13 Little Blue Envelopes (7 page)

“The martial arts club is giving a belt test in the space.”

“Friday?”

“That’s the last show,” he said. “We’ve sold three of those.

You can have the other twenty-two.”

One hundred ten pounds more passed through the cut in the plastic.

Ginny thanked him and stepped over the bucket and counted out her tickets and remaining money. Seventy tickets.

One hundred forty-two more pounds to
benefact
.

Behind her, she heard a noise. The liberated ticket seller stepped out of his closet, nodded to her, and carried the cigar box of money down the hall, upstairs, and into the light of day. She noticed that a hastily scrawled sign had appeared in the window.

It read: SOLD OUT, FOREVER.

64

Bright Ideas

It was only when she was back up on the street with all of the tickets to Keith’s show in her grasp that Ginny realized that there was a flaw in her plan. Yes, she’d given him money—sort of. But now no one would see him perform, starting immediately. She’d purchased him, lock, stock, and barrel.

She went into such a panic that she forgot where the tube stop was and circled the same block three times, and when she finally did find it, there was only one place she could think to go.

Back to Harrods. Back to Richard. Back to the same chocolate counter in the food hall because at least she knew they had a phone and the guide there. Richard dutifully came down and escorted her to the Krispy Kreme. (Yes, Harrods had a Krispy Kreme. This store really did have it all.)

“If you had to give out seventy tickets to a show called
Starbucks: The Musical
,” Ginny began, breaking her cruller in two, “where would you go?”

65

Richard stopped stirring his coffee and looked up.

“I can’t say it’s ever come up,” he said.

“But if it did,” she said.

“I suppose I’d go to the place where people were waiting around trying to get into shows,” he said. “Have you actually purchased seventy tickets to something called
Starbucks: The Musical
?”

Ginny decided it was probably better not to answer that question.

“Where would people be looking for tickets?” she asked.

“The West End. You weren’t far from there yesterday. Covent Garden, Leister Square—that’s the area. It’s where all the theaters are, like Broadway. But I’m not sure how successful you’ll be. Still, if they’re free . . .”

The West End was not as bright and in-your-face as Broadway. It lacked the three-story-high billboards that sparkled and revolved and had gold fringe. There were no massive, illuminated cups of ramen noodles, no skyscrapers. It was much more subdued, with only a few posters and signs marking out the territory. The theaters were stark, serious-looking places.

She immediately knew this was not going to work.

For a start, she was American, and she looked like a tourist, and it kept starting to rain and then stopping. Plus, the tickets weren’t the official computerized kind—they were just unevenly cut photocopies. How was she supposed to show people what the show was, where it was, what it was about? And who was going to want to know about
Starbucks: The Musical
when they were waiting in line to get tickets for
Les Misérables
or
Phantom
of the Opera
or
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
or some other normal 66

show at a normal theater that sold commemorative sweatshirts and mugs?

She stationed herself near a massive brick theater off Leister Square, right by a kiosk filled with theater information. For the next hour or so, she just stood there, biting at her lower lip, clutching the tickets. She occasionally stepped forward when someone lingered by the posters, but she couldn’t manage to coax herself forward to try to convince them to go and see the show.

By three o’clock, she had only managed to give away six tickets, all of them to a group of Japanese girls who accepted them politely and appeared to have no idea what they had just taken. And she’d only spoken to them because she had a pretty good idea that they had no idea what she was saying.

She dragged herself back across town to Goldsmiths. At least there she could point to the building and say, “The show’s in there.”

An hour in front of the uni produced no results at all, until she turned to find herself face-to-face with a guy who had to be about her age.

He was black, with short dreadlocks and sleek rimless glasses.

“Want to go see this show tonight?” she asked, pointing at the flyer with the dive-bombing coffee cup. “It’s really good. I have free tickets.”

He looked at the flyer, then at her.

“Free tickets?”

“It’s a special promotion,” she said.

