He edited the final cell on the spreadsheet and sat back, stroking Joule’s hair as he slept in the carrier.
“Looks pretty good,” he admitted. “Let’s do this.”
The first task was simple. Separate the laundry into roughly equal piles so as not to overload the washer, pretreat the stains, and start the first load. Once it was running, he could go to the store. He had downloaded the TruFresh Foods app and enrolled in the loyalty program. Not only could he save twenty cents per pound on ground beef that week, he could also save up to fifty cents per gallon of gas if he purchased ten items from the weekly Fill’Er Up categories.
It was a great deal, and could not have come at a better time. He was going to make meatloaf on Monday, meatballs on Tuesday, Swedish meatballs on Wednesday, meatloaf on Thursday, and on Friday, he’d try his hand at hot dish. He had done his research, gathering recipes and making a list, cross-referencing the grocery store flyers to find the best prices. However, locating a recipe for hot dish had proved to be difficult.
He’d tried it for the first time in Madison, and found it to be a revelation. He had no idea what was in it, but did remember it had tater tots on the top. A quick internet search had revealed not only were there were myriad interpretations, but to his astonishment, the dish was somewhat polarizing. He couldn’t fathom any reasonable objection to the revelatory casserole he’d tasted. All he remembered was a flavorful symphony and creamy and crunchy. And the tater tots.
He had not consulted Mom on any of his cooking projects. Not only would she insist doing it herself, which would defeat his purpose, but it was an open secret that nobody particularly cared for Mom’s cooking. There were many possible reasons, ranging from her controversial use of canned salmon, her penchant for cream of onion soup, the frequent inclusion of frozen water chestnuts, which transformed into mushy, greasy marbles when cooked, and her baffling choice to top off all of her casseroles with cornflakes, which never got crispy, but rather, chewy.
He hadn’t darkened the door of a grocery store in months. Even when he had lived in Madison, he mostly frequented the corner shop, and it was solely to purchase milk, cereal, and frozen burritos. He only went to the supermarket for ginger ale and Vitucci’s Texas Toast.
Significant renovations had taken place at the Grover TruFresh since the last time he’d been there. Ambient lighting, wood tones, chalk writing, and stylish fonts had replaced the red tile, fluorescent bulbs, and Comic Sans of old. With Joule contentedly gazing out the front of the carrier, Casper slowly wheeled through the produce department, selecting onions, celery, and iceberg, while humming along to Hall and Oates.
He waved to one of the Rice sisters in the meat department, and stopped to chat with his old physics teacher by the dairy case.
“Carver,” Mr. Davis remarked, whistling. “I’m not surprised, but that’s still quite an accomplishment. So what are you doing back in Grover? Here for a visit?”
“Not exactly,” he said, indicating the bundle of joy strapped to his chest.
“Ah. I thought maybe it was a nephew. I see your brother around all the time. Well, good for you.” Casper nodded agreeably, but an uncomfortable silence followed. “So where are you working now?”
“Still looking.”
“Ah. Well, I’m sure something will turn up,” Mr. Davis said, recovering himself and placing a dozen eggs in his cart. “I’d better get going. Good to see you.”
Casper cooled his burning face in the open fridge, contemplating whole or two-percent.
“Was that Mr. Davis?” The Rice sister he’d seen by the chicken wings appeared at his side. Sarah. That was her name. A baby was strapped in front of her, a preschooler was tugging on her leg, and a gurgling toddler was eating a graham cracker in the seat of her cart. “So weird. I would have just avoided eye contact.”
“Believe it or not, I tried that.” Sarah grinned. “I wasn’t exactly in the mood to disappoint yet another authority figure in my life.”
“Oh, stop that. Grover’s own wunderkind? Josie, that’s not how we ask,” she said to the little girl pawing at her purse.
“Wunderkind,” Casper scoffed. “Nobody has ever called me that.”
“You’d better believe it — Grover’s first National Merit Scholar in a thousand years,” Sarah pronounced with reverent gravity. “We never stopped hearing about it. Thanks a lot.”
“You’re very welcome. I can only hope I inspired you in some small way.”
“Jorgenson…still so modest after all these years.” He laughed. Josie cooed unintelligibly. “Yes, you may. Thank you for asking so nicely.” Sarah rummaged through her purse, produced an open sleeve of graham crackers, and handed one to Josie. “So what are you doing here? Are your parents making you earn your keep?”
