The Secret Recipe for Moving On Karen Bischer (read my book .txt) 📖

squeeze my eyes shut. I will not say anything. I will not say anything. I will not say anything.

Isaiah, at least, has his head in the game. He carries over a bag of potatoes and sets it down in our shopping cart. “They can get several nights of side dishes out of those.”

“Good call. They’re on sale, too,” I say, noting their price.

“My bra will be a forty-six triple deeeeee,” A.J. sings from behind us, still cradling his fruit breasts, as Luke yells to Greta, “Yeah, it’s crazy, we’re grocery shopping for class. Wait, holy crap, look at this lemon. Doesn’t this look like Mr. Roydon’s head?”

Isaiah and I watch Luke turn his phone toward the lemon in his left hand, and we both sigh audibly. We make eye contact then and I don’t want to say we both burst out laughing, but we kind of chuckle.

“Jinx,” I say.

A.J.’s arms must grow tired because he puts the grapefruits back. “So, like, what are we starting with?”

“We need breakfast and we’re close to the cereal aisle,” I say, studying our list. “Then we can move on to lunch, dinner, and snacks.”

Luke mercifully has ended his call and returns to our cart, lifting a bag of oranges so we can see them. “I already got some of the snacks. Seventy-nine cents a pound, and three pounds here. That should get them through a few snack times.”

Color me impressed—he can apparently FaceTime and food shop simultaneously. But I’m still playing it cool, so I say, “That’ll work,” as neutrally as possible. Luke swings the bag of oranges around like he’s a ninja.

A.J. wrinkles his nose as we make our way into the cereal aisle. “It sucks that this family doesn’t have any room for some kind of junk food. Like where’s the ice cream? The cookies?”

“Yeah,” Luke says, “but can you do this with ice cream?” He pulls some of the oranges out of the bag and starts tossing them in the air. I’m about to blurt out, “What are you doing?” when he starts to juggle them. I’m momentarily mesmerized as the oranges move expertly through the air and back to his hands again. It’s not like when you see people trying to juggle—this seems as natural to him as blinking. “See?” he says calmly, not taking his eyes off of the flying fruit. “Not only are oranges food, they can be used as toys.”

“Damn, Burke, where’d you learn to juggle?” A.J. says.

“Circus school,” Luke says nonchalantly, as he catches the oranges, one behind his back, no less, and returns them to the bag.

“No, for real,” A.J. says.

“I’m serious,” Luke laughs. “I did a summer camp for circus training once.”

“So you can, like, fly on a trapeze and tame lions and shit?” A.J. says, staring at Luke in awe.

Luke shakes his head. “No lions. And I tried the trapeze, but it wasn’t me. I got pretty good at tumbling and balancing, though.” He leans over my shoulder and looks at our shopping list. “So, can we afford two boxes of cereal this week? With three people eating it every morning, it’ll probably go quick.”

I’m still wrapping my mind around the idea that Luke is a closet acrobat, but I manage to say, “If we get the generic, store-brand cereal.”

That’s when the Bukowski family strolls into our aisle with a cart full of things like steaks, strawberries, and Italian cookies. Their group has the income of a single, fifty-year-old accountant with no kids and apparently money to spare.

Jared, the alleged great mind behind The Buzz, who likes to laugh at his own jokes and wear berets “ironically” (today it’s a red-and-blue striped one), gazes into our cart. “Well, if it isn’t one of our rival familias,” he says. I can see the wheels turning in his head as he surveys our nearly empty cart and then the bag of oranges in Luke’s hand. He turns back to his group and stage-whispers, “Orange you guys glad we’re not part of the JAILE family?”

Of course they all laugh, much louder than necessary, if you ask me.

“Yeah, well, your accountant guy’s only got his steak and old-lady cookies to keep him warm at night,” A.J. says, folding his arms and smiling. “At least we have proof our bus driver lady has gotten laid.”

Jared shrugs. “Well, good for her. Maybe she can turn to stripping to make some extra cash.” His group snickers as he leads them past us. “And look on the bright side, guys—you’ll be eligible for food stamps. Ta-ta.” He gives an obnoxious wave as he goes.

A.J.’s face is a flaming shade of red and his nostrils are flaring as the giggly Bukowskis exit the aisle. Like, I know A.J. has a low boiling point, but I feel like there’s something deeper at work here.

Isaiah starts to push the cart forward quickly and Luke follows his lead. It’s like we all know we need to get A.J. past this before he murders Jared in the cereal aisle.

“Uh, I think we can get two bags of the generic Cheerios, right?” I ask.

Luke shakes his head vigorously. “No, no. Give them some variety. Store-brand Cheerios and Rice Krispies.” He gives A.J. a sympathetic clap on the shoulder, then jogs to catch up to the cart.

We manage to get through the processed foods aisles pretty quickly, mostly since everything outside of pasta, soup, and canned vegetables is pretty pricey.

Mrs. Sanchez had been eager to point out that supermarkets are laid out with the perishable foods outlining the perimeter of the store. I didn’t need her to tell me this because, outside of the produce section, the perimeter of the store is usually lined with refrigerator/freezer equipment, which almost always makes me shiver for the duration of any food-shopping trip.

I groan inwardly. I mean, I may be dressed appropriately for the seventy-eight-degree temperatures outside, but I should’ve been prepared for this, since I get chilly on most supermarket trips. The second we enter the meat department, the first