H2O by Virginia Bergin Page A

you see? I was still counting.
    And…does it sound too weird to say it? I felt glad that my mom was at home with Henry, not lying in the street—or in her nightie in someone’s front yard, like Mrs. Fitch.
    Simon was wrong. It was a riot.
    South Street goes along next to the High Street, then curves in to meet it. As we walked toward the noise, you had this little view—a tiny street’s width—of the High Street. And across this little gap, people—not tons of people, but little flurries and spurts of them—were going back and forth, some walking, some running, some shouting. Some with scarves tied across their faces like it was a real riot or something. Some pushing carts, most carrying all sorts of stuff.
    So what we’d seen in the parking lot, it wasn’t just some random thing—it was what was going down.
    â€œWe’ll go to the other supermarket,” said Simon, staring at the little snippet of riot.
    That was another moment when I (sort of) realized how serious it was. We basically never much went to “the other supermarket,” aka “the good one.” In my house, if there was something from “the other supermarket” in the fridge—or snuck into the freezer like the pizza—it was unusual, as in Shocksville unusual, and also a cause for deep joy. Lee’s family went there all the time and always had tons of awesome stuff to eat—like ice cream, for a start, and snacky things you could microwave in seconds, french fries included. Pretty much everyone else’s family shopped there too, at least sometimes. Even Zak’s.
    We backtracked and cut around along Snow Hill, weaving our way along the back streets until we’d nearly reached the river. Up ahead, you could see the junction where the end of the High Street meets a bunch of other roads: the bridge road from the east end of town where Leonie lived, the road that led into town from the seaside places like Paignton and Torquay, and the road that led to the hospital and the supermarket.
    That junction was rammed with dead cars, with live people, with rage—you could hear it from where we stood: screaming, shouting, fighting, and the police, in a car, stuck in the middle of it, lights flashing. There was a policeman on the roof of the car with a megaphone, telling people to Go Home, Go Home, Go Home .
    Simon looked…like he looked when he got handed Henry having a bawling fit. Upset, confused, and panicked. Stressed out but trying not to show it.
    To get to the supermarket, we’d have to get through all that. Or—
    â€œWe could cut across the High Street further up,” I said. “Just cut across. It’ll be really quick.”
    Basically, I’d have marched across the Sahara if I’d thought there was something to drink on the other side. I could feel this disgusting layer of sweat building up inside the waterproof gear, and I’d already wondered if I’d have to survive by licking the inside of my raincoat.
    â€œWhere?” snapped Simon. Yup, stressed.
    That’s the thing about being a teenager, I guess. You know about stuff, you know about places, about shortcuts that adults don’t. They get to drive everywhere; you get told, “It’s only a shower,” i.e., get on with it; go. So you find the quickest way… OK, so you also find secret ways… OK and places to lurk. Places where you won’t be seen by parents cruising past in cars when maybe you’re supposed to be in French class or PE—or a super-expensive private guitar lesson, for example.
    My shortcut, it was down this little alleyway. At the end of it, you had to cut across the High Street, but not just straight across; you had to turn left, go along a ways, and then cut right to get into another alleyway. I guess Simon must have been thirst-crazy too, because we went for it. He gripped the umbrella like it was a club and took hold of my