Free The Last Little Blue Envelope by Maureen Johnson

expressive face, but she could just feel the displeasure coming off of him in waves.
    “We need to do this together,” he said.
    “We can,” Ginny heard herself saying. “We can meet there. How about the pyramid in front of the Louvre?”
    “Good choice.” Keith nodded. “Pyramid. Louvre. Noon tomorrow? Have fun on the train.”
    He clapped Oliver on the shoulder, hard, and linked his arm through Ginny’s to lead her away. It was all Ginny could do not to skip . . . to sing . . . to weep for joy. Okay, it wasn’t exactly like the summer—but this was just the two of them, going off together. Going to Paris together. Driving along in his car for hours and hours, into the City of Lights. They would have meals together, and talk for hours. They would have to get a place to stay . . .
    “You’re paying for petrol, of course.” Keith smiled at her as he walked to the door. “And everything else. It’ll be like old times! I think I want some cheeses. Lots of cheeses.”
    “So many cheeses,” Ginny said, nodding.
    The fantasy lasted all the way to the bus stop outside of the station doors. This is where Oliver caught up with them.
    “Again,” Keith said, not looking over, “I didn’t offer you a ride.”
    “Well, I’m coming. Or this isn’t happening. What are we supposed to do when we get the pieces? I suppose you’ll just let me hang on to them, is that right?”
    Keith let out a long sigh and looked over at Ginny. A light passing rain pattered on top of the glass bus shelter.
    “We’re going to have to bring him, aren’t we?” he said.
    “Probably,” Ginny replied sadly.
    “In that case . . . I want a hundred Euros up front for petrol and as general payment for the annoyance of having you in my car.”
    “I bought the train tickets,” Oliver said. “It’s not my fault if we’re not using them. I’ll give you fifty and we’ll work from there.”
    “And twenty pounds for parking and congestion charges,” Keith added.
    Oliver handed reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. He had prepared as well; he had a wedge of Euros. After giving Keith one fifty Euro note and a twenty pound note, he stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, signifying that the deal was done.
    “And you smoke,” Keith said. “Lovely. Don’t even think about trying that in the car.”
    Oliver obligingly stepped a few feet over. Conciliatory for a blackmailer.
    “You realize,” Keith said, eyeing Oliver’s bag, “that your only value is the letter you have in the front pocket of your bag. It would be a terrible shame if you were separated from that bag and pushed out of a slowly moving car somewhere next to a French cow pasture.”
    “What, this letter?” Oliver reached into the pocket and produced the folded pages. “I can fix that problem right now.”
    He crumpled the paper and tossed the ball into the road. Ginny let out a gasp of horror as cars and trucks and buses rode over it. A few seconds later, it vanished, probably carried away by a tire.
    “What did you just do ?” she yelled.
    “That was some blue paper I just bought in Waterstones. Like he said, I’m aware that my only value is having the letter. Don’t worry. It’s safe.”
    “Safe where?” Ginny asked.
    “Safe from pickpockets with rubbish American accents.”
    The bus lumbered up to the stop. Oliver flicked the cigarette away and waved his hands, indicating that he would follow Keith and Ginny.
    “I’m not a violent person,” Keith said under his breath, as they climbed the steps to the second level of the bus. “But I’ve really been meaning to work on that.”

One More for the Road
    “Is my American accent bad?” Keith asked quietly, once they were on the bus.
    “It was fine,” Ginny said, looking down at her lap. The accent still burned her ears, but there was no point in telling him that.
    “I’ve been working on it for a while. Mimicking Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire . And I’ve been trying to