The Secret Recipe for Moving On

by Karen Bischer

  I try not to turn red as I hand him the bowl. “Sorry, I’m out of it. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “It could be the change in weather,” Isaiah says as he lines a cookie sheet with parchment paper. “It’s gotten pretty cold lately.”

  “True,” I say, leaving out the part about my dreams being super, um, hot.

  “You know what you need?” A.J. asks as he places the bowl in its cupboard.

  “What?” I’m terrified he’s going to say “sex” or something equally crude.

  “Chamomile tea. Works like a charm.”

  I choke back a laugh and his brow furrows. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. I just can’t picture you getting cozy with a cup of tea is all.”

  “Laugh all you want. It works!”

  “What works?” Luke asks, returning from the pantry with a cup of flour.

  “I was just saying that chamomile tea is good for relaxing,” A.J. says. “Ellie’s having trouble sleeping.”

  “Is that so?” Luke says. Then he grins at me in a way that I swear to god makes me think he can read my mind. “Everything all right?”

  “I’m a little stressed with classes and stuff, you know,” I say, heat creeping into my face.

  “Ah, don’t let our in-class competition stress you out,” Luke says. “We may be tied for second place, but that’s not the end of the world.”

  We all kind of stare at the dry-erase board with the group rankings hung up at the front of the room. The Bukowskis are still leading everyone, followed by us and Synergy, then Jersey Strong, then the Bakers.

  “But tied with Synergy isn’t exactly beating them now, is it?” I say, and I know it comes out as snappish as it sounds in my head because Luke’s eyes widen in surprise. I can’t tell if it’s fueled by my annoyance by the sex dreams or the frustration that somehow, no matter how hard we work in class, we can’t seem to pull ahead of Hunter and Brynn for longer than a day or two.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked Mrs. Sanchez about the extra credit for our day at the races in front of everyone,” I say. “We’d be ahead of them now if not for that.”

  “Yeah, but how were you supposed to know they’d do an activity, too?” Isaiah says.

  I glance over at Synergy, where Brynn is lecturing Steve for brushing too much milk on top of their scones. “Oh, I totally should’ve known.”

  “We at least need Jared’s group knocked out of first or I’ll hurt someone,” A.J. mutters as he sprinkles sugar on top of our scones.

  “We’re only ten points out of first,” Isaiah says. “Totally catch-able.”

  A.J. lifts our cookie sheet full of scones and places it in the oven. We survey the rest of the kitchens, and it looks as if we’re the first ones to get our scones baking. “That ought to buy us a few points,” A.J. says.

  “That ought to buy us few points,” a mocking voice parrots from nearby.

  We swoop around to see Jared, sporting a paisley beret today, opening the refrigerator and shaking his head at us.

  “You got a problem, jackass?” A.J. asks.

  “No,” Jared says, clutching a fist to his chest, and making a face like he’s about to fake cry. “I’m just so touched that you guys have come together so well. You’re like a Hallmark movie or something.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Sanchez watching us from her perch at the front of the room. I nudge A.J., in an effort to keep him from blowing up, but he ignores me.

  “Dude, I swear to god, if you—”

  “I have a question, Jared,” I interject cheerfully. “Do you wear your beret to keep from getting cold when you’re standing in front of the fridge for so long or are you just trying to hide premature male pattern baldness?”

  Luke bursts out laughing, a funny, high-pitched cackle. I notice even the rest of Jared’s group is fighting a smile. Jared, however, scowls at me. If Mrs. Sanchez notices this is going down, she doesn’t say anything.

  “Shut up, Ellie” is the only thing Jared can come up with. He fills a measuring cup with milk from the refrigerator, then storms off to his kitchen in a huff. I suspect I’ll be the victim of some kind of mean-spirited blind item on The Buzz tonight as a result.

  Isaiah is giggling and Luke is wiping tears from his eyes and patting me on the shoulder, making me all tingly. But A.J.’s face is stony.

  “Why didn’t you let me say what I needed to say?”

  “Because Mrs. Sanchez was watching and I didn’t want to lose any points. You want to beat Jared, right?”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” he says sulkily as he starts to clean off the counter.

