.

  “Jared, I don’t know what your problem—”

  “And how’s it going here?” Mrs. Sanchez says before I can finish.

  “Fantastic!” Jared says.

  “Looks like you’ve got a full box already. Ms. Chow and Mr. Curtis, why don’t you follow me and I’ll get you situated with some packing tape and labels,” Mrs. Sanchez says, waving them toward the front of the room.

  “Can we tape Jared’s mouth shut, too?” I mutter before I can stop myself, which makes Hunter snort so loud that he clamps a hand over his mouth.

  “He’s such a dick,” Hunter says.

  “The biggest,” I say.

  There’s another burst of laughter then from Luke’s table—they’re all doubled over, giggling about something. Like, who knew canned goods could be so hilarious?

  “So, have you gotten your Penn State application in?” Hunter asks as he piles paper towels into another box.

  “Last week,” I say, grateful for the distraction. “What about you?”

  I could be imagining it, but Hunter shifts uncomfortably. He bites his lip and nods. “Princeton, of course. And a couple of other safety schools.”

  He must be worried he’s not going to get accepted to Princeton, and that his family will kill him if he ruins the family legacy and doesn’t get in. It’s the only thing that would explain that look on his face. But, since I’m not his girlfriend anymore, it’s not my business to ask, so I don’t say anything.

  “I noticed you were late to class yesterday—was that something to do with your other applications? Because I know Ellie Agresti doesn’t cut class.”

  A flicker of annoyance burns through me. We aren’t close anymore, and yet he’s under the impression that he knows me so well. Even if he is kinda right in this instance, it’s irritating that he thinks I’m still the same person I was two months ago.

  “Actually, I was interviewing someone for a segment on RHHS TV. And I think they’re going to ask me to be the weather forecaster,” I say and I look directly at him when I say this, because I know his jaw is going to drop. And it does. Because I guess I still know him.

  “Wow, that’s awesome,” he says when he recovers. I wait for him to add something vaguely undermine-y like, “I can’t believe you’re actually working there.” So I’m shocked when he’s like, “You seem really at ease in front of the camera. I bet you’ll be great.”

  “Thanks,” I say, almost a little disappointed I can’t fight him on this.

  “Are you going to have a funny sign-off or anything at the end?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “Oh, come on, you have to!” Hunter says. “Like, ‘That’s the forecast. I’m Ellie, don’t be jelly.’”

  It’s so bad, I actually can’t help it when I chuckle. “Well, I’m definitely not going with that.”

  Now Hunter laughs. “You’re right, it’s terrible.”

  Our laughter has caught the attention of Luke, who’s peering at us over his clipboard. When our eyes meet, he quickly diverts his gaze back to his chart. I wish I could say I feel smug in having caught him, but I just feel sort of hollow inside.

  Jared, apparently having witnessed this exchange of glances, gives me a smirk from the front of the room, and my feelings of hollowness are replaced with simmering disgust. I don’t hurl the roll of paper towels in my hand at him, and I consider that a small victory.

  I have to take these wins where I can.

  CHAPTER 19

  Over the ne
xt couple of weeks, Luke and I only speak when necessary, and he’s as cool with me as I am with him. It’s not easy, but I go out of my way to joke around and be as easygoing as possible with Isaiah and A.J. to try and keep our group dynamic intact. We’ve even managed to hang on to second place while Synergy has dropped behind us by ten points. It’s my one small joy right now.

  But apparently, I’m not getting an Oscar anytime soon, because my mom’s asked if I’m okay at least three times, and then, one day at lunch, Isaiah looks up from the book he’s reading about the racehorse Seabiscuit and fixes me with a solemn stare.

  “Are you and Luke fighting or something?” he asks.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Crap. I know I can’t deny it because Isaiah has clearly seen the tension between us and he’s not dumb. But I don’t want to make it anymore soap opera than it already is. “I’m sorry, is it making things awkward for you and A.J.?”

  Isaiah wrinkles his nose. “We’re big boys, we can handle it. I just wondered if, you know, you were okay. You’ve seemed sad.”