“You know, Sarah. I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but there’s a concept out there known as personal responsibility.” Sarah furrowed her brow. “I’ll elaborate. When you royally mess up your life and are forced to rely on the kindness of others, you occasionally feel the desire to make a meatloaf to show your appreciation.”
“Did you just call me Sarah? I’m Abby.”
“No, you’re — what?” Casper’s cheeks flushed and he covered his face with his hands. She laughed. “Abby. Oh, my goodness. Abby! I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, Jorgenson.”
“No, it’s horrible. Do you know how many times I’ve been called Nick over the years? And I’m a foot taller and about a hundred pounds lighter.” Abby giggled again. “I’m really sorry. I saw these little guys with you and in my brain, Sarah’s still the one with kids.”
“You’re right, she is. I just nanny for her.”
“All three kids by yourself?” Casper shook his head, marveling. “What’s your secret?”
“It’s really simple,” she said, lowering her voice confidentially. “I give them whatever they want.”
“Brilliant. Why don’t more people do that?” Abby shrugged.
“I’m thinking of starting a podcast.” The little boy in the cart suddenly screamed. “What is it? What’s wrong, Bubba?” The toddler mournfully pointed to the floor with his chubby finger. A half-eaten rectangle of graham cracker lay dejected on the tile floor. Abby offered him a new cracker from her purse, but he shoved it away and insistently reached for his lost snack, wailing all the louder.
“Bubba, look over there!” Casper pointed to a Fourth of July display featuring lawn chairs and a plush eagle wearing a top hat. When Bubba looked away to follow his finger, Casper bent and picked up the half-masticated cracker, concealing it in his hand. When Bubba realized there was nothing interesting to see but a pallet of potato chips, he turned back, searching for the cracker. When he saw it was gone, he wailed again. “My bad. I swear I was trying to help.”
Abby was clutching her stomach in laughter.
“What are you laughing at? That eagle? It’s not that funny.” Abby shook her head, tried to respond, but could only laugh in his face. “Sorry I failed to distract Bubba.” Abby laughed harder. “Look, it’s not my fault. I only have experience with children who haven’t learned object permanence.”
“Why are you calling him Bubba?” Abby choked out.
“That’s what you called him!”
“His name is George!”
“Why would you seriously assume I’d know that?” She wiped the tears from her eyes and panted, placing a hand on her chest as if to help her breathe.
“You’re Casper Jorgenson! You’re supposed to know everything.”
“Well, Abby — if that’s even your real name — here’s one thing I do know: I have a meatloaf to shape.”
“See you Saturday, Nick.” She was still laughing as he waved goodbye.
—
He’d never had much interest in food. As a child, he knew it was necessary for survival, but it was never something he thought about until he had finished whatever he was already doing. He’d always viewed it in a utilitarian sense, as a delivery mechanism for life-sustaining nutrients. For the fifth grade science fair, he had created a prototype for an imperishable multivitamin which would replace meals. Surely, the worldwide population would be interested in eliminating all of the time wasted gathering, prepping, cooking, and eating. He had even flavored them – bacon for breakfast, peanut butter for lunch, beef bouillon for dinner — but he didn’t win, largely because he couldn’t prove that he hadn’t simply fed the judges dog treats. Admittedly, the flavor was lacking.
Reagan had labeled his food apathy a trauma response from patiently enduring years of bland, leathery pork chops and bland, chalky lasagna, and she had taken it upon herself to rehabilitate him.
He’d watched her pull it out of the oven, bubbling and crackling, the tater tots arranged in plump, golden rows.
“What is that?” he asked, his mouth watering at the savory smell.
“Hotdish,” she said with evident pleasure, setting it on the stove with a flourish.
“What’s in it?” In response, she opened a drawer and plucked out two spoons. She dug out two spoonfuls of the casserole and blew on them before handing one to him. She closed her eyes and tasted it. He did the same. “It’s like a cheeseburger. But —,” he paused, savoring the bite with ecstasy, “it’s so creamy. With — is that corn?” Her eyes were bright and mischievous. “You know how much I like corn,” he said gratefully. She grinned.
“My Iowa boy.”
He could have stood at the counter and eaten the whole thing straight out of the pan. So they did. Half of it, anyway. And they were both up late with stomachaches.
This iteration of hotdish was nothing like that. Somehow too salty and flavorless at the same time, with tough, wet vegetables, and mealy meat. Even the tater tots had failed him, getting too dark on top and remaining paunchy and pale underneath.
