The Secret Recipe for Moving On

by Karen Bischer

  “We don’t have a scalpel,” I inform him, unable to hide the annoyance in my voice.

  Luke slaps his hand to his forehead dramatically. “Man, I knew I should’ve been paying attention.” Then he shakes his head exasperatedly. “I was making a joke. You know, ha-ha?”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling my ears get hot. “I didn’t get it.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Luke says with a sigh.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap.

  “You don’t seem like the chill type. Can you hand me the measuring spoons?”

  I thrust them at him. “You don’t even know me,” I say, hoping my voice sounds measured and not as angry as I’m feeling.

  “Fair enough,” Luke says. “But you seem kind of wound up is all.”

  Maybe the news of the breakup hasn’t reached everyone after all. Or maybe Luke is just tremendously out of the loop. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly thrilled to be in this class. I have my reasons for being ‘wound up,’ as you put it.”

  “Psh,” Luke says, nodding in the direction of Synergy. “Like those losers are worth your anger? I tried to get Brynn away from that table, but you were having none of that, were you?”

  I chew my inner cheek, not really knowing what to say. Though deep down, I think I’m relieved he has enough taste to not have a crush on Brynn.

  “Anyway, it’s no excuse to be rude to everyone else.”

  So he does know. He just doesn’t care. I place the utensils on the counter, afraid I might be forced to commit murder with a butter knife or a grapefruit spoon.

  “Don’t tell me how to feel,” I say, irked when tears start forming in my eyes. “And if I’m being rude, maybe it’s because you seem like you’re out to get me or something.”

  I’m surprised when Luke’s face falls. “I wasn’t trying to—”

  “Whatever,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Let’s just get this done.”

  “Okay,” Luke says quietly, turning back to the drawer. “Can I have the spatula?”

  I pick it out from the pile and hand it to him wordlessly.

  “No, the, uh, spatula.”

  I realize I’ve handed him the pancake turner. “Sorry,” I say, my face flaming. Here I’d thought this whole time that he wasn’t paying attention, and now it seems like I wasn’t.

  The last of the soapy dishwater is disappearing down the drain, making this nasty, gaspy-sucking noise as it goes.

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the sink was making a declarative statement about my life at the moment.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mrs. Sanchez says the average American spends forty-one minutes a week grocery shopping. It’s probably an ordinary experience for everyone else, because they either share that time with people who are halfway normal, or, even better, get to shop alone. But if the average American had to endure those forty-one minutes with the JAILE family, there’s no way they’d make it out of the produce section without wanting to bludgeon themselves to death with a butternut squash.

  This is the only acceptable course of action when one of your “family” members uses fruit to portray the anatomy of a woman.

  “Look,” A.J. says in a high-pitched voice, holding two grapefruits up to his chest, then dancing with them in place. “I’m just like Carlina Crawford.”

  Of course he’d name-check a former porn star turned YouTube influencer and infomercial queen.

  “You’re Canadian?” Luke says innocently. He’s looking at me, as if he knows something like this is just a bit inappropriate with a girl present and also like he’s worried I may go off on them as a result.

  “Among other things,” A.J. says, hefting the grapefruit up higher on his chest.

  I just close my eyes and shake my head. After Luke’s comment about me being rude, I’m pretty much going out of my way not to say anything. So if the guys are going to behave badly, let someone else call them on it.

  I suppose spending last period at the Shop & Save is better than being stuck in a classroom washing and identifying kitchenware. And Mrs. Sanchez certainly seems excited at the prospect of us learning to food shop according to our budget. She’s given us color-coded maps and fake money and even managed to get a cashier to total us all up at the end, even though we’re not really paying for the food and taking it home. She’s been doing this for so many years, the employees know her by name and they tell us to seek them out for any help.

  If we come in under budget, we get points added to our group total. We’ve allotted ourselves $100 to buy food for the week. To put that in perspective, Hunter and Brynn’s group has a $300 budget for food, so no, we’re not expecting to get very far, food-wise, or in our little in-class competition.

  “My boobs are the biggest in all the land,” A.J. says in his high-pitched voice.

  I throw a desperate look at Luke, who’s still in the produce section, but he’s no longer paying attention to A.J.’s antics because he appears to be FaceTiming Greta on his phone. And he also appears to have no sense of an indoor voice.

  “Yeah, I’m at Shop & Save!” he practically yells.

  I 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 wave of coldness hits me.

  “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 don’t realize I’m staring at them until Hunter’s eyes lock on mine. For a minute I have this reflexive urge to smile at him, but I fight it and probably end up looking like a psychotic clown. Hunter doesn’t react, but I notice he’s staring at my torso with something resembling curiosity.

  I glance down and realize I’m still wearing Luke’s sweatshirt, which explains why Hunter’s eyes go from me to Luke and back at me again. Luke, who is blocking A.J. from even seeing Jared, is totally oblivious. Hunter turns around too quickly for me to identify what he’s thinking.

  “JAILE family and Bukowski family,” Mrs. Sanchez says sternly. “I’m deducting thirty points from each of you for your lack of conduct today.”

  A.J. gestures at us. “But Mrs. S, they didn’t do anything. I’m the one who—”

  “That doesn’t matter, Mr. Johnson,” Mrs. Sanchez says, her face totally unamused. “One family member’s actions reflect on the rest of the family. Hopefully you learn that by the end of the year.”

  A.J.’s nostrils flare, like he wants to shove Jared’s beret down his throat, and Luke positions himself in front of him again.