13 Little Blue Envelopes(16)

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.

Keith found her there a few minutes later. He carried a pint glass full of a very dark liquid that was coughing up tiny brass-colored bubbles. There was a thin layer of cloudy foam on top.

He passed her the glass. It was heavy. She had a brief flash of the thick, warm Ribena and shuddered. For himself, Keith had