Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [40]
But she was right about me. I am sorry, very sorry, I ever opened my mouth.
Why was she sorry? I wonder. And as I do, I get that feeling again—the feeling I got when I first started reading—a scared feeling. And I don’t want to know.
I don’t want to know what made that girl sorry. Or why she thought she wouldn’t last long. Or how the guitar got into the catacombs—a huge, sprawling graveyard underneath the streets of Paris. Because whatever the reasons are, they can’t be good and I’m holding steady right now. I’m not fighting with my father. I’m doing my work. The pills are keeping the sadness at bay. And I want to stay that way.
My stomach growls again, painfully, and I realize that I’m starving. The last thing I ate was a ham and cheese crêpe on my way back here last night. I close the diary and put it in its case. For good this time. I’ll tell G about it when he gets home. And the miniature. He can deal with them.
I shrug into my jacket and grab my bag. I’m going to make a quick food run, then come back and keep reading about Malherbeau. I’ve got a lot to do between now and Sunday.
No more sad stories for me.
Not today.
I’ve got a plane to catch.
21
After a ten-minute walk, I’m at a grocery store on the Rue du Faubourg St-Antoine. Just as I’m about to go inside, I remember that I took out money yesterday, a couple of times, but I spent it all, so I walk a few blocks to an ATM. I’m standing there, waiting for my cash, when a message comes up telling me I can’t access the account. I figure I messed up my password and try again, but no dice.
I get my card back and call my father. He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. He’s not hungry. He’s probably having afternoon tea with the president. I dial another number. There’s some transatlantic static, then a voice says, “Minna Dyson.”
“Hey, Minna.”
A few seconds tick by while the Cylon on the other end runs a voice-recognition program. Then I hear, “Andi? Is that you?”
“Yeah, it is. Um … I just tried my ATM card. It’s on Dad’s account. And something’s wrong. I’m trying to get something to eat and it won’t let me get any money.”
“That’s because I put a stop on the card,” Minna says. “There were two withdrawals an hour apart yesterday. For one hundred euros, and then two hundred. The bank called me. I thought the card had been stolen.”
“That was me. I needed money for some stuff.”
“You needed three hundred euros?” Minna says. “That’s a huge amount of money, Andi. You can’t just go around taking out three hundred euros whenever you feel like it.”
“Are you, like, the CFO now?”
Silence. Then, “Ask your father for money.”
“Tried that. He’s not answering his cell.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sure you have some change left over from your spending spree. Get a sandwich.” The line cuts out, comes back. “—got to go. I’m at the lab.”
“Wait! Minna? Hey, I’m hungry here!” I shout into the phone.
She hangs up. I can’t believe this. I’m so damn hungry now that I’ve got the shakes. I shove my phone into my jacket pocket and feel something else in there. A coin. I pull it out. It’s a shiny golden euro—the one the old man gave me on the quai yesterday. I forgot I had it. Won’t do me much good, though. I couldn’t even buy half a sandwich with it.
Then it dawns on me: if I got one euro playing on the quai, where hardly anybody goes in the winter, how many more euros could I get if I played where the tourists are?
I run back to G’s and grab my guitar.
22
I’m playing shit-tar.
It’s so cold that my fingers are numb and I’m not hitting the right notes.
I’m playing near the Eiffel Tower. The place is teeming with tourists. I’ve been here for hours. Playing my heart out. Trying to ignore pigeons, snowflakes, and the hordes of guitar heroes getting in my face.
It’s nearly six now and dark, and I’m hungrier than ever. I’ve got some coins in my case, maybe five euros in all. Barely enough for some bread and cheese.
I fumble my way through “All Apologies,” put the guitar down