Free Boys of Summer by Jessica Brody Page B

around like she doesn’t recognize her surroundings. “Where’s my biscuits?”
    I cringe. “I think they’re toast.”
    â€œNot toast. Biscuits.”
    â€œI mean they’re burned.”
    She waves this away and hobbles over to the tray. I can see the distress etched into her face. And I can also see the moment she decides to conceal it. “Don’t be ridiculous. They’re supposed to be like this. I’m trying out a new recipe.”
    I stare, dumbfounded, at the as-black-as-night biscuits, then back at Mamma V. “Are you feeling okay?” I ask.
    â€œOf course, Mikey. I’m feeling fine. You go on home. I’m going to butter these biscuits.”
    I’m anxious about leaving her alone, but when I linger in the doorway, she shoos me again. “Go!”
    So I do.
    It isn’t until I’m halfway through the grounds that I remember I left my phone in the employee break room this afternoon, and have to turn around. Normally I would just leave it and come back for it in the morning—I’ve neverbeen overly attached to my phone—but my dad’s friend Dave is supposed to text me first thing tomorrow morning with the address of the roofing job.
    I went to see him about it earlier in the week, just as I promised my dad I would. Dave was worried about the fact that I’ve never worked on a roof by myself before, but I assured him I would be fine. I’ve helped my dad on enough of his jobs that I’m confident I can hold my own.
    I jog into the break room and yank open the door of my locker. My phone is waiting for me on the top shelf. I pocket it, slam the door, and spin around, coming face-to-face with a girl covered head to toe in every color of paint imaginable.
    It’s that cute girl who tried to rescue me from not drowning last week, although it takes me a second to recognize her without the wet duck pajamas . . . and with the green paint in her hair.
    â€œHey!” I say, suddenly realizing I never actually got her name.
    â€œJulie,” she says, reading my mind. “Kind of hard to believe that of all the words that came out of my mouth that night, my name wasn’t one of them.”
    I chuckle. “That’s okay. I’m Mike.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œYou do?”
    â€œYour name came up the other day when I was talking to one of my coworkers. Apparently you’re a legend around this place. Have you really been working here since you were twelve?”
    â€œThirteen, actually.”
    She shakes her head in disbelief. “Amazing.”
    â€œNot really. It just means I haven’t had a life since I hit puberty.”
    She laughs so hard, she actually snorts. It’s kind of adorable.
    I glance down at her outfit. It’s the usual club employee getup: khaki shorts and a white polo shirt. Except hers looks like a badly replicated Monet. “Well, you apparently had an interesting day.”
    She sighs. “Yeah. Remind me to never do craft hour after Popsicle time. Sugar rushes and wet paint don’t mix.”
    I take a step back, admiring the artwork on her uniform. “I don’t know. I think you might have something here. Maybe impressionist.”
    â€œOh, no,” she deadpans. “It’s cubism all the way. When that five-year-old is dead, this polo shirt is going to be worth a fortune.”
    I laugh. “It looks good on you.”
    It isn’t until her face flushes with color that I realize what I’ve said. Was I flirting? I certainly didn’t mean to. I’ve never been very good at the flirting thing. I’ve never really had to get good at it. Harper and I have been dating since we were twelve.
    I try to backpedal. “I mean, the art looks good. Not the polo shirt. It’s hard to look good in those stupid club uniforms. Not that you look bad in it. It’s just, you know, a polo shirt.”
    And now I’m rambling.
    She