Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [69]
I will go out again this very night with my rockets and fuses. I will blow them straight out of their comfortable beds. Blow the rooftops off their houses. Blow the black, wretched night to bits.
I will not stop.
For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.
No, she wasn’t convenient, I think. But she was clever. She was wily, brave, and smart.
Was it enough? Being clever and brave? Enough to keep her ahead of the guards? Enough to keep her alive?
I hope so. I really do. And the hoping makes me nervous.
Like it did earlier today. At the library. When I was thinking about Virgil.
I don’t like hope very much. In fact, I hate it. It’s the crystal meth of emotions. It hooks you fast and kills you hard. It’s bad news. The worst. It’s sharp sticks and cherry bombs. When hope shows up, it’s only a matter of time until someone gets hurt.
I hear G’s clock go off again. It’s twelve-thirty. I’ve got to get some sleep. I carry the diary into my room and put it on my night table. Ten minutes later, I’m in bed. Teeth brushed. Face washed. Pills popped. Lights out. The only problem is, I’m so churned up over Alex’s story, I can’t sleep.
I close my eyes, toss and turn. Decide to try some music. I feel around on the night table for my iPod and remember—again—that I don’t have it. Virgil does.
I reach for my cell phone.
33
“Hello?” a voice says, a few seconds later.
“Hey, Virgil.”
There’s a split second of silence, then, “Andi?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Hey, yourself,” I say, smiling back.
“What are you doing?”
“Not sleeping. How about you?”
“Also not sleeping. In fact, I’m driving around the Arc de Triomphe.”
“Wow. Good thing.”
“That I’m driving around the Arc?”
“That you’re not sleeping. And driving. At the same time,” I say, cringing. God. Who let the dork out? Why can’t I be cool when I talk to him?
He laughs. “Yeah. I guess it is.”
“I was just wondering if there’s any chance of me getting my iPod back tonight.”
“Um, no. I’m really sorry. I meant to drop it off earlier, but a friend who works eight to midnight got sick and I took his shift and didn’t have time to head over your way.”
“You’re driving for twelve hours straight tonight? Wow. Okay. I totally understand, but you’re still on the hook.”
“For what?”
“For a song. I can’t sleep and I’ve got to get up in five hours. Sing to me.”
He laughs. “All right. But I’ll have to stop if I get a customer.”
He starts rhyming. He’s got one song about Africa. And one about New York. One about cabdrivers. His best friend, Jules. And his neighborhood. He’s got one about Paris, his city, the city of his dreams. He raps about driving around it all night long; and all the night people he meets; and then stopping at Sacré-Coeur, high above the city, to watch the sun come up. I hear him in his songs. His dreams and his fears. His braggedy-ass rapper’s shtick. His kindness and his anger. I hear his soul in his songs, and I could listen to the sound of it all night.
A customer gets in the cab as he finishes Sacré-Coeur, and he has to be quiet for a while. He starts rhyming again when the guy gets out.
“Wait,” I say, stopping him.
“What?”
“Do you really do that? Hang out at Sacré-Coeur to watch the sun come up?”
“Yeah, I do. Sometimes I bring my guitar. It’s my favorite place in Paris. That and the catacombs. Hey, aren’t you asleep yet? It’s almost two o’clock.”
“No.”
“Okay. I’m taking out the big guns now. If this doesn’t do it, nothing will.”
He starts singing. In some language I don’t know. It sounds old and beautiful. His voice rises and falls, carried by the melody. Rises and falls like a chant,