  Luke shakes his head as if to say, “Let him be.” So I back off and return to the sink, where I wring out the sponge and watch A.J. scrub the counters so hard, his paper towels rip apart.

  “Okay, everyone,” Mrs. Sanchez says a few minutes later. “Since you’ve all got your scones in the ovens, I wanted to make an announcement.”

  For a moment, and I have no idea where this comes from, I’m terrified she’s going to tell us we have to switch our groups. Like what she has just seen go down between my group and Jared has inspired her to shake things up a bit in the name of bonding.

  “As you may know, the winter dance is scheduled for December fifth,” she says, and I’m flooded with relief. “And every year at the dance, there’s a refreshment table. This year, in the interest of saving money, the school has asked if my classes will provide homemade snacks. And they’re going to need people to man the tables.”

  The whole class groans, but Mrs. Sanchez holds up her hands.

  “But since I have six classes, I’ve figured out a way for this to work. Whichever group is last in points from each class will have to work the table for a half hour.”

  I check the dry-erase board. We’re only twenty points ahead of Jersey Strong and thirty ahead of the Bakers, and there’s four weeks of class left before the dance. We may be tied for second, but it’s not a far fall to the bottom. I have no plans to go to the dance as it is and I’m certainly not looking forward to the prospect of being forced to watch Hunter and Brynn slow dance while I dole out cookies and brownies to the hungry masses.

  Callie Gorman, one of the Bakers, who is always on the verge of making a grandstanding speech (she once told me she was a suffragette hooker in her past life), stands up. “We’re being forced to partake in after-school activities because the school board is cheap?”

  I can’t argue with her there.

  “You won’t be forced into anything, Ms. Gorman, if your group doesn’t finish in last place,” Mrs. Sanchez says. “And for the record, any group in this class can finish in last, even those who appear to be front runners now. There’s a long way to go till this term is over.”

  Luke smiles at us and nods as if to say, “See?”

  And it makes me hot and flustered again. Ugh.

  * * *

  That night, I realize there’s a reason I never go to parties: Dressing for the occasion makes me PMS-levels of grouchy. I am definitely not one of those girls who can put an outfit together effortlessly. I stand in front of my full-length mirror and my frowning reflection practically dares me to chuck it out the window.

  I’m certain I don’t have the right clothes for Alisha’s party. Like, I’m sure the girls who do go out every weekend must get gussied up and look like something out of a Zara window. I will never be able to pull that off, and they’ll stare at me and whisper about my lack of fashion sense.

  I settle on a close-fitting brown V-neck sweater over a cream-colored camisole with lace trim. I’ve got my jeans and my favorite pair of brown leather boots. Basically, this would’ve been an outfit I’d wear if Hunter had said, “Let’s go out, just the two of us,” back when we were dating. But how am I supposed to know if this passes for high-school-party chic?

  My phone rings then and it’s Jodie, probably calling to run her outfit by me. Or maybe she worked up the nerve to ask Joaquin to come w
ith us—they’ve been chatting a bit since the football game. We haven’t really talked since Tuesday because her parents took her on a road trip to Georgetown, their alma mater, for a college visit.

  “Hey, lady. Ready to observe your first keg stand?”

  Jodie is silent for a moment, then clears her throat. “I can’t go.”

  “Did your parents find out?” I say.

  “No,” she says, her voice flat and quiet. “I had a panic attack.”

  I’m so confused that I have to sit down on my bed. “When? Why? Are you okay?”

  “I didn’t tell you, but my parents and I wanted to test flying, in case I get into USC. We were going to fly down to DC since it’s a short flight. Except I couldn’t get on the plane because I had a panic attack at the gate. We didn’t even end up going to Georgetown.”

  “Oh, Jodie, I’m so sorry,” I say, my heart breaking for her.

  “It’s over. I can’t go to USC.”

  “You can still apply, though,” I say, trying to latch on to some sliver of hope. “Maybe you could drive or take the train there.”

  “Then I’d never really be able to come home. That takes too long. It’s just not realistic.”

