Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [120]
And then I hear another voice: “Hey! Hey, Andi!”
I turn around. Virgil’s standing there. He’s breathless. Jules, and two more guys, and a girl, are standing at a distance, watching us.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I say.
“Weren’t you supposed to fly home yesterday? What are you doing here? You a tourist tonight?”
I force a shaky smile and ignore the first two questions. “Yeah. I’m a tourist tonight. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in your cab?”
“Monday night’s my night off,” he says.
“Miss, will you please step out of the line?” the guard says.
I do, feeling jittery and hassled.
“We just finished playing.”
“Was that you?” I ask. “You sounded good. I liked the horns.”
“Thanks. I wish the tourists thought so. They aren’t in a giving mood and we’re too cold to stay out here any longer. We’ve got a gig soon anyway. A paying one. At a party.” He nudges my foot with his own. “Come with us. We’ll pass the hat. Get even more money with another girl in the band.”
“Virgil! Come on!” one of his friends shouts.
“In a minute!” Virgil shouts back.
I don’t want to talk anymore. I want to go. Now.
“Take this for me, will you?” I say, handing him my guitar. “I can’t take it up with me and I don’t want to … to just leave it here.”
“I can’t. I have to go.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to wait here. Just take it.”
“But how will I get it back to you?”
“I don’t know. Somehow.”
I’m looking off in the distance, not at him, but he gets in my face and makes me look at him. He’s not smiling now. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“Come on, man,” somebody says, tugging on Virgil’s sleeve.
They’ve all come over, Virgil’s friends. There’s more he wants to say to me—I can tell by the look on his face—but someone says “Who’s this?” so he makes the introductions. There’s Constantine, rumpled and thin, with big white teeth. Charon, who’s holding a trumpet. Khadija, the beautiful girl from Rémy’s. I already know Jules. I mumble a few hellos. The pain is eating me alive.
“You coming?” Charon says.
“In a minute,” Virgil says, still looking at me.
“That’s it!” the guard bellows. “We’re full. No more.”
I spin around. He’s closing the gate to the elevator.
“No! Wait!” I shout. I chuck the guitar at Virgil and run to the ticket window. I slap my money on the counter. “Please!”
“We are closed,” the ticket man says.
I look at my watch. “But it’s only eleven o’clock. The tower doesn’t close until eleven-forty-five. The sign says so.”
“The tower closes at eleven-forty-five, yes, but the last elevator goes up at eleven.”
“Please, just one more,” I say, pushing my money through to him.
He pushes it back. “I’m sorry,” he says.
I run to the gate, my money in my hand, and ask the guard to let me on. The guard holds his hand up like a traffic cop. He shuts the doors to the elevator.
“I’ve got to get on!” I shout. I’m pleading now. Begging. Holding out my money. Offering him more. The people in the elevator are staring at me. I start to cry.
“Don’t be ridiculous. The tower isn’t going anywhere. Come back tomorrow,” the guard says.
But I can’t wait until tomorrow. The pain is too much. It never gets better. It only gets worse. The guard hits a button and the elevator rises. I’m weeping now. Sobbing. I sink to my knees and bang my head against the gate.
“Stop it! Right now! Or I’ll call the police,” the guard warns.
I feel hands under my arms. Lifting me up. It’s Virgil. He gets me to my feet and walks me away from the gate. His friends are with him. Their eyes are large in their faces.
Constantine takes a brochure from the rack by the ticket window. He walks up to me, smiling uncertainly, and offers it. “The Louvre is also good,” he says. “Many,