Hi, I’m Ina Garten, the Barefoot Contessa. And I don’t know about you, but nothing says comfort to me better than brioche French toast with hash browns and peppers, cheesy grits, and homemade hot chocolate with whipped cream.

“She’s going to make real whipped cream,” I whispered.

“Of course she is.”

I pulled Terry Johnson’s ears straight up and rubbed them, instead of what I felt like doing, which was reaching over to hug Francine.

Suddenly she turned to me, took the clicker, and paused Ina.

“Muiriel,” she said. “I don’t honestly know that I’ve ever met a more grateful person than you.”

“Oh.” I’d heard that a lot in my life.

“Let me ask you something. Don’t you ever get angry?”

I scratched behind Terry Johnson’s ears so vigorously he hid them with his paws. “Yeah,” I said. “I do. A lot.”

She sat back. “Oh, thank God. Don’t ever not get angry. You’ve got every right. No reason to hold on to it forever of course, just always give anger its due. Let it show sometimes. Respect it.”

I’d never heard that ever in my life.

“Understand?” she asked.

“I do.”

She unpaused Ina, and we watched the woman pour an entire carton of heavy cream into a mixing bowl. Looked like Elmer’s white school glue.

I moved closer to Francine on the sofa, to give Terry Johnson room to stretch. And after some discussion and a minor debate over the merits of cinnamon and whether the hens were laying enough eggs to spare, we decided to make brioche French toast in the morning.

Because Ina was right. There is no comfort better than toast.

—

At school the next day I searched every class and hall, the cafeteria, but no Sean. Which left me disappointed and relieved at once. Kira found me in the library during break before third period.

“How are you?” I asked. “You see the hydra today?”

“Just Katrina in passing. She smiled at me. I flipped her off. You look awful.”

“Didn’t sleep. Terry Johnson says he’s ready to model anytime for a new artistic rendering of his magnificence.”

She sat beside me on the study sofa and put her legs over mine. “Thank you,” she said sadly. “Go home, you really don’t look well.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it, are you getting a cold? Just leave.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can!”

“No, I mean I have never ditched or been late. Not ever.”

“You’re not ditching, you’re sick. Haven’t you ever been sick? Go to the office, get a pass, go home. I’ll come with you; it’s easy.”