Mom and Dad ate it with gusto. He supposed they must have been really hungry, or at least, loath to crush the fragile spirits of their son.
“So, is everything squared away for tomorrow?” Dad asked, scooping a second helping on his plate. Casper grimaced at the gloopy strings of melted cheese and bits of meat hanging from the spatula.
“Mostly,” Mom replied. “I’m hoping Debbie and Pearl get back to me tonight so I know whether or not they’ll be bringing something. Debbie’s pecan will get at least, at least, fifty dollars. Pearl, bless her heart — her lemon meringue would probably be good for twenty, and every little bit counts. And I’ve got my pie to finish tonight.”
“Hon,” Dad said cautiously, “I thought you said you were going to delegate the pies. Didn’t Rosa say they had enough?” Casper took cover. He turned to the portable bassinet beside his chair and pretended to be searching for the pacifier. Joule grinned up at him.
“I can’t ask people to donate pies for my own son and not contribute something.”
“Grandson, Mom It’s for your grandson.”
“You’re already making the punch, aren’t you, Sheila? That’s a contribution,” Dad offered. Casper knew what Dad was doing. Mercy conducted at least two dessert auctions a year, and Mom always insisted on presenting the same offering: Grandma Blomquist’s pineapple gelatin salad in a graham cracker crust. Every time, she left offended and insulted that Dad won her pie, uncontested, for the minimum bid of ten dollars. But she possessed a tenacious fighting spirit, determined that the next time, Grandma Blomquist would not fail to outpace even Debbie.
“Don’t worry about me, Dirk,” Mom said, patting his hand, “I’ve already bought the mayonnaise and the candied cherries. And this year, I’m adding a special ingredient — it’ll be my best entry yet.”
“Excellent,” Dad muttered, recognizing that he had done his best. “I’ve got to get there early to set up the smokers with Greg and Pete. You want to come, Cass?”
“Yes!” His parents seemed startled at his eagerness. So be it. He’d found himself in an awkward position: if he allowed his embarrassment over the fundraiser to overwhelm him and did nothing to help, he would appear ungrateful, but if he did too much, he would seem too eager to take the money. But he knew it was better to err on the side of helpfulness.
So he had attended the planning meetings and done as much as they had allowed him. He’d gone to the church that afternoon to help arrange tables and chairs in the fellowship hall. He had even sheepishly set up the five gallon water jug in the foyer to collect cold, hard cash. Cash 4 Casper, someone had written, along with a gratuitous dollar sign. When no one was looking, he’d taken a Sharpie and made an addendum.
—
Rosa had spared no effort. She and her throng of co-volunteers had festooned the fellowship hall with balloons and streamers, and had even gotten out the nice white tablecloths from the storage room, the ones reserved for the New Years and Easter brunches.
“It’s too much, Rosa,” he protested, tugging on the stiff white fabric. Joule bounced against his chest as he gazed out from the carrier. “We’ll be cutting up half-chickens on styrofoam plates with plastic knives. These things are going to get destroyed.”
“Don’t worry about it, Cass,” Rosa soothed, “I brought my pre-treating stuff from home.” She brandished a bottle of Oxi-Fresh which she seemed to have produced from thin air. “If you want people to spend money, you have to make them feel like they’re getting a good experience. Isn’t that right, Joule?” She tugged gently on his tiny foot and modulated into Spanish, which Joule greatly appreciated. “Estas listo, mijo?”
“But I don’t want people to spend money!”
“Of course you do. Or you should. Now go get some more ice for the punch. Chelsea and Janelle,” she called over her shoulder. Two women looked up from hanging a banner with the same well-meaning alliteration he’d seen on the water jug. “Can you give me a hand in the kitchen when you’re finished with that?”
“People are here!” Nick announced, coming through the door hauling a steaming vat of salt potatoes. “This is weird, Cass. It feels like a wedding, or something. Or maybe your funeral?”
“Babe, what are you doing?” Rosa demanded. “Don’t bring those in here! They’re supposed to stay outside. Didn’t Pete tell you? Where are the plates? Cass, there they are. Right on that table. Bring those plates outside. What are you waiting for?”
“I’m getting the ice!”
“Never mind that, we need the plates out there now! Get out! Babe, where’s Mikayla?”
“I thought she was with you.” Nick adjusted the salt potatoes. “These are killing my arms. I need to put them down.”
