Page 29 of Every Thought Taken

Lessa claps her hands and we all jerk back momentarily. “Alright. That’s eighty-five total. We need a game plan. What matters most and what we can cross off if need be.”

Lessa pulls her cell phone from her back pocket and opens the notes app. We toss out our favorite foods and prioritize them. The parents said they’d buy all the breakfast, lunch, and dinner foods. Unless we want something specific to go with meals, we are free to spend the money however. Well, except Mom wants me to get one healthy snack.

Anderson fetches a shopping cart from the corral, does a short run, and hops on the foot bar, gliding through produce until he reaches us at the bakery.

Eyes on me and a smirk on his lips, he says, “Hop in.”

I scan the other patrons in our small-town grocery store and wince. “Um.” I nibble at my bottom lip. “Not sure that’s such a good idea,” I say when I spot Mrs. Wrigley, one of the grumpiest teachers ever. She’d probably stomp through the store and tattle on us to our parents.

Anderson follows my line of sight and scoffs. “Don’t worry about her.”

I twist to meet his gaze and tilt my head slightly.

He collapses the child seat and bangs the metal basket. “C’mon, North. Hop in. We have shopping to do.”

“Just get in the basket, Lena,” Lessa encourages. “Who cares what people think.”

“In or out?” Mags chimes in. “I have a hankering for peanut butter cups and Cap’n Crunch.”

“Fine,” I concede. “But if I get in trouble, you’re all going down with me.”

I step on the bottom rail of the cart, grab the edge of the basket, and swing my leg up and over, climbing in. Short as I am, it is crampy and uncomfortable sitting up straight. It also leaves next to no room for food. So, I scoot my butt to the middle of the basket, lift my legs up, and dangle my feet over the end. Still nowhere near cozy, but better than before.

Lessa claps again. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

One aisle at a time, we weave through the store. Mags, Lessa, and Anderson toss items in the basket without care. The occasional box corner jabs me in the belly, but otherwise it’s no big shake. Gummy worms, Sour Patch Kids, and Cap’n Crunch. Cheez-It crackers, Chex Mix Muddy Buddies, chocolate bars, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Reese’s Pieces. Three flavors of Pop-Tarts—frosted, of course.

We reach the cookie aisle and Mags pipes up. “Important question.” All eyes look in her direction. “Do we get graham crackers for the s’mores, like usual? Or do we get chocolate chip cookies to use instead?”

From my spot in the cart, I peer up at everyone and take in their uncertainty. “Lessa?”

“Yeah?”

“Where we at with the total so far?”

She stabs at her phone screen for a moment then looks up. “We have about thirty dollars left. But we should leave wiggle room for tax.”

I shift my gaze to Mags. “Get both. We have the money.”

Both get tossed in the buggy and we move on to the next aisle. We pass the parents near the endcap, wave, and keep going. After a handful more items, we reach the end of the chips aisle and head for the checkout.

One by one, we load everything onto the belt. The older cashier gives me a forced smile while the younger guy bagging our heap of salt and sugar stifles a laugh. As the last items get put on the belt, I look to my right and see individual portions of trail mix for under a dollar.

“Hey.” I tip my head back and look up at Anderson. “Add one of those, too.” I point to the blue package. “Without the candy.”

He chuckles, grabs the mix, and tosses it on the belt. “Your mom would’ve never known.”

“Probably,” I say as he pushes the cart forward. I hop out of the basket, stretch my limbs, and crack my neck. “But knowing my luck, she’d actually check.”

With two dollars to spare, we pay the cashier, exit the store, and steer the cart to the cars. The parents meet us minutes later and we load everything up. Mags and Lessa opt to ride with the Bishops, while Anderson and I ride with my parents.

Miles pass as we head for our summer camping getaway at Seaquest State Park. Leaning into Anderson, I drop my head onto his shoulder and close my eyes. He rests a hand just above my knee, his thumb stroking my skin slowly.

The simple touch is anything but simple. His hand on my skin is hot and electric and makes my heart race. I never want him to stop. I never want the buzzing energy to end.

And for the rest of the trip, we sit like this. Connected. Together. More.

“C’mon, North. You got this,” Anderson encourages as we traverse a new trail.

---