  I give him my most hopeful smile. “Without getting into it, I’m okay, and thanks for asking. And if it does make things weird for you guys, tell me, okay? I don’t want to mess up our group. I’m trying to keep it normal.”

  “Like I said, we can handle it. It’s just that you guys … oh, never mind.” He looks back down at his book and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to prod him about finishing his thought. Since it’s Isaiah, I decide to let it go. But I do wonder what he was going to say.

  I pretend to be deeply interested in my French homework, but I’m distracted. Have I really seemed sad? I’ve tried to make a point to not wallow, but I guess I’m not that great at hiding my emotions. Though, I thought if anything, I’d probably come across angry or at the very least peeved. But, somehow, I’m projecting sadness? To the point where the quietest person in my life feels the need to ask if I’m okay?

  I … don’t know that I want to think about that.

  I do know it can’t help that I haven’t even been able to talk to Jodie about it. I’ve only seen her once, at a bowling birthday party for our St. Catherine’s friend Audra, and she was weirdly in this super-enthusiastic state, which, after having known her the last nine years, I knew was totally put-on.

  “You hanging in there?” I’d asked. “I know you’re not that jazzed about bowling-alley pizza.”

  “Should I not be okay?” she’d shot back. It was confusing because it looked like she was blinking back tears, but her voice was totally angry. So I dropped it.

  I silently cursed the fact that USC is a plane ride away, because I’m terrified she’s never going to be the same again and I’m about to lose my best friend.

  This all means I need to toe the line for the people who are still speaking to me, so when I get to the school laundry room for that day’s home ec lesson, I try to smile and be as chipper as possible. Even if I still can’t really look Luke in the eye, I make a point to stand next to him as we fold freshly washed towels. He’s wearing a T-shirt today, and I notice he’s got a sizeable bandage wrapped around his left elbow. I wonder if he got it while training, but I don’t have it in me to direct a question to him.

  It helps that A.J. is unbelievably grouchy today, grunting responses to questions and downright snarling at Jared, who keeps “accidentally” bumping into our table.

  “If he does that one more time, I swear to god,” he grumbles.

  “Whoa,” Luke says, holding his hands up. “Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

  A.J.’s face gets more snarly. “He’s being more of a prick than usual.”

  Jared is on the opposite side of our table, holding court with his group. He’s too busy pretending to do a striptease with dish towels to hear A.J.’s comment.

  I don’t get to think about that too long because Mrs. Sanchez claps her hands together. “Everyone, I have an announcement! The Monday after Thanksgiving, we’re going to be doing an in-class Feast-Off. This means you will be responsible for creating your own special occasion menu and those menus have to stick to your budgets.”

  Luke and Isaiah both sigh deeply. I know what they’re thinking, that all we can afford on our budget is macaroni and cheese from a box.

  “Whoever is the most creative and puts together the best meal for their budget gets up to fifty points.”

  The whole room starts buzzing. Fifty points could catapult anyone to the top. And given our limited budget, that would mean anyone behind us could leapfrog us. Like Synergy.

  “There are ways to be creative about spending, so don’t think your group can’t compete if your budget is tight.” She doesn’t have to look our way when she says this, but I know that comment is directed at us. “Think about what kind of meal you want to prepare. The more challenging the meal, the more points you’re likely to get.”

  I look at my group members and they’re all wearing the same deep-in-thought expression.

  “Yo, like, maybe we could do this?” A.J. says suddenly. “Fifty points would put us, like, solidly in first place.”

  I don’t know if it’s because that line of thinking is crazy or because grouchy A.J.’s being the optimist here, but we all kind of stare at him blankly.

  “But with our budget?” Isaiah says. “Maybe we can get some points but those other groups are going to have the money to make rack of lamb and stuff. Jeez, even the Bakers have more money than we do, and they’re only just behind us.”

  “It doesn’t have to be super-fancy. She said ‘the best meal for our budget,’” A.J. says.

  “And the most challenging,” Luke says, sounding tired.