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of a promotion?”

“A . . . special one. A free one.”

“For what?”

67

“Just to get people to go.”

“Right,” he said slowly. “Can’t. Busy tonight. But I’ll keep it in mind, yeah?”

He gave her a lingering glance before going inside. That was as close as she got to success.

She sank down onto the bench at the bus stop and pulled out her notebook.

June 25

7:15 p.m.

Dear Miriam,

I have always been kind of proud that I have never lost
it over a guy. I have never been one of those people who
freaked out in the bathroom or did something lame like
1. making a mock-suicide attempt by taking an entire bottle
of vitamin C (Grace Partey, tenth grade)
2. failing chem by repeatedly skipping class to make out
behind the cafeteria Dumpster ( Joan Fassel, eleventh
grade)

3. claiming sudden interest in Latin culture and switching
from French II to Spanish I to be in same class as a hot
freshman, only to get put in a different period (Allison
Smart, tenth grade)

4. refusing to break up with a boyfriend (Alex Webber) even
when he was arrested for setting fire to three sheds in his
development and had to be put under observation in a
mental hospital (Catie Bender, student council VP,
valedictorian, twelfth grade)

Clearly, hormones do not help our IQ.

68

I have always been very whatever about the whole
thing. The guys I would have liked were just totally
unattainable, so, given the choice between making a huge
effort for guys I wasn’t really interested in or being an
independent human being (hanging out with my friends,
making plans to escape New Jersey, injuring myself on
household appliances), I decided to be an independent
creature.

I know you think that I’m due for a “major romantic
breakthrough” anytime now, preferably before I leave high
school. And you know I think you need “major hormone
therapy” because you
excel
at obsessing. You were obsessed
with Paul all last summer. I mean, I love you dearly, but
you do.

But just to make you feel better, I’ll tell you something:
I am kind of sort of interested in someone who could
never, ever like me. His name is Keith. He does not
know me.

And before you even start with the “Of course he’ll like
you! You’re so great!” just put it in park for a second. I know
that he can’t. Why? Because he is

1. a good-looking British guy

2. who is an actor

3. and who is also in college

4. in London, where he wrote a play

5. which I have just purchased ALL OF THE TICKETS

FOR because of this letter thing and have only managed
to give away SIX of them.

69

But just for fun, let’s review my romantic history, shall we?

1. Den Waters. Made out with him exactly three times, all
three of which he did the scary lizard-tongue thing and
thanked me afterward.

2. Mike Riskus, who I obsessed over for two years and never
even spoke to until right before Christmas last year. He
was behind me in trig, and he asked, “Which problem set
do we have to do?” And I said, “The one on page 85.” And
he said, “Thanks.” I lived on that for MONTHS.

So, as you can see, my chances are incredibly good, given
my wide appeal and experience.

Enclosed you will find a copy of the program from Keith’s
show.

I miss you so much it’s giving me a pain in my pancreas.

But you know that.

Love,

Ginny

70

The Hooligan and the Pineapple

Only three people showed. Since two people had already purchased tickets before Ginny got there and she had used one herself, this meant that absolutely
no one
she had given tickets to had come. Her Japanese girls had let her down.

The result of this was that the cast of
Starbucks: The Musical
outnumbered the audience, and Jittery seemed very aware of the fact. That might have been the reason he decided to skip intermission and keep right on going, eliminating any chance of letting his audience escape. For his part, Keith didn’t seem to mind at all that hardly anyone was there. He took the opportunity to dive into the seats and even to climb one of the fake palm trees that sat on the side of the room.

At the end, as Ginny leapt up to make her escape, Jittery suddenly jumped down off the stage as she was reaching down to get her bag. He dropped into the empty seat next to her.

“Special promotion, eh?” he said. “What was that about?”

71

Ginny had heard tales of people being tongue-tied, of opening their mouths to find themselves incapable of any speech. She never thought that was literal. She always thought that was just another way of saying they couldn’t think of anything good to say.

