Free The Last Little Blue Envelope by Maureen Johnson Page B

room. “We should get going.”
    “Is that your car?” Oliver asked when they came outside. He pointed to the humble, turtlelike automobile parked at a slight angle in front of the trash.
    “Awe will soon take the place of jealousy,” Keith said, brushing past him. “I’ve seen it before.”
    Keith opened the trunk and examined the contents. He had cleaned it out a good deal, but it was still fairly full. He grabbed up two large bags, looked inside, and dropped them into an open trash bin. Though Ginny loved the little white car and had many fond memories of it, she understood Oliver’s trepidation. It didn’t exactly look like the ideal vehicle to take around Europe. For London, sure, it was perfect. It was small and pre-dented, ideal for zipping between buses and cabs and down narrow streets that were never built for cars. You could park it anywhere—you could probably park it in the house if you had to. Plus, it wasn’t something anyone would want to steal. The white was faded, like old T-shirts that had been washed too many times with black socks. There were dings and scratches and tiny, coin-size spots of rust near the bottom. It screamed, “I have manual locks.”
    “We’re not all going,” Oliver said, glancing at Ellis’s overnight bag and shopping bag full of food.
    “Oh, but we are.” Keith shoved his bag in first, then gestured for Ellis and Ginny to pass theirs over. Oliver tried to put his in as well, but Keith slammed the lid down before he could.
    The car was a two-door—a fact that had never been relevant before. Ginny had always been in the front seat. Today, she would almost certainly be in the back. She never thought about the back of the car as being an actual place you could sit. It was more like a glove box extension.
    “I’m shorter,” Ellis said. “I’ll get in the back with Gin.”
    “No,” Keith said. “Let him manage in the back.”
    “Gin’s taller than me. She should ride in the front. This is her trip. I’m intruding.”
    “It’s fine,” Ginny said. That conversation needed to end. “I’ll take the back.”
    She folded down the front seat with a bang and plunged in headfirst, getting briefly tangled in the seat belt, before squeezing herself in. The backseat was not a happy place. It was covered in musty-smelling fabric—fabric that had seen dirty sets and smelly costumes and piles of old take-out bags of hamburgers and fried fish and chips. In fact, the first thing it brought to mind was the swimming pool Dumpster, except it wasn’t as big and it wasn’t as clean.
    What was mildly uncomfortable for her must have been torment for Oliver, who was at least six or seven inches taller. His head scraped the roof and he had to keep his neck slightly bent. He stuffed the backpack by his feet and held the leather satchel on his lap. The combined effect forced him into a squashed, leaning position, with his shoulder pressed up against Ginny’s ear. She tried to move closer to the door, but there was simply no more room. They had been packed in like freight. Keith got into the driver’s seat and immediately adjusted it back into Oliver’s already cramped knees.
    “All set?” he asked everyone.
    He put the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine made a terrible screeching sound, then coughed itself off. “This car is never going to make it to France,” Oliver said.
    “Don’t worry about the car,” Keith said, jiggling the key. “Worry about yourself.”
    “Who are you two? Do you have names at least?”
    “I’m Mr. Pink,” Keith said. “She’s Mr. Shut Your Face. Now, tell us where we’re going.”
    “Paris,” Oliver replied stiffly.
    “Yes,” Keith said slowly, with mock patience, “you told us that already. But can you be a bit more specific than that? I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but it’s actually quite a big place .” He reached down and folded his seat back, completely crushing Oliver.
    “I’ll tell you when you get off