  A.J. exhales through his nose. “You guys aren’t looking at this the right way. My grandma’s supermarket gives out free turkeys if you spend a certain amount of money. I think our fake class supermarket would too, especially if we asked Mrs. Sanchez about it.”

  “You’re right. That’s exactly the kind of creativity she’s looking for,” I say. Then I peek over my shoulder to make sure Jared’s group isn’t listening. Luckily, Jared’s too consumed resuming his striptease via dish towels to be paying attention.

  “We can probably throw together some affordable side dishes,” Luke says, rubbing his chin.

  “And my grandma has a recipe for turkey seasoning and stuffing that’s awesome,” A.J. says.

  At that precise moment, Jared, now flinging his towels around like propellers, whacks Isaiah in the back with one. Mrs. Sanchez is too busy showing Jersey Strong how to clean out a dryer’s lint filter to see this.

  “Jesus, watch out,” Isaiah snaps.

  Jared bats his eyelashes. “I’m just working on my new stripper routine.”

  “Yeah, well, you kind of suck at it,” Luke says.

  “Perhaps,” Jared says, lowering his towels. “But then maybe I should seek out A.J.’s mother for advice.”

  A.J.’s head flicks up from his folding. “What did you just say?”

  Jared shrugs. “Oh, come on, A.J. I know she ditched you when you were young, but wasn’t she a stripper?”

  I’m alarmed at how red A.J.’s face is growing. In fact, Luke and I lock eyes at that moment, like our concern for him overrides whatever chasm is between us. He takes a step forward, as if anticipating A.J. throwing a punch or something, but A.J. stays rooted in place. “She was a cocktail waitress,” he says through clenched teeth. “There’s a big difference.”

  Jared tilts his head and taps his chin with his finger. “Is there, though?”

  In one instant, A.J. is glowering at Jared. In the next, he grabs the bottle of detergent sitting next to him and I know what’s going to happen next.

  “Don’t!” I gasp, reaching forward to try and grab A.J., but he doesn’t seem to hear me, because he rears back and it looks like the bottle is going to hit me in the face in that movement, but two hands yank me back before the bottle can clonk me.

  “A.J., dude!” Luke cries from behind me, his hands firmly on my shoulders.
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  A.J. turns around and his arm drops. A look of recognition crosses his face, like he realizes what could’ve just happened and, for just a moment, his face crumples slightly, like he might cry. But then his color goes bright red. “Fuck!” he yells, and, instead of throwing the detergent at Jared, he hurls it across the room, where it slams into the white cinder-block wall, leaving a big blue splotch of soap that trails down to the floor.

  “A.J. Johnson!” Mrs. Sanchez booms, pointing at the door. “Principal’s office. Now!”

  A.J.’s face has gone pale, but his jaw is clenched. I expect him to try and take Jared down with him by saying he was taunted, but for some reason, he doesn’t. Without a word, he storms out of the room.

  Most of the class is just watching shocked and openmouthed. Bryce and Anthony, however, are laughing hysterically, like a pair of overly gelled hyenas, and I see Brynn whispering something to Hannah, both with judgmental looks on their faces. Hunter, though, is staring at me, his eyes full of concern.

  Luke’s hands are still on my shoulders and he’s breathing heavy.

  “You all right?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I say, though I know I’m shaking slightly.

  “I saw that happening in slow motion,” he says wearily, and his hands finally drop off my shoulders. Jared is next to us, so I take a huge step away from Luke.

  “You grabbed her just in time,” Isaiah says, shaking his head.

  Mrs. Sanchez comes over to our group and squeezes my shoulder.

  “Are you okay, Ms. Agresti?” she asks.

  “Her?” Jared yelps. “What about me? He was going to throw it at me!”

  Mrs. Sanchez turns and fixes him with a cold stare. “But he didn’t, did he?”

  Jared blanches like he’s tasted something sour, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “I’m fine,” I say to Mrs. Sanchez, and she pats my arm. As she walks away, Jared makes a face behind her back and his group-mates wear a collective bitchface, as Jodie would say. “That guy’s a thug who belongs in juvie. She has no idea what she’s talking about,” Jared mutters, just loud enough to hear.