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

“What kind of meat do we want this week?” I ask, trying to ignore the goosebumps erupting on my arms.

Luke makes a face. “I don’t know. Can we afford any of it?”

“It’s not like they can’t eat meat,” I say, trying to rub some feeling back into my arms. “They can still afford ground beef and minute steaks and stuff.”

“Sounds like you’re pretty versed in this,” Luke says, studying a package of minute steaks.

“Yeah,” I say, and my teeth chatter a bit. “My dad’s, uh, into food.”

“Here,” Luke says, untying his navy-blue hoodie from around his waist, and extending it toward me. “We can’t have you dying from hypothermia before we hit the dairy and frozen food sections.”

I just kind of stare at him. I can’t explain why, but it feels a little weird to put on Luke’s sweatshirt. The last time I wore something of a guy’s, it was Hunter’s. Offering you an extra layer—it’s the type of thing a boyfriend does for you, not a fake family member.

“It’s okay,” I say, waving my hand. “I’ll live.”

Luke shakes his head. “I’ll leave it on the cart if you should decide you don’t want to freeze to death.”

I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering as the guys examine all the meats. They end up debating whether to buy a whole chicken or a pack of chicken cutlets.

I push the cart and follow as they decide, my ice-cold hands resting on Luke’s sweatshirt. It’s soft under my fingers and I can imagine it keeps warmth in nicely.

“On to the dairy aisle!” A.J. declares, and I realize we have to get through that and the freezer section. So I pull the sweatshirt off the cart and shrug it on. It’s huge, but despite its size, I like that it covers every one of my cold, exposed body parts like a tent. It must be new, because the inside still has that fleecy, soft feeling and isn’t yet pilly and rough.

If Luke notices this, he doesn’t say anything. In fact, he’s more fascinated by the types of frozen breakfast foods, which we can’t afford, of course. “For the cost of four breakfast biscuits we could buy three cartons of eggs,” he says, shaking his head.

The sweatshirt, surprisingly, isn’t completely wrinkled, unlike the blue-striped T-shirt Luke’s wearing right now. It smells of some woodsy-fresh fabric softener, overtaking the scent of lilac body splash I’d used this morning. My hands are completely covered, so I push the sleeves up as best I can, knowing I probably look ridiculous. But I no longer feel like I’ve been stranded on Antarctica in a bikini, so the sweatshirt is staying on. For now.

By the time we have to meet back up with Mrs. Sanchez at the checkout line, we’ve filled our cart with what we calculate is about ninety-eight dollars’ worth of food. Three meals a day and snacks for seven days, plus a roll of toilet paper, some paper towels and store-brand glass cleaner.

“No one’s going hungry on our watch, bitches,” A.J. says.

“Too bad you guys can’t eat real food,” a voice says from behind us.

We all turn around to see Jared and the rest of his group in line with their cart. I’m kind of dumbfounded. Their cart had been so much fuller than ours earlier and they just finished?

A.J. is downright glowering at Jared, but the line is moving forward, so he doesn’t say anything.

I notice Hunter and Brynn’s group is standing near the exit, apparently done for the day. Hunter fans Brynn with one of those free local real estate magazines, and Brynn giggles and playfully slaps his hand.

I almost lose my lunch.

“Okay, JAILE family, let’s see how you did,” Mrs. Sanchez says. The four of us gather near the front of the register, and our food follows us on the conveyor belt, a store employee unloading the cart and the cashier scanning all of it.

“Did you find this task challenging?” Mrs. Sanchez wants to know.

“It was kind of hard, considering we’re dirt-poor,” A.J. says. “But we’ll definitely be under budget.”

Mrs. Sanchez smiles. “See, I told you money isn’t everything in this class, you have to be—”

“Okay,” the cashier says cheerfully. “Their total is one hundred three dollars and fourteen cents.”

“What?” I say, my family members making similar statements of disbelief. The cashier’s face falls and she checks the receipt.

“There’s no way,” Isaiah says. “We calculated twice. It was ninety-seven dollars and seventy three cents”

“Did you include sales tax in that?” Mrs. Sanchez asks, disappointment in her voice.

Luke nods. “We even took something out of our cart to make up for that.”

I notice Isaiah is staring at our “purchases” that are being stacked in crates to return to the store shelves. Then he points at something. “Those weren’t ours.”

We move as one to the end of the register, and the guy putting the food in the crates backs away. A.J. rifles through the crate Isaiah pointed at and this look of total realization and rage crosses his face as he pulls out … a bag of Italian cookies.

“Those weren’t in our cart, Mrs. Sanchez,” Luke says.

“You!” A.J. booms suddenly, and we turn around to see him pointing at Jared, whose purchases are now being loaded onto the conveyor. “You put those on the belt when we weren’t looking!”

“Prove it,” Jared says, folding his arms.

“Prove this,” A.J. spits back, and knocks the beret off Jared’s head.

“Hey!” Jared says, uncrossing his arms and pushing A.J. with a surprising amount of strength for an underground gossip blogger.

“Boys!” Mrs. Sanchez barks. “This needs to stop right now!”

A.J. leans forward to push Jared back or worse, but Luke is suddenly behind him, pulling him back toward the windows, away from the register.

“Let me go,” A.J. says.

“It’s not worth it,” Luke mutters.

Of course, Hunter and Brynn and their group have to come running over, and their shoulders sag in disappointment that the fray has been broken up before they got to see anything. I