“Put them down outside,” said Rosa. “I need to find Mikayla.”
“I’ll find her,” Casper offered.
“Thank you. And can you make sure—,” Just then, Abby burst into the room, Josie clinging to her leg and George tugging on her hand. She was lugging the empty water jug under her free arm.
“Jorgenson!”
“Not now, Rice.” Nick gestured with the steaming pot. “Get the door for me, will you?” Abby obliged.
“I wasn’t talking to you, Nick — Casper!” Abby held up the jug with an accusatory brandish. Rosa, Chelsea, and Janelle gasped in horror. “Casper did this! Didn’t you?”
“How do you know it was me?” In response, Abby held up the jug and read, enunciating each word with contempt.
“Please give only out of your own abundance; any Cash (or small change) 4 Casper’s son’s surgery on July 14 would be much appreciated. Thank you!” She shook her head in disgust. “Of course it was you. You used a semicolon! If that wasn’t bad enough, you wrote it without any skill at all. Do you think we can fix it?” she asked Rosa, who stared at the jug, deep in thought.
“Just leave it,” she sighed at last. “It is very bad, but maybe it’ll remind everyone how much help he really needs.” She glanced at Casper with annoyance, and he gave her a feeble smile.
“I’m going to go find Mikayla.”
—
It took him ninety seconds to find Mikayla in the nursery, puttering with the dollhouse. She and four other kids were under the watchful eye of Sarah Rice, who assured him that Abby was coming back to help her, that everything was fine, and to go have fun.
“It’s still crazy to believe you have a kid. I guess we’re all really grown ups now, aren’t we?” she said, wistfully. “Do you want me to take Joule for a little bit?”
“Well, actually —,”
“Never mind, I take it back,” she said, surveying him with a critical eye. “Keep him. Cute babies rake in a lot more money than adults.”
—
With Joule strapped to his chest like a breastplate, it didn’t turn out to be as unbearable as he thought it would be. The Dutch Blitz tournament had been a stroke of genius. He found the game cards in the youth room closet and purposefully gathered a triumvirate of cutthroat opponents: Nick, Kyle, and Randy. Before long, people began gathering around the table and paying attention to the gameplay instead of him. Even he was forgetting himself.
“I want to play next game,” Pastor Bruce announced, as Kyle slapped down a green nine card just before Casper. “And I think there’s another set of cards somewhere in the church. What would you say to expanding this tournament?”
“Bring it on,” Casper said, his eyes darting from his cards to the center of the picnic table. He drew a green ten from his wood pile. Perfect. That was going right—
“Blitz!” Randy crowed. The three other competitors groaned. “That makes 78 for me. Game over,” Randy said smugly, after counting his cards. “I want some chicken.”
“Abby,” Kyle called as Randy got up from the table. “You want next?”
“Pastor Bruce is up next,” said Casper. Immediately, both Abby and Pastor Bruce insisted on the other person going first.
“Well, Nick’s done. Aren’t you, Nick?” Kyle asked. “Abby, you can take his place.”
“Nice, Kyle.” Nick took a swig of Coke. “It won’t be that easy for you to get rid of me.”
“No, it’s fine,” Abby said brightly. “You go first, Pastor Bruce. I have to go check on the kids, anyway.” He finally assented, taking the spot next to Kyle.
“You know, you’re not in youth group anymore, kids,” Pastor Bruce remarked. “You can call me Doug now.”
“Too weird,” said Nick. “And you just called us kids.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. But you really should. Think about it. Kyle, you teach my kids English. Nick, you run a farm, and Casper, you’re —,”
“Living with my parents,” he said with a grin. He held up his palm and Nick high-fived him. Pastor Bruce chuckled.
“Anyone who is raising another human being automatically receives the right to address other adults by their first name.”
“Nope. It’s still too weird. Doug.” Casper shuddered. “It just sounds so wrong.”
“Isn’t there a song about this?” Nick hummed a few off-key notes. “You can call me Doug?”
“It’s Al. You can call me Al,” Pastor Bruce answered.
“That’s it,” Nick nodded. “The Beatles, right?
“It’s Paul Simon,” muttered Kyle. “Nick, do you even want to play? You haven’t even dealt your blitz pile yet.”
At that moment, Casper felt a warm, wet, unmistakably unpleasant sensation on his torso. Joule murmured and wriggled, and another forceful burst of warm wetness soaked his shirt again.
Crap. Literally.
