Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [124]
As I rejoin them, we take a right off the main tunnel, walk for another five minutes or so, take a left, and then I see a glow at the end of the tunnel, soft and golden, and hear music. We make another right, and then we’re suddenly in a big room. It’s lit by dozens of candles and it’s full of people—all laughing, drinking, talking, and dancing. There are punks and geeks. Hippies in head scarves. Spelunkers with headlamps. Goths. A girl is juggling. Another’s walking around in a shroud. I hear French, English, German, Italian, Chinese. Tunes from an iPod. As I stand there, totally gobsmacked, a guy zips by in a Speedo.
“Welcome to the beach,” Virgil says.
He greets people he knows, slapping hands and fist bumping and kissing them. Then he leads us to a huge stone table in the middle of the room, where we put our stuff down.
“Why is this place called the beach?” I ask.
He points to a painting of a wave on a wall. And then to the ground, which is not limestone, but sand. “People brought it down here years ago. In buckets,” he says. “Don’t dig in it. It’s covering bones.”
I toe at the sand, wondering who’s underneath it and thinking that it’s weird the way things work out. I didn’t manage to kill myself tonight but somehow I still ended up in a grave.
64
Everyone takes their instruments out, so I take my guitar out, too, figuring I’m here so I might as well play. If nothing else, it’ll take my mind off what I almost did tonight. Somebody kills the iPod. We do Beatles covers. Stones. Stuff everyone knows. Khadija sings and she’s really good. We do “Alison,” “Hallelujah,” and “Better Than.” I have to sit out a tune here and there that I don’t know.
People are digging us. They’re dancing and singing, cheering and applauding. The goths are doing what looks like a minuet—bowing, touching hands, twirling. One of them, a shockingly hot dude, stands apart, just listening. He’s got the strangest expression on his face—like he’s never heard music before. Something about him looks really familiar to me, but I can’t imagine I could have seen him and forgotten him. Not with that face. Or those clothes.
We play for nearly an hour then take a break. Someone hands me a paper cup filled with wine. I try to find water instead but there isn’t any so I put it down. It’s not a good idea to mix any amount of Qwellify and alcohol, never mind mixing way too much Qwell and alcohol. Virgil and Constantine sit next to me. Constantine asks what’s beyond the beach. Virgil shows us on a map he made of the catacombs. It’s incredibly detailed, with markings for entries, blockages, rooms, and hazards.
“Why do you like it here?” I ask him.
“It’s quiet. No tourists. And it’s the only way someone like me can get a room in the good part of town,” he says, smiling.
He’s not looking at me much. Even when he’s talking to me. He’s probably in big trouble with Khadija. What a horndog. I still can’t believe what happened at Sacré-Coeur. All the things he said. And did. I don’t know who’s the bigger jerk—him for perpetrating that nonsense or me for falling for it.
Another group of kids arrives and the call goes up for more music. We look around for the rest of our band. Constantine’s taken off. Charon’s nowhere to be seen. Khadija comes over, refills her cup from a bottle on the ground near Virgil, and turns to leave.
“Where you going?” Virgil asks her.
She winks at him.
“Does Mom know you’re still seeing Jules?” he asks her.
“Does Mom know you still come down here?” she asks him. And then she’s gone.
“Mom?” I say, confused. That can’t be right.
“Yeah,” Virgil says.
“Wait a minute … Khadija’s your sister?”
He nods.
“But I thought—”
“What?”
“That you were … that she was …”
“You thought she was my girlfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that why you took off the other night? At Rémy’s?”
“You saw me?”
“Yeah, I saw you. You came in and then you left again. I had no idea why. I called you but you didn’t pick up.” He goes silent for a few seconds, then says, “Andi, what kind of person do you think