Read Online 13 Little Blue Envelopes by Maureen Johnson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maureen Johnson
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with the knife-sharp, “I don’t know.”
Fiona twisted her lips into a wan smile. She looked Ginny up and down, her eyes settling on the cargo shorts and then on a long, thin cut that ran across Ginny’s knee. (Packing accident.
Late night. Stepladder miscalculation while getting some things out of the top of the closet.)
“We’re going out,” David said. “See you later.”
84
“They’ve been fighting,” Keith said when they were gone.
“There’s a shock.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” he said, dumping out a box of Starbucks cups onto the floor. “That’s what they do. They fight. And fight. And fight and fight and fight.”
“Why?”
“Well, the short version would involve me using a word for her that Americans tend to find very offensive. The long version is that David wants to leave university and go to cooking school.
He’s gotten in, has a grant and everything. That’s his dream. But Fiona wants him to go to Spain with her.”
“Spain?”
“She’s going to work as a rep,” he said. “A tour guide, basically.
She wants him to go, even though he needs to be here. But he’ll go because he does everything she tells him to. We used to be good mates, but not anymore. It’s all about Fiona now.”
He shook his head, and Ginny got the feeling that this wasn’t just talk—he seemed really bothered by it. But she was still caught up on the fact that Fiona was going to work in Spain.
Who just decided they were going to work in Spain? Ginny hadn’t even been allowed to get a job until last summer, and that was only at the SnappyDrug down the street. One entire painful summer of stocking razor refills and asking people if they wanted to sign up for the SnappyCard. And here was Fiona, who couldn’t be much older than she was, running off to sunny Spain. Ginny tried to imagine that conversation. I’m so sick of the mall. . . . Think I’ll go get a job at that Gap in Madrid.
Everyone else’s life was more interesting than hers.
85
“She’s pretty,” Ginny said.
She had no idea why she said this. It was true, more or less.
Fiona was elegant and striking. (Okay, she looked a little like she had recently been raised from the dead—bony, shock-white hair, shredded clothes—but in a good way, of course.)
“She looks like a cotton swab,” Keith said dismissively. “She has no known personality and horrible taste in music. You should hear the utter crap she plays when she’s here. You, however, have taste.”
The switch in topic caught Ginny off guard.
“So,” he said, “what was it about my show that made you want to buy up all the tickets? Was it that you wanted me all to yourself?”
Not surprisingly, she couldn’t speak. This wasn’t just her normal nervous reaction—it was because Keith had slid over on his knees and was now leaning over his coffee table box, his face only a foot or so from hers.
“That’s it,” he said. “Isn’t it? Command performance?”
He was smiling now. There was some kind of dare in his eyes. And for some reason, the only impulse Ginny had was to reach into her pocket, clutch the money in a tight grip, and drop it on the table. It slowly unballed itself, like a small purple monster that had just hatched. Little tiny pictures of the queen sprouted everywhere.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s for your show,” she said. “Or whatever. Another show.
It’s just for you.”
He sat back on his heels and looked at her.
“You’re just giving me . . .” He picked up the money, flattened it out, and counted it. “One hundred and forty pounds?”
86
“Oh . . .” She reached into her pocket and fished out two pound coins. It had to be one hundred forty-two. As she reached for the table to add these to the pile, she realized that the entire atmosphere in the room had just changed. Whatever conversation they might have been going to have was now canceled. Her strange, sudden gesture had shorted it out.
Clunk.
Fiona twisted her lips into a wan smile. She looked Ginny up and down, her eyes settling on the cargo shorts and then on a long, thin cut that ran across Ginny’s knee. (Packing accident.
Late night. Stepladder miscalculation while getting some things out of the top of the closet.)
“We’re going out,” David said. “See you later.”
84
“They’ve been fighting,” Keith said when they were gone.
“There’s a shock.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” he said, dumping out a box of Starbucks cups onto the floor. “That’s what they do. They fight. And fight. And fight and fight and fight.”
“Why?”
“Well, the short version would involve me using a word for her that Americans tend to find very offensive. The long version is that David wants to leave university and go to cooking school.
He’s gotten in, has a grant and everything. That’s his dream. But Fiona wants him to go to Spain with her.”
“Spain?”
“She’s going to work as a rep,” he said. “A tour guide, basically.
She wants him to go, even though he needs to be here. But he’ll go because he does everything she tells him to. We used to be good mates, but not anymore. It’s all about Fiona now.”
He shook his head, and Ginny got the feeling that this wasn’t just talk—he seemed really bothered by it. But she was still caught up on the fact that Fiona was going to work in Spain.
Who just decided they were going to work in Spain? Ginny hadn’t even been allowed to get a job until last summer, and that was only at the SnappyDrug down the street. One entire painful summer of stocking razor refills and asking people if they wanted to sign up for the SnappyCard. And here was Fiona, who couldn’t be much older than she was, running off to sunny Spain. Ginny tried to imagine that conversation. I’m so sick of the mall. . . . Think I’ll go get a job at that Gap in Madrid.
Everyone else’s life was more interesting than hers.
85
“She’s pretty,” Ginny said.
She had no idea why she said this. It was true, more or less.
Fiona was elegant and striking. (Okay, she looked a little like she had recently been raised from the dead—bony, shock-white hair, shredded clothes—but in a good way, of course.)
“She looks like a cotton swab,” Keith said dismissively. “She has no known personality and horrible taste in music. You should hear the utter crap she plays when she’s here. You, however, have taste.”
The switch in topic caught Ginny off guard.
“So,” he said, “what was it about my show that made you want to buy up all the tickets? Was it that you wanted me all to yourself?”
Not surprisingly, she couldn’t speak. This wasn’t just her normal nervous reaction—it was because Keith had slid over on his knees and was now leaning over his coffee table box, his face only a foot or so from hers.
“That’s it,” he said. “Isn’t it? Command performance?”
He was smiling now. There was some kind of dare in his eyes. And for some reason, the only impulse Ginny had was to reach into her pocket, clutch the money in a tight grip, and drop it on the table. It slowly unballed itself, like a small purple monster that had just hatched. Little tiny pictures of the queen sprouted everywhere.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s for your show,” she said. “Or whatever. Another show.
It’s just for you.”
He sat back on his heels and looked at her.
“You’re just giving me . . .” He picked up the money, flattened it out, and counted it. “One hundred and forty pounds?”
86
“Oh . . .” She reached into her pocket and fished out two pound coins. It had to be one hundred forty-two. As she reached for the table to add these to the pile, she realized that the entire atmosphere in the room had just changed. Whatever conversation they might have been going to have was now canceled. Her strange, sudden gesture had shorted it out.
Clunk.
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