The Jock and the Fat Chick Read Online Free

sets it in the center of the pan, so it becomes half covered in water.
    “You’re boiling fish?” I ask.
    “Nooo, it’s called poaching.”
    “‘Nooo, it’s called poaching,’” I mimic, but then realize Claire doesn’t know my sense of humor.
    She gets real quiet, then tilts her head to the side. “You know . . . you should be nicer to the one who holds the recipe.”
    I pretend to zip my lips shut. She’s funny, and clearly isn’t afraid to tease me back.
    Mrs. A clears her throat and announces that she needs to make some photocopies and we have twenty minutes left. The second she shuts the door behind her, Claire leans over to say something, and without meaning to, my eyes land on her chest—I’m not trying to be a perv, but I can’t help catch a peek at her cleavage and her deep-red bra strap.
    “You know she’s not going to the copier room, right?”
    “Huh?” I say, like a Neanderthal. Red bras must do thatto me.
    “Mrs. A. She’s not going to the photocopy room.”
    “No?”
    Claire shakes her head and then makes a V with two fingers and brings them to her mouth, like she’s smoking a cigarette. It’s obvious Claire has never held a smoke before.
    In mock-shock I whisper “Noooo,” and pinch two fingers, bringing them up to my mouth, like I understand that Mrs. A has left to toke on a joint.
    Claire laughs so hard she grabs on to my arm to steady herself.
    I glance at her hand squeezing my tricep. Could she be flirting with me? I scan the room. To my horror, the messy-haired, black makeup–eyed freak show glares at me like something out of a scary Japanese film. What the hell is Rat’s-Nest Girl’s problem, anyway? Shouldn’t she be burning or sacrificing something? Her beady-eyed gaze slaps me back to reality and why I’m here—scholarship. I refocus on our assignment. “So, what now?” I say, using my good student voice.
    Claire ladles a large spoonful of broth, containing herbs and spices, and pours it over the rice and butter in a circular motion.
    “Stir,” she instructs. “But don’t overstir.”
    I’m about to ask how one could possibly overstir when the anime girl and her partner wave Claire over. She wipesher hands on her apron and then hurries down the platform. For a second, I wonder if they’ve called her so they can make a crack about me, but as they chat, no one laughs or glances my way. Claire tastes their dish and reaches for an herb, I think. She says something and points to something else—it might be hot sauce—and gives it two shakes over the pot. She instructs them to stir and then wipes her hands again.
    The second she’s finished, the two stoners want Claire’s attention. One of them holds up a glob of pasta all stuck together at one end.
    Claire turns to me. “Turn the fish over and add another ladle of broth to the risotto,” she instructs, and I hop to it, like it was an order from Coach. Whatever she’s making, it smells good.
    “Oh my god,” Rat’s-Nest Girl says to her partner. “You added too much chili powder. It’s gross. Claire,” she pleads. “Help. Now.”
    Claire glances at the door, like she’s calculating her chances at getting caught. She goes for it, hurrying across the room. She tastes, pauses, then adds a tablespoon of what I think is sugar and a squeeze of lemon. “Stir,” she says, and jogs back to our station.
    “Thank you!” Rat’s-Nest Girl shouts.
    “My pleasure,” she replies, and takes the wooden spoon from my hand. Have I overstirred? Meh, it doesn’t matter. I’m happy to step back and make room for the Jedi master.
    When Mrs. A returns I can’t help but picture her in the parking lot, puffing on a smoke. I chuckle. Wait till I tell the guys. Whoa, wait. I can’t do that. They’ll want to know how I know, and when they find out it’s because I failed an easy gym assignment and have to take dom tech for extra credit, it’ll be wolves-on-a-bunny time. Everyone knows cooking and sewing classes are for