Read Online Broken Soup by Jenny Valentine - Free Book Online

buildingside-on to the main road, butted up against a pawn shop that used to be a tube station. “It’s facing the wrong way because that’s the way the train track used to go, when that house was all by itself, a day’s ride from the city, surrounded by land. There’s a shot of it in the book, and a drawing.”
    I turned around to watch it disappear, the house from another time that I’d never even noticed before. I thought, He’s been here five minutes and he knows more about where I live than I do.
    I was worried about what to say in the van. Usually, when it matters, I’m no good at talking. Stuff has to go through Customs before it’s allowed out of my mouth. I imagine saying my thing, and I imagine the response, and the whole conversation happens, locked away in my head, with no one actually saying a word. Harper didn’t have that problem. He didn’t have Customs. That boy asked so many questions and had so much to say, and he was just this wealth of facts and figures and crazy pieces of information. I wondered how the hell he remembered everything. I didn’t need to worry at all.
    We went to Trafalgar Square, St. Martin’s Church, and Chinatown. Places I’d seen so many times before without actually seeing them. Places I’d stared at while I was waiting for a bus, or slouched around at the back of the line on a school trip. Harper was so into everything hesaw. He had Stroma on his shoulders and he was chatting with her about the buildings and the statues and the people they passed.
    We went to the National Gallery. We were in there for nearly two hours. Stroma had never been before. She didn’t want to leave.
    I felt like I’d been going around with my eyes closed.
    I got a text from Bee saying, WHERE R U ??
    I sent one back that said, GOING ROUND THE WORLD WITH S AND HG .
    Her next one said, ILL MISS U so I answered, BACK BY BEDTIME XX .
    Harper asked me what I was laughing at and I told him. “Who’s Bee again?” he said.
    â€œMy other new friend,” I answered. “You’ll like her.”
    On the way home we drove through a blossom storm near Russell Square. The street was long and gray and I didn’t notice the trees until the wind picked up. Suddenly there were petals everywhere, small, pale pink, and hurtling through the air. Harper had to put the windshield wipers on to see.
    Outside the apartments on Hampstead Road there was a group of kids we knew, all ages. Loads of the kids from Stroma’s school live there. She saw them first and hung out of the little side window, waving and shouting. I joined in and we laughed at the looks on their faces, us in a souped-up ambulance, cruising past.
    â€œThe trouble with a city,” Harper said, pulling into a space outside our house, “is if you leave, it doesn’t miss you. You’re totally dispensable. It doesn’t even notice you’re gone.”
    â€œThat’s a good thing, isn’t it?” I said. “Isn’t it better if things go along fine without you?”
    He smiled and said he’d never thought of it like that before.
    We climbed out of the van. Stroma was exhausted. It had started to rain. It didn’t look like anyone was at home, but that didn’t mean anything.
    â€œWill you be all right?” he said, and I wanted to say exactly how all right I was, thanks to him. But standing there in front of our dark, sad house I couldn’t make myself say much, so I just smiled and nodded.
    Stroma threw herself against his legs and said she had so much news now to write at school on Monday morning. He bent right down and kissed her on the top of the head, and then he looked at me and said, “See you.”
    God, please, yes, I thought, and I walked up the path and put my key in the door.
    Â 
    We’d been in about ten minutes and Stroma was playing in her room when Dad rang. “Rowan, where have you been all