Free Brooklyn Girls by Gemma Burgess Page A

yourself .
    Everyone is staring now. “What a sweetheart,” comments Jonah. Then Angie turns around and runs away. The guy flicks his floppy bangs a few times, and disappears into the crowd.
    “She’s my best friend,” I murmur. Why hasn’t Angie mentioned a new guy to me? I thought she was into Hugh, that English lord. Who the hell is this dude? I take out my phone.
    “Yeah, you should probably call her,” says Jonah.
    “No…” God, men are stupid sometimes. If Angie wanted me to know about that guy, she’d have told me. She obviously didn’t, and I have to respect that. But I can make it easier if she wants to tell me now.
    I write Angie a quick text. Hey, ladybitch. What up? Wanna hang out later?
    A second later I get a response. Maybe. I’m out. Let’s drink tonight.
    Typical Angie, I think as Jonah and I keep walking.
    If I saw Julia having a fight with a mystery man I could just be direct with her. Not that it’d ever happen, of course. Mystery isn’t her thing. Last time Jules hooked up with a guy she texted me while it was happening. Literally.
    Not Angie. Once when we were on vacation in Thailand with my parents when we were fourteen, Angie told me that she was going to bed early. So I snuck out barhopping with a couple of the bartenders from the hotel. Come midnight, I went to the ladies’ room in some dive, heard sobbing, and saw Angie’s shoes under the cubicle door. I sat outside the stall for an hour, begging her to talk. She refused, and kept telling me she didn’t need me, that she wanted to be alone. Eventually I left, and the next morning she’d checked out of the hotel and gone home to her parents.
    I never found out what happened, and she didn’t talk to me for almost a year after that.
    That was the same year I got kicked out of my first boarding school, come to think of it.
    Then the following summer she acted like everything was fine between us, so I just went along with it. Sometimes friendships are more complicated than any relationships.
    “Penny for your thoughts,” says Jonah.
    I look at him and frown. “Sorry. They’re worth more than that.”

 
    CHAPTER 6
     
    It’s nearly lunchtime at the Brooklyn Flea, and while Jonah lines up for a caramel-and-sea-salt ice cream, I lean against a beat-up old truck at the side of the market, people-watching. Is it compulsory for men aged between thirty and forty in Brooklyn to grow a beard, or what? Every male vendor has statement facial upholstery. And they all look so happy.
    That’s what I need: I need a job that’ll make me smile.
    Who am I kidding? I just need a job.
    “Hey, watch it,” says a gruff voice. It’s an older woman with long silvery hair curled around the top of her head in a chignon.
    I look back at the truck behind me with alarm. It’s a food truck, I now realize, painted pale pink and older than I am. I didn’t think it’d damage that easily. “I’m sorry, I—”
    “I’m kidding.” She grins at me. “This is Toto.”
    “Toto the truck? As in the song, ‘Africa’?”
    “It was that, or Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark,” she says. “Toto seemed easier. I’m Francie.”
    “Pia.” I lean over to shake her hand. Very firm handshake, I notice.
    “You taking a break?” she asks.
    I’m thrilled that she thinks I might actually work here. “Not exactly … I’m waiting for a friend. I love this place, though. Everyone seems so happy. Especially the food truck people.”
    “They should be, those upstart trucks are making a damn fortune,” she says, checking her iPhone. Impressive. My mother confuses the remote control and the cordless phone. An iPhone would induce a total meltdown.
    “Really?” I say. “Do you work here, too?”
    “Nope. I’m trying to sell her. No luck,” Francie says, sighing and patting the truck, as though it—I mean she—was a dog.
    “Why not?”
    “She’s old.” Francie shrugs. “She’s fully equipped—she used to sell ice cream at Coney Island—but