Well, she was wrong. You could lose the ability to speak. She felt it right at the top of her throat—a little tug, like the closing of a drawstring bag.

“So tell me,” he said, “why did you buy three hundred quid worth of tickets and then try to give them away on the street?”

She opened her mouth. Again, nothing. He folded his arms over his chest, looking like he was prepared to wait forever for an explanation.

Speak!
she screamed to herself.
Speak, dammit!

He shook his head and ran his hand over his hair until it stuck up in high, staticky strands.

“I’m Keith,” he said, “and you’re . . . clearly mad, but what’s your name?”

Okay. Her name. She could handle that.

“Ginny,” she said. “Virginia.”

Only one name was really necessary. Why had she given two?

“American, yeah?” he asked.

A nod.

“Named after a state?”

Another nod, even though it wasn’t true. She was named after her grandmother. But now that she thought of it, it was technically true. She was named after a state. She had the most ridiculously American name ever.

“Well, Mad Ginny Virginia from America, I guess I owe you 72

a drink since you’ve made me the first person in all of recorded history to sell this place out.”

“I am?”

Keith got up and went over to one of the fake palm trees. He pulled a tattered canvas bag from behind it.

“So you want to go, then?” he asked, tearing off the Starbucks shirt and replacing it with a graying white T-shirt.

“Where?”

“To the pub.”

“I’ve never been to a pub.”

“Never been to a pub? Well, then. You’d better come along.

This is England. That’s what we do here. We go to pubs.”

He reached behind once again and retrieved an old denim jacket. The kilt he left on.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing to her as if he was trying to coax a shy animal out from under a sofa. “Let’s go. You want to go, yes?”

Ginny felt herself getting up and numbly following Keith out of the room.

The night had become misty. The glowing yellow orbs of the crossing lights and the car headlights cut strange patterns through the fog. Keith walked briskly, his hands buried in his pockets. He occasionally glanced over his shoulder to make sure Ginny was still with him. She was just a pace or two behind.

“You don’t have to follow me,” he said. “We’re a very advanced country. Girls can walk beside men, go to school, everything.”

Ginny tentatively stepped beside him and hurried to keep up with his long stride. There were so many pubs. They were everywhere. Pubs with nice English names like The Court in 73

Session and The Old Ship. Pretty pubs painted in bright colors with carefully made wooden signs. Keith walked past all these to a shabbier-looking place where people stood out on the sidewalk with big pints of beer.

“Here we are,” he said. “The Friend in Need. Discounts for students.”

“Wait,” she said, grabbing his arm. “I’m . . . in high school.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m only seventeen,” she whispered. “I don’t think I’m legal.”

“You’re American. You’ll be fine. Just act like you belong and no one will say a word.”

“Are you sure?”

“I started getting into pubs when I was thirteen,” he said.

“I’m sure.”

“But you’re legal now?”

“I’m nineteen.”

“And that’s legal here, right?”

“It’s not just legal,” he said. “It’s mandatory. Come on.”

Ginny couldn’t even see the bar from where they were. There was a solid wall of people guarding it and a haze of smoke hanging over it, as if it had its very own weather.

“What are you having?” Keith asked. “I’ll go and get it. You try to find somewhere to stand.”

She ordered the only thing she knew—something that was conveniently written on a huge mirror on the wall.

“Guinness?”

“Right.”

Keith threw himself into the crowd and was absorbed. Ginny squeezed in between a clump of guys in brightly colored soccer 74

shirts who were standing along a little ledge. They kept punching one another. Ginny backed as far into the wall as she could go, but she was sure they would still manage to hit her. There was nowhere else to stand, though. She pressed herself in close and examined the sticky rings on the wood shelf and the ashy remnants in the ashtrays. An old Spice Girls song started playing, and the hitting guys began to do a hit dance that brought them even closer to Ginny.