—
He burst into the nursery, his arms wet and slick with the effort of trying to contain the mess.
“Excuse me. Sorry. Hi, Mik.” He stepped over the toddlers and made his way to the changing table, only to stand there helplessly. How was he supposed to get his backpack off and unstrap the carrier without smearing the foul yellow stuff everywhere?
“Did he go potty on you?” Mikayla demanded, pointing inquiringly at Casper’s t-shirt.
“He sure did. How am I going to get this thing off?”
“Hold on. I’ll get it.” His backpack was slipped off, the straps were unbuckled from behind, and he was able to ease out of the carrier and set Joule on the changing pad.
“Thank you,” he sighed with relief. He stared at the mess before him, unsure of where to begin. Joule grinned up at him. “What do I do? If I try to pull his onesie over his head, it’ll get all over his hair and his face. This is so gross.”
“It comes down the other way, too. Here, let me show you.” Abby nudged him aside and stretched the neck of the onesie, slipped Joule’s arms out, and carefully rolled the fabric down his belly. She reached in front of him and yanked out a handful of wipes.
“That’s genius,” he said, meaning it.
“Wow, it’s everywhere, isn’t it?” Abby marveled, putting the wipes in his hand. “You’re going to be here for a while.”
“You should go take my place out there. The game just started. Kyle said to tell you if I saw you.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“You don’t like Dutch Blitz? Since when?”
“It’s not that,” she said, taking the diaper from him and putting it in the diaper disposal. He was impressed that she didn’t appear to be disgusted.
“Oh, I see.” To his chagrin, he had developed a well-honed ability to detect female aversion to unwanted attention. “It’s Kyle.” One of the toddlers was knocking a plastic keyboard against the wall, prompting it to play the first measure of the Itsy-Bitsy Spider in an infinite loop.
“What are you talking about?”
“I get it. I’ve been in his shoes before. He likes you, and you don’t reciprocate.” Casper grabbed another fistful of wipes. “Do him a favor — be honest with him. He’s a really nice guy and he deserves —,”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He heard the sink running as she washed her hands. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Jorgenson.”
“It’s pretty obvious, Abby. He was in a terrible mood after you shot him down in front of everybody. He just sat there glowering.” Casper gathered up the used wipes into a messy bundle and dumped them in the trash. “I really hope I put more clean clothes in here since last time.” The itsy bitsy spider. The itsy bitsy spider. The itsy bitsy spider.
“What do you mean by ‘glowering?’ And it wasn’t in front of everybody.”
“I clocked it.” He thumbed through the backpack and plucked out a navy blue onesie with a brown bear in a football jersey.
“You really think I —,” she turned off the water and pumped the paper towel dispenser. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Were you really unaware that he likes you?” At last, Joule was clean, and staring up at him with those beautiful hazel eyes. Casper smiled down at him and blew a raspberry on his belly. Joule grunted and giggled. Casper grinned and did it again. Joule laughed harder.
“No,” she said quietly. “I was not unaware.”
The itsy bitsy spider. The itsy bitsy spider. The itsy bitsy spider.
“Liam, enough!” Abby took the keyboard from Liam and switched it off. Liam promptly screamed. Casper went to pick up Joule, then remembered his shirt was soaked with baby excrement. He sighed darkly and searched through his backpack, finally locating a spare t-shirt with a bleach stain and a hole in the armpit. But it was not soaked with baby excrement.
“Would you mind doing me a favor? I have to go change my shirt. Could you—,”
“Yeah, I’ll take him.”
The moment she picked him up, Joule began to sputter and complain, and Casper caught his head and held it up as he arched his back in minuscule outrage.
“Sorry. I’ll be super fast, I promise.”
“I got it, Jorgenson.”
—
Despite his promise, he was not super fast. He was waylaid by several conversations on his way to the men’s room, having to explain that he hadn’t dumped egg salad on himself, and on the way back, he took a detour to help Rosa set up the microphone for the pie auction.
He hadn’t been away from Joule for longer than a few minutes in his entire life, but he had just left him in a veritable petri dish of potential microbial exchange. Coughing, drooling, runny noses, hands in mouths.
He was panting as he shoved open the door to the nursery. The itsy bitsy spider. The itsy bitsy spider. The itsy bitsy spider. A baby he didn’t recognize was vocalizing loudly and merrily in the bouncer. Liam was running full tilt in circles. George and Josie were fighting over a stuffed giraffe.
