She went to the door.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hi.” He just stood there.
Shiloh squinted down at him. She was in ninth grade, and she’d already been five-foot-eleven—taller than Cary—for a year.
Cary looked unsettled. He was wearing an old sweatshirt and camouflage pants with big pockets. His face was red, and his whole-wheat-colored hair was a mess. “Are you busy?” he asked.
“No,” Shiloh said.
She and Cary had been friends since seventh grade. They walked to school together, and they talked on the phone. Sometimes they sat outside and talked. He’d never been inside her house.
It was cold out today, almost winter.
“I was just eating dinner,” Shiloh said. “Do you want to come in?”
“That’s okay.” He shook his head. “I’ll see you later.” He turned around.
“Cary, no!”
He looked back at her.
“Just wait, okay? I’ll be right back.”
He nodded.
Shiloh left him on the porch and went into the kitchen. The soup was boiling. She poured it into two small mugs and got two spoons.
Then she grabbed her coat—a fancy pink wool coat from the fifties. It was very cute, but the sleeves only came down to her elbows. Women in the 1950s must have had cold wrists all the time.
When Shiloh got back to the door, Cary was sitting outside on the steps.
She went and sat next to him, holding out a mug. “Here.”
He looked at it. “You don’t have to feed me.”
“I can’t eat in front of you,” she said, “and I’m really hungry.”
Cary made a consternated noise and took the mug.
Shiloh started eating.
“Sorry I didn’t call first,” he said.
“It’s okay. I wasn’t doing anything. My mom’s at work.”
“She’s a waitress at the airport?”
“She’s more like a bartender.”
Cary was staring out into the park across the street. “Hm.”
“You have to eat at least one bite,” she said, “or I’m still being rude.”
Cary looked down at the mug. He took a bite. “What is this?”
“Chicken and rice. It was better three days ago. You okay?”
