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Mr. Hammond says.
    I barely hear him because at that moment an all-too-familiar laugh echoes through the hallway, louder than all the others.
    Briana Riley is leaning against her locker, watching the whole scene. There’s a look on her face like she just won the jackpot. “Nice bra,” she mouths before striding off and disappearing around the corner.
    Out of nowhere, a tear drips down my cheek and onto one of my muddy shoes.
    “Rachel?” Mr. Hammond says, his voice loud and alarmed now. “I said, are you all right? Do you need to go to the nurse?”
    I shake my head, wiping my face with my sleeve. I can’t believe I’m crying in the middle of the hallway! “I’m fine,” I manage to say before I grab my bag and dart away.
    Instead of going to the cafeteria, I head toward the only place that can make me feel better: the Home Ec room.
    Ms. Kennedy is hanging up charts for the sixth-grade nutrition unit when I come in. As usual, she has flour on the front of her shirt and a wooden spoon stuck through her messy bun. Her face lights up when she spots me.
    “Rachel Lee!” she says. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” She grabs an apron from a nearby hook and holds it out to me. “Come to blow off some steam?”
    I nod as I gratefully take the apron and then pull it over my head.
    “Are you all right?” she asks, peering into my face.
    I nod again, not trusting myself to say anything. Crying once today is more than enough.
    “Okay,” Ms. Kennedy says. “Well, you know the drill. Feel free to use whatever you find in the fridge.” She gives me another long look before going back to her charts.
    Even though my entire body is shaking, I ignore it and get to work, grabbing eggs and cocoa powder and anything else that feels right. I don’t exactly have a plan, but I know I have to make something that will stop the tears still stinging at my eyes. Sea salt brownies, I finally decide.
    As I start whisking flour, baking powder, and salt together, I can feel my breathing slow down, and the jittery feeling in my entire body starts to fade. My mortifying fall and Briana’s horrible laugh keep replaying in my head until the smells of chocolate and butter and vanilla start to take over. Soon, all I’m thinking about is the recipe. Melt chocolate in double-boiler. Mix wet ingredients. Fold in dry ingredients. Pour into pan.
    Finally, everything is ready to go in the oven. When the timer is set for twenty-five minutes, I turn to see Ms. Kennedy smiling at me from across the room.
    “Feeling better?” she asks.
    “Yeah,” I say, realizing it’s true. Maybe I’m still not a happy bunny, but I can breathe again. I go over and help Ms. Kennedy staple nutrition handouts and cut up carrot sticks for students to snack on during class. We don’t say much as we work, but Ms. Kennedy is one of those rare people who don’t seem to mind silence. Sometimes I wonder if food is a language all in itself.
    When the bell rings, marking the end of lunch, Ms. Kennedy just smiles and writes out a pass for me so I can stay until my brownies are done. Why can’t all my teachers be this understanding?
    After the timer goes off, I sprinkle some chocolate chips on top of the brownies. When they melt a bit, I spread them around evenly and then put some coarse sea salt on top, tapping the pan to make the crystals set into the chocolate. Once the brownies cool down a little, I fork a piece into my mouth.
    “Mmm,” I say as the chocolate melts on my tongue. The saltiness perfectly matches my mood.
    “Wow,” says Ms. Kennedy as she tries a bite. “These sure are bold. I don’t know if I’d use quite so much salt next time.”
    I swallow another bite, realizing she’s right. The brownies might be exactly what I needed today, but they’re probably too intense for the bake sale.
    After I’m done taking pictures of the brownies and making notes in my journal, I pull off my apron. “Thanks, Ms. Kennedy,” I say before heading for the