A Pinch Of Crazy

Chapter 11

Copyright © 2016 Casey Lee

A   P I N C H   O F   C R A Z Y

CHAPTER 11 | 3 CUPS OF REGRET

The rest of Tuesday and Wednesday seemed to pass without much disrupt to my everyday life. Somehow word hadn't spread of Luke and I and thankfully Turner didn't seem to have a clue. Life as Luke Holland's girlfriend wasn't drastically different. I didn't make the front pages, didn't even seem to garner any extra glances from people in the halls, save Luke's trusted inner circle of best friends who had figured out something was up between the two of us. All I knew is that I was blissfully happy with the cute texts he would send and the short kiss he stole after dragging me into a janitor's closet during our free period. The cliché hookup ended quickly after my crutch fell and knocked over a bucket of dirty water that had been used to mop the halls and we were kicked out by a none too happy janitor.

However; the one thing that managed to bring me down from my daze of happiness was the thought of cooking and avoiding all of the boys that would be crowding my house Wednesday night.

As soon as school let out on Wednesday I dropped Ryder and Turner back at our house before grabbing the credit card my mom had left me for grocery shopping and heading back out. Now, I've cooked for 8 people for most of my life, but 35 basketball boys was a completely different story. Seeing how Turner and Luke ate like pigs, I could only imagine that the rest would eat the same way. So, as I wound my way up and down the aisles I collected massive amounts of everything. By the time I had gotten everything I needed and was at the cash register, my cart was practically overflowing and getting difficult to push, after all, pushing a shopping cart on crutches is just as impossible as you'd imagine it to be.

The cashier looked at me dubiously as she started ringing everything up. "You feeding an army or something?" She asked.

"Pretty much" I sighed in response.

She shrugged and continued to scan until everything was neatly bundled into paper bags and loaded into the cart. I tried not to even look at the cost of such a staggering amount of food and instead swiped the card blindly and left the store.

After speeding home I hobbled into the house and called for Turner to help as he arranged a few massive speakers that he had borrowed from a friend for the night in the living room. He jogged outside and brought the heavy bags in and unpacked them as I went upstairs to fish through my many binders of recipes and attempt to find the recipe for baked ziti that I knew would be able to feed the "army". After finally collecting the papers I needed I rushed back downstairs to start the daunting process that faced me. Turner gave me a quick wave as he left the house, fake ID in hand to pick up the most necessary substance for one of these team dinners — an obscene amount of alcohol. My parents had been smart enough to clear out what liquor was around the house before they left, but were left oblivious of Turner's fake.

"Make good choices! Don't get arrested!" I called out after him as he closed the door behind him and tore out of the driveway.

I immediately settled into the all too familiar rhythm of measuring and mixing, stirring and sautéing. While clumsy and awkward and first, I managed to get the hang of cooking with crutches, sometimes resting them against the counter to let me maneuver more as I put all my weight on my good leg. As I was cooking I was pulled into my own little world, oblivious of nearly everything that happened around me. Some people meditate to relax, I make apple pies and broccoli casserole. After hours that felt like minutes to me, I put the last dish of pasta in the oven to keep warm, finished off the last caesar salad, and covered the pot roast with tin foil. I quickly glanced at my watch to see that I had less than 15 minutes to shower and gather everything I would need for the night before I locked myself away in my room. It was an unspoken agreement between Turner and I that I would stay out of his way for the night, and in return he would keep everyone out of my room and prevent any of my items from being vomited on. I clumsily made my way up the stairs and headed straight for my bathroom where I stripped and showered, rinsing off the sweat that accompanied me every time I cooked as well as the flour that had somehow embedded itself firmly in the roots of my hair.