Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [44]
“This is good money. We should do it again,” Jules says, handing out the take. “Hey, Rémy,” he shouts, “we’re coming back on Sunday.”
“I’ll alert the media,” Rémy says.
“You two in?” Jules says.
Virgil looks at me, then says yes.
“Andi?” Jules says.
I’m looking back at Virgil. At those warm brown eyes of his. “Uh, yeah,” I say. “If I’m here. I might be flying home Sunday, though.”
He looks away, glances at his watch. “I’ve got to go,” he says. He scarfs the last of his stew. “You staying, Jules?”
Jules shakes his head. “I’ve got to work tomorrow.”
“How about you?”
“I’m leaving, too,” I say.
“How?”
“Métro.”
He looks at his watch. “It’s past eleven. That’s too late for the Métro. I’ll take you.”
“What about me?” Jules says.
“You live two streets away. Walk.”
Outside Rémy’s, Jules kisses me goodbye and reminds me about Sunday.
“My car’s over there,” Virgil says, pointing across the street to a beat-up blue Renault. There’s a sticker on the side. It says EPIC TAXI—CALL 01 EPIC RIDE.
We get in and he asks me where I live. I tell him and ask him how long his shift runs.
“Midnight to eight.”
“That’s tough.”
“It’s not so bad. I go home, sleep, then use the afternoons to work on my music.”
“You can sleep during the day?”
“Pretty much. My sister and brother are at school. My parents are at work.”
“Your family, they’re all—”
“French. They’re French. I’m French. We’re all French,” Virgil says tightly.
“Um, actually? I was going to say musicians.”
“Sorry,” he says, and I can hear in his voice that he means it. “It’s just … difficult.”
“I gathered as much. From ‘Banloser.’ ”
“I was born in Paris. My parents came here from Tunisia when they were kids, but we’re still foreigners. Arabs. Africans. Rabble. Scum. We’re what’s wrong with this country and we always will be.”
“What’s your name? Your full name?”
“Virgil Walid Boukadida. What’s yours?”
“Diandra Xenia Alpers.”
“Wow.”
“You can call me Andi.”
“You bet I can.”
“Like you can talk?” I say, giving him a look.
“My mother teaches classical lit,” he says, laughing. “Her favorite poet is Virgil.”
The Decemberists come on the radio. “Grace Cathedral Hill.” We both lunge for the volume. His hand brushes mine.
“Sorry,” he says. But I’m not.
The DJ plays two more songs from Castaways and Cutouts. We don’t talk. We just listen. Most people can’t do that—just shut up and listen. I close my eyes, play some air chords. It’s so amazingly beautiful, that album. When it finishes, Virgil says that Picaresque is better. I can’t let that lie, so we argue about it until “Reckoner” comes on, then we shut up again. When it’s over, he asks me if I’ve ever seen Radiohead in concert. I tell him I have, and that their latest is awesome.
“You have it?” he asks, excited. “How? It’s not out yet.”
I tell him they played a small show in L.A. last week and tried out a few new songs on the crowd and that somebody recorded them and posted it on YouTube. “I’ve got the songs on my iPod. You can listen, if you want,” I say. “You have any earphones?”
“Don’t need them,” he says, pointing to the port on his dashboard.
I pop my iPod in and crank the volume up. Three songs later, we pull up in front of G’s house. Virgil peers out of the window at the crappy-looking doors, frowning.
“You’re staying here?” he asks me, turning the music down.
“It’s nicer on the inside.”
“I hope so.” Then he says, “So … how long are you here again?”
“Too damn long,” I say.
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them and I wish they weren’t because they sound so shitty. I don’t want to sound that way, not to him, but I can’t help it. Shitty’s my default setting. Dr. Becker told me it’s a defense mechanism, a thing I do to push people away. It worked. Virgil’s not even looking at me anymore.
“Hey, thanks for the ride,” I say, trying to sound nicer.
He shrugs. “It was nothing,” he says, leaning over to kiss both of my cheeks.
He’s French, so it