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

I move over to the window, behind the display of snow boots, and under the faint light of a parking lot streetlamp, I can make out three figures huddled close together, their jacket hoods up. One appears to be a little girl in a bright-pink coat, and she’s wearing a skirt and tights.

“It’s coming down pretty heavy,” I say. “I bet they were at the pharmacy…”

“… and they closed five minutes ago,” Richard says, checking his watch. “Tell them they can come inside here.”

I push through the front door, which is kind of tough considering the wind is blowing back on it pretty hard.

“Excuse me,” I call, poking my head out. All three turn around and when I squint I can see the person in the middle is an old woman with an oxygen tank at her side. “If you want to wait in here, you totally can!”

“Oh, thank you,” the old lady calls back, and they make their way into the store.

The little girl comes in first and pushes her hood off. “Brrr!” she says, shaking a head of dirty-blonde curls. “It’s much nicer in here.”

“We lost our umbrella,” the old woman says with a smile. “And we didn’t think the bus would drive away without us!”

“What a terrible night for that!” Richard says.

“We have to wait for the next one, but it’s not for another twenty minutes,” the little girl says.

I notice the third figure, apparently a guy in a dark jacket, is lingering outside. The old woman notices, too, because she backpedals and leans out the door. “A.J., get in here or you’ll catch your death.”

I kind of freeze in place when she says this. I feel it even more when I hear a very familiar voice reply, “I want to make sure the driver sees us.”

“Nonsense,” the woman says back. “You can track the bus on that app on your phone. We’ll know when to go out.”

Very slowly, the black-coated figure trudges inside. It takes him a moment to push his hood back, but when he does, it’s totally the A.J. I spend last period with.

“Hey,” I say, wondering why he won’t look me in the eye.

“Hi,” he says, focusing on the snow boots display by the door.

“Do you two know each other?” the woman says, looking from A.J. to me.

“Yes,” I say, hoping I sound friendly, even though I’m a bit taken aback by A.J.’s coldness. Maybe he still feels bad about yesterday or he’s afraid I’m going to bring it up. “We have home ec together.”

The woman’s eyes light up. “Oh, you should see how much A.J. is applying that class at home! I’ve never seen my grandson so taken with something. He cooks for us all the time now, right, Sammi?”

The little girl nods vigorously and I’m struck by how she and A.J. have exactly the same pale-blue eyes.

“And the budgeting!” A.J.’s grandma says, nodding to Richard. “They’re learning so much. A.J. set up a chart for us and—”

“Gran,” A.J. interrupts, annoyance in his voice. “I don’t think they care about our budget.”

“Tsk, tsk,” she says, waving him off. “If I’m proud of you, I’m going to say it, dear. Besides, you know how much that budget helped us, what with the rent going up and my emphysema making me work less.”

I stare at him as he acts all interested in the wall full of boxes containing kids’ sneakers. Obviously, a member of his home ec family interacting with his real family isn’t exactly his idea of a spectacular Saturday.

“You should see A.J. decorate cupcakes!” I say, figuring a little praise from my end will show I’m not pissed off at him for yesterday. “Our teacher couldn’t believe how good he is. She said he should—”

“Maybe we should splurge for an Uber,” A.J. says, looking flustered, but A.J.’s grandma, her face beaming, ignores him.

“What does his teacher say, hon? I like it when I hear good things from them and not ‘A.J. doesn’t apply himself.’”

“She told him he’s good enough for pastry school,” I say, keeping an eye on A.J.’s reaction to this. He seems to be biting the inside of his cheek, which I don’t understand.

A.J.’s grandma shakes her head at him. “You’re always so close-mouthed about these things. Why wouldn’t you tell me that?”

A.J. just stares out the window and shrugs in response.

“I bet he’s too busy figuring out how to cart me around,” she says. “Our car had to go and die last week and we’ve been taking the bus everywhere. He doesn’t seem to trust his old gran by herself, though.”

“Well, that’s a good grandson in my book,” Richard says.

A.J. just continues to stare out the window.

“Normally we go to the Drugfair in our neighborhood, but we were out at the mall today and figured we’d stop here because it’s on our way. Little did we know they close earlier than our Drugfair!” A.J.’s grandma taps her oxygen tank. “Don’t ever smoke. It’ll cost you in more ways than one.”

“Where do you live?” Richard wants to know.

“In the Southvale Apartments in Ringvale Heights, over on Columbus Avenue.”

“Gran!” A.J. barks. “Why do you always have to be so specific?”

“Because we live there,” A.J.’s grandma says. “I doubt these two are going to come rob us blind.”

So that’s why A.J. had me pick him up at the dentist’s office. The Southvale Apartments are considered the “shady” part of Ringvale Heights, if a mostly upper-middle-class suburb could have a shady part of town. Hunter would always hit the automatic locks on his car when we’d drive up Columbus. “There are probably hundreds of meth heads and junkies on this block alone,” he’d say.

While it’s true there are always some incidents listed in the Ringvale Heights Gazette’s crime blotter from Columbus Avenue, there are enough DUI reports and domestic disputes from the rest of town to kind of even it out. I think Hunter was going by urban legend more than anything.

A.J.’s face is totally red and I suddenly feel sorry for