Free Broken Soup by Jenny Valentine Page A

me, which was clever because it could mean was I ready to pay, or did I need help, or was I actually feeling all right, without committing to anything, without even getting off the phone.
    I said I was fine. She held the receiver between her jaw and her shoulder to ring up my things on the till, and she held out her hand for the money. Then she looked at me for an extra second and muttered something like “Hang on” into the phone. She smiled that kind of smile that means you want something and then she said, “You’re Harper’s friend.”
    I said, “Yes, kind of, a bit,” and the way she looked at me made me feel small and stupid.
    â€œYou met him in here? That’s you?” she said, and I nodded.
    â€œHow old are you?” she asked.
    â€œNearly sixteen. Why?” I said.
    She laughed at me. “ Nearly. When he told me you were a kid I thought he was joking.”
    I told myself she knew nothing about me. I stared her out until she blinked. I asked her name, keeping my voice light, trying not to show a thing on my face.
    â€œRhea.”
    â€œFunny,” I said, shoving my stuff in my bag, gettingready for the door. “He never mentioned you.” It made me feel good for less than five minutes.
    For one thing, she was probably right. What did an eighteen-year-old from New York on a European tour need with me? All he’d done was pick up something he’d seen me drop. I’d practically stalked him since. God, it didn’t mean we were going to be friends for life or anything.
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    I didn’t see him that week. Every day he didn’t show I saw a little bit more how wrong I’d been, how I’d read more into things than was there. I didn’t see Bee much, either, not out of school. She said Sonny was sick so the babysitter wouldn’t take him. Her dad had too much work to do, so she had to help.
    It was me and Stroma again, Stroma and me. I tried to be more enthusiastic about it, like Harper; more generous with it, like Bee. But I wasn’t fooling anyone.
    I was pretty lonely.
    I’d promised to take Stroma swimming on the weekend. I was moody and it was a horrible day and I hated the idea of getting wet and cold, but we got the bus to Archway because Stroma loved to swim. She was like a little fish. She’d go under and I’d watch the lifeguards go tense and lean forward in their seats. Then she’d bob up, somewhere else entirely, treading water with a big smile on her face, a little mermaid. You couldn’thelp feeling happy about how much she loved it. She loved the wave machine and the noise that meant it was starting. She loved the tube slide that takes your skin off every meter where it’s bolted together. And she loved the walk-in dryer, like a silent disco, all flashing lights and hot air that made your hair fly around.
    We got the bus back with our crazy blow-dried hair and our freezing fingers and toes. Stroma was nibbling at a pack of mini cookies like a mouse. She was saying something about Neil Armstrong or capital cities, and then suddenly she was off down the street. I didn’t get why until I saw the roof of the ambulance, sticking up behind a transit van, parked outside our house.
    I’d told myself not to look for Harper and there he was, walking along the pavement to meet us. I looked over at our windows. Most of the curtains were closed. There was nobody watching.
    Stroma was jumping up and down at his feet, and he picked her up and swung her around. She offered him a cookie. He said thank you and pretended to eat the whole pack. He was smiling at me and I was smiling back and my face was starting to ache, but I didn’t want to stop.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” I said.
    â€œVisiting my aunt,” Harper said, and I was about to say “Really?” when I saw the look on his face.
    â€œVery funny,” I said. I felt different just from looking at him.
    â€œWhere have