  I’ve never seen this side of Jodie. She’s not the type to be melodramatic or feel sorry for herself. She must have truly come to a final decision about this, and there’s no way around it.

  “Forget the party,” I say, looking for my bag. “I’ll be right over.”

  “No, El, don’t,” she says quietly. “I really can’t be around anyone right now.”

  “But—”

  “Honestly, I just want to be alone. Besides, Alisha seemed to really want you there and she’s so nice. Don’t let her down.”

  “Well, I can—”

  Jodie gives tight laugh. “No, you don’t have to swing by after the party, either. Trust me, I really just want to be alone to process this.”

  “Okay,” I say, still not wanting to believe that her entire college dream has just crashed down.

  “Don’t take it personally, okay?” she says. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow. I promise. And please don’t tell anyone.”

  “All right,” I say. “I’m really, really sorry.”

  When we hang up, I just stare at my phone. I feel as if it’s been decided I’m not going to USC, that’s how hard I’ve been rooting for Jodie to get in. She’s wanted to go there since I met her.

  What little celebratory spirit I had has been sucked out by the phone call and I totally don’t know if I can go to this party by myself. But then I remember Alisha and how excited she was for me to come. I allow myself a big sigh, then pull myself off the bed and grab my coat.

  When I make my way downstairs, Mom is curled up on the living room couch, clipping coupons and watching what looks like a documentary on the Incas and Machu Picchu. Part of me aches to just climb in the recliner and pull the mothball-smelling afghan over me, and indulge my inner nerdiness with my mother.

  “I’m gonna head over to Alisha’s,” I say. Mom thinks I’m going over there for a game night with a few classmates.

  “Do you want a ride?” she asks, muting the TV.

  It’s cold and dark outside and the prospect of being transported to Alisha’s house in a warm car is inviting. But it’ll be obvious to my mom that there’s more than a game night going on when she sees all the cars outside Alisha’s house, so I’m going to have to suck this one up and tough it out.

  “That’s okay. Alisha lives over on Daffodil Lane, so it’s close,” I say.

  “Well, if you need a ride back, call.”

  “Will do,” I say, heading into the front hall.

  “Have fun,” Mom calls as I open the front door, and part of me wonders if she knows that there’s going to be more than just Monopoly and Boggle at Alisha’s.

  Almost instantly, I regret not taking the ride. It’s unseasonably cold for late October, and there’s a sharp wind blowing, which makes my nose sting and my eyes water. I pull my hat down over my ears, then fold my arms and march headfirst into the wind.

  Alisha’s house is older, like mine, and it’s set back from the street, with a long gravel driveway leading up to it. There are already a bunch of cars lining the driveway, and I can hear music thumping from her house, where it seems every single light is on. I remember Darpan once saying they’re lucky because the house backs up to the woods, and if they have a party no one is in earshot to call the cops on them. I sincerely hope tonight isn’t the night that goes by the wayside, as I’d like to not have a criminal record.

  I climb the steps to the front door and see a couple totally making out on the porch swing next to it. I pray it’s not Hunter and Brynn, then remember Alisha saying they’d be at Kim’s. A combination of being freezing and feeling completely awkward makes me stride past them to the front door, which is open a crack.

  The music becomes much louder when I open the door to let myself in. I wouldn’t say the entire senior class is here, but the place is pretty packed. I scan the room for any RHHS TV people I can attach myself to, but I don’t see anyone I know. Almost everyone is hanging out in the living room, drinking from red cups and beer cans. Some are passing around a joint and, instantly, I feel totally out of place. I step backward, thinking maybe I can make an escape before I’m spotted, when I hear someone yell, “Ellie! Thank god!”

  I look to my right and see Alisha, wearing oven mitts and her walking cast, limping out of the kitchen. Her face is flushed, but she gives me a big smile, then grabs my hand in one of her mitts and leads me into the kitchen, which has a baby gate in the doorway.

  “It’s safer in here,” she says as she opens the gate. “I want at least one room of the house to not get destroyed, so I told D if he kept everyone out of the kitchen, I’d make snacks.”