“I’m so sorry. I was helping Rosa and —,” he stopped and lowered his voice, “how did you do that?” Joule was cradled against Abby’s shoulder. Asleep.
“Poor buddy must be exhausted if he can fall asleep in here.” She carefully lowered Joule from her shoulder and placed him against Casper’s chest.
“I’m sorry, by the way. It’s none of my business to comment on you and Kyle. I just — I saw his face, and I can recognize that look a mile away and — anyway, I guess I’m still a little raw.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s okay. I know you’ve been through a lot.”
“Please don’t say that. Everyone here is way too eager to forgive me.” Abby furrowed her brow. “I don’t think they realize what I did. If they understood, maybe they wouldn’t be so quick to do all of this for me. For Joule.”
“Jorgenson, we’re not in first grade. We all know how Joule got here. It doesn’t change anything.”
“Maybe it should. I’m serious, Abby. The only reason I can stomach any of this is because I know it’s for Joule.”
“It’s for both of you.” Casper shook his head. “Jorgenson.” He shook his head again, and tried to smile. But he said nothing. She looked at him steadily. The itsy bitsy spider. The itsy bitsy spider. The itsy bitsy spider. She lowered her voice. “Why are you punishing yourself?”
“There you are!” Rosa burst through the door. “Mikkie! Es hora del pastel!” She crouched and lifted Mikayla to her hip. “It’s time for the pie auction, you two. Get out here and bring all the babies with you.”
—
Twenty anxious, blushing bakers were gathered demurely by the dessert table as Joe Heinrich tapped the microphone to test it. He was a livestock auctioneer on the weekends.
“First up is Jeannie Fiorella’s blueberry pie. Look at that beauty, ladies and gentleman. That lattice work is so straight you could stand it up and use it for a fence. Let’s start the bidding at ten dollars. Do I hear twelve? Fifteen to Doug Bruce. Do I hear seventeen? Twenty! Twenty to Ed Rice. Do I hear twenty-five? Thirty to Doug. Thirty-five to Ed. Forty? Fifty! Fifty to Doug Bruce. Do I hear fifty-five? Sixty to Ed! Do I hear — seventy-five to Doug! Seventy-five, ladies and gentlemen. Eighty! Eighty to Ed Rice. Ed’s got it for eighty unless I hear — there it is, ladies and gentlemen! Doug Bruce with one hundred going once, going twice — sold!”
Doug Bruce held up the pie in triumph and everyone applauded little Jeannie Fiorella, who, while visibly pleased, had a serene smile on her sweet, wizened cheeks, as if she had all along expected her pie to fetch top price. Casper shook Doug’s hand and kissed Jeannie’s cheek, his face hot as he forced himself to look them in the eye.
Icy veins, searing with cold, coursed through his mind, animated with scorn.
How could you?
It’s not for me. It’s for Joule.
This display of affection means nothing. You know the truth.
He swallowed, his mind shaking within him as he tried to withstand the assault.
Do not believe what they tell you. They will to lie to you. Do not believe it.
This was what he had been dreading most. Pie after pie was sold, each for far more than he was worth. After each sale, he thanked the buyer and the baker, and Joe Heinrich all over again.
I don’t have to accept any of it. It’s not for me. It’s for Joule.
At last, number twenty: Grandma Blomquist’s pineapple salad in a graham cracker crust, garnished with pastel miniature marshmallows and green cherries. Indomitable, Mom stood with her hands clasped, eagerly awaiting the flying bids. Casper watched Dad’s face, grim with the anticipation of the deed. Joe Heinrich cleared his throat.
“Sheila Jorgenson’s famous pineapple ambrosia,” he announced. “Do I hear ten dollars?” Dad raised his hand. Casper sighed with relief.
Thank God. It’s almost over.
“One thousand!” All heads turned toward the source of the bid. Casper recognized the voice. His eyes blurred as he looked and his mouth trembled. No. No, please. No.
“Say it again, Mikkie. Louder.”
“One thousand!” Mikayla shrieked with joy, as she clung to Nick’s hair with her pudgy fingers and bounced on his shoulders. Rosa was beaming.
“One thousand to the little Jorgenson lady,” Joe Heinrich’s voice quivered. “Going once, twice, sold!”
“Grandma, I win your pie!”
As everyone applauded and sighed with approval, Casper clung to his brother’s neck and buried his face in Nick’s massive shoulder.
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Katie Bertola 