Broken Soup by Jenny Valentine Page B

map tacked to the wall, and some photos. There was a pantry and a fridge and space to store pillows and blankets and clothes. Stuff had a double life. The backseat was a double bed (and so was the roof). The stove was a desk. The table came apart and slid in behind the driver.
    I know it like the back of my hand now, but I’ll never forget being outside with Stroma that time, looking in. It was as good as another world to both of us.
    When Harper came back, we were still standing there with our noses pressed against the glass. I was scared to get in because I thought I might not want to get out again. That was what Stroma did, climb in and jump out again, climb in and jump out. She picked dandelions and buttercups in the square, and Harper put them in an egg cup on the table. The whole place stank of fish and chips.
    â€œYou moved,” I said.
    â€œFor a couple of days,” he said. “Someone will be on the phone to complain by tomorrow.”
    He said the people around there were used to being so rich and powerful that they thought they could get anything done. He said he met this guy who worked on the council. They got a letter from the local residents complaining about the seagulls flying inland and making too much noise and crapping on their property.The council wrote back telling them to pool money together and buy a falcon.
    I said, “You know what? They probably did.”
    I asked him why he was in London when he could be anywhere. He said he wasn’t sure how far the ambulance would go, he hadn’t tried it out yet. “And anyway, I’m a tourist, remember?” he said. “I love London. Just because I could leave doesn’t mean I want to. I only just got here.”
    I asked him what was so great about it. I only knew my square mile. I only knew our schools, the park, the shops, our house, and the roads between, all dog shit and litter and bookies.
    â€œThere’s so many people from somewhere else, so many languages spoken here every day. It’s exciting, isn’t it? It’s like traveling without going anywhere, the places you can get to in this city.”
    Harper said it wasn’t like New York City, which was drawn up into blocks and separate areas and a pretty tight operation. London was more like one big mass of everything different at once, all swirling together, all chaos.
    I was embarrassed by how uncurious and dull I was. It was ridiculous to live here and not even see it. I felt stupid for even asking.
    Stroma was breathing on the back windows and drawing shapes. Harper asked me if we wanted to gointo town with him, see a few things. We could do it tomorrow, all day if we wanted, if we had nothing better to do on the weekend. Stroma squeaked and I looked over at her, and she’d written “yEs” in one of her clouds.
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    We half snuck out the next morning, early. It was pretty stupid, if you think about it, asking permission to leave from someone who hardly noticed you were there. I left a note instead and we went outside as soon as we heard the engine. Harper was pulled up on the other side of the road, the curtains in the back of the van still closed, his smile the only visible thing in the gray light. He’d brought breakfast from the café where they sell apple crumble with the peel in. Stroma was going on like she always did about it tasting like fingernails. I sounded like a grown-up, going “Don’t be rude about a present,” or something, just like Dad would. I couldn’t believe this stuff was coming out of my mouth.
    Harper had a book called The Fields Beneath about how much London had spread out and filled up and changed since the days when it was a few fields and a signpost or whatever. It was on the passenger seat when I got in. He said you could see pieces of the past here wherever you looked, a past long enough to blow most New Yorkers away.
    â€œLike that house,” he said as we went past a