  There are a bunch of cookie sheets on the table and several boxes of frozen appetizers on the counter. This is how introverts cope with a raging party, right here.

  “So, who else are you expecting?” I ask.

  “Most of senior class, apparently,” she says, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her face. “Like I said, we don’t have to worry about Kim or any of them at least.” Her eyes kind of sparkle when she says this and I laugh.

  “Where’s Jodie?” Alisha asks, frowning.

  I remember how Jodie asked me not to tell anyone about USC, and I keep my word—even though I’d love to ask someone for advice on what I can do to help her right now. “She’s not feeling well tonight.”

  Alisha nods. “Yeah, it’s cold and flu season, it sucks. Oh, hey, you can help yourself to a drink out on the deck. We have soda. Hell, have a beer. We have enough to start our own bar out there.”

  I’m greeted by a gust of cold air when I step through the kitchen door onto the deck, and I’m glad my coat is still on. There’s a group of fairly large guys gathered around a giant red cooler and a keg. I almost go back inside, because I’m not sure if I’m crashing some male-bonding moment right here.

  Then I hear, “Hey, Rash, it’s the girl who made you famous!” Rashad’s head pokes up from the group and I’m flooded with relief. He waves me over.

  “Hey, Mary Ellen. What are you drinking?” he says, throwing open the cooler as I approach. The guys are all looking at me and I realize they’re all football players.

  “A Coke, please,” I say with a smile.

  “Just a Coke?” asks Joey Santini, the tight end with, uh, the best tight end of any senior guy, if this year’s underground senior superlatives are to be believed. “You helped Rashad land the girl of his dreams with that interview. You deserve a beer!”

  Rashad nods and laughs. “The interview got Olivia McCoy to talk to me,” he says.

  Darren Perry, the quarterback, nods. “She said seeing how good he was with Montague made her go all gushy inside.”

  “I’m so glad!” I say. “Who knew psycho Montague could make a love connection?”

  “Here, this Bud’s for you,” Joey says,
opening a can and handing it to me.

  “But I—” The words “just wanted a Coke” catch in my throat. I’m being kind of celebrated here and I don’t want to seem rude, so I take the can. I don’t have to drink the whole beer. Because this isn’t going to be a “if this were a bad TV show” moment, where I get drunk and dance on tables and “come out of my shell.”

  “Thank you,” I say, the can practically freezing to my hand.

  “Cheers,” Rashad says, clinking his can with mine.

  “Uh, cheers,” I reply. I bring the can to my lips and close my eyes. I’ve tasted beer before and I’m not a fan, so I take a tiny sip and try not to make a face.

  Rashad tells me all about Olivia, whom he’s had his eye on since sophomore year. “We have AP Calculus together, but she was always hanging out with her theater friends and I could never get her attention.”

  I take another sip of beer and it doesn’t seem as bad as the first, but yeah, it’s still nasty. “Sometimes all it takes is a smile,” I say, repeating what the old guy sitting behind us at the football game told Jodie.

  “Or, in this case, a dog,” Rashad says. “She said she thought I was Mr. Serious before, but after she saw the interview, she sought me out for homework help.”

  “Well, I’m glad RHHS TV could be of service,” I say, and we clink cans again.

  We chat for a little bit longer and I guess I must be pretty much as lightweight as you can get because after a half a can of beer, I begin to feel at ease, but also a little woozy. I make my way back inside, shaking my head at Alisha. “The football team insisted on giving me a thank-you beer for helping Rashad get a date.”

  Alisha throws her head back and laughs. “You’re one of them now!”

  I dump the rest of the beer down the sink and throw the empty can in Alisha’s specially marked bag. “Darpan swears he’s taking it to the recycling center tomorrow, before our parents get home. But I’m going to bet that I’m the one who takes it because he’s going to be too hungover.”

  “I’ll help you collect bottles and cans tonight,” I say, shrugging off my coat and laying it over a chair at the kitchen table. It’s a lot hotter in the kitchen, and given my somewhat wobbly state, it’s probably best if I get out of it for a little bit.