My Year of Epic Rock by Andrea Pyros Read Free Book Online Page B

know what to say about hanging out or anything. So I said nothing, of course. That seemed to be my theme of the week: Nina, the great wit.
    But Tiernan dug into his bag and pulled out a video game, changing the subject and therefore saving me without even realizing it.
    â€œCheck this out,” he said, handing it to Ethan.
    â€œOh, yeah, we’re on,” Ethan said back, giving Tiernan a very gentle punch on the shoulder.
    Tiernan sneezed in response.
    Tiernan had saved me from death by shame twice in the last thirty minutes. I owed him, big time.
    â€œSeriously, you should hang out with us later,” Ethan said.
    Did he mean later as in Come hang out with us later today ? Or like, Let’s hang in the very distant future when you stop acting so weird ? Before I could figure it out, Ethan slung his backpack over one shoulder and bounced off down the halls, leaving me feeling silly and tongue-tied and happier than I’d been in days.

Chapter 8
    I thought about asking Tiernan what the deal was with his plans with Ethan but decided against it.
    Too scary.
    Scary if Ethan didn’t want me to hang out, and doubly terrifying if he did. What would we talk about? Would I blow it?
    Instead, I did what any mature young woman would do in my shoes: I avoided the entire issue and went straight home instead as soon as school let out.
    It was a huge relief to walk inside. I was so exhausted from all the highs and lows of the day. I felt like I’d just been a contestant on a crazy reality show—like where you’re given a ball of string and three sticks of gum and have to make it out of the jungle alive. Except my jungle was Woodgrove Middle School.
    I couldn’t wait to finally crash on my bed and listen to music for the rest of the afternoon and be by myself.
    But when Jackson and I walked through our front hallway, I noticed that the dining room table was set with the pretty bamboo place mats that we never use unless we have company—adult company, not, like, a friend of mine or Jackson’s—and that the house smelled nice. Dinner party nice. There was plenty of noise coming from the kitchen too—banging and whisking and whirring.
    â€œHi, guys!” Mom said, coming out to the hall to greet us wearing her “All Hail the Chef” apron Dad gave her last year for Mother’s Day.
    â€œDo you want something to eat?” she asked us, adding, like always, “Wash your hands.”
    I rolled my eyes but walked over to the kitchen sink anyway. The school bus is epically gross, I admit. While the bus is waiting to pull out, the fifth grade boys like to play “Pull My Finger” and compete for the loudest, foulest fart bragging rights, and on Fridays they have a contest they call the “Hock-a-Loogie Olympics.” Plus little Joe Frieburn throws up on the ride home every time the cafeteria serves chili. It is the worst.
    I was halfway up the stairs to my room when Mom called out of the kitchen, “Nina? Nina? Come back.”
    I sighed and went back downstairs.
    â€œWhat, Mom?” I said, eyeing the plate of chocolaty cookie bars on the counter. “What are those?”
    â€œNo-Bake ‘Mocklate’ Chocolate Energy Bars.” She passed the plate toward me. “Try one.”
    I took a tentative bite. Tasty!
    â€œIt’s for the book. I’m making a few new things to try out tonight. Shreya is coming over.”
    â€œWho?” I said, a crumb falling out of my mouth where Pepper was waiting, tail wagging, to snarf it up.
    â€œShreya. Dr. Mehta.” Mom stirred something on the stove with a wooden spoon and put the lid back on. “Remember, I told you a few weeks ago that she was going to come over for dinner some night to talk about the cookbook?”
    Dr. Mehta is my allergist. I go to her once a year for blood tests and to find out that, yes, big shock, I still can’t eat peanuts or eggs.
    â€œShe’s going to write