Free 13 Little Blue Envelopes by Maureen Johnson

Clunk. She added the two pounds.
    Silence followed.
    “I should probably get back,” she said quietly. “I know the way.”
    Keith opened his mouth to speak, then rubbed at his lips with the back of his hand, as if wiping a comment away.
    “Let me drive you,” he said. “I don’t think you should go back by yourself.”
    They didn’t speak on the ride. Keith turned the radio up loud.
    As soon as she was on the sidewalk in front of Richard’s house, she said her goodbyes and got out as quickly as she could.
    Her heart was going to explode. It was going to blast itself out of her chest and land on the sidewalk like a heaving, desperate fish. It would keep beating as long as it could, bouncing along the discarded wrappers and cigarette butts until it had calmed itself down. Then she’d go and get it and reinstall it. She saw the whole thing very clearly. Much more clearly than she could picture what had just happened to her.
    Why . . . why in the middle of what was possibly her first real romantic moment . . . had she decided that the correct response was to throw a handful of money on the table? Sweaty, balled-up money and coins? And then ask to leave?
    Miriam was going to kill her. Either that or she was going to 87

    haul her off to the home for the incurably stupid and romantically hopeless and leave her there forever. And that was fine. That was where she belonged. She could live with her own kind there.
    She looked up at Richard’s windows. The lights were off. He had gone to bed early. If he had been awake, she might have even talked this over with him. Maybe he could reassure her, explain a way to undo what she had just done. But he was asleep.
    She dug the keys out of the crack in the step, wrestled with the locks, and let herself inside. She went to her room and, without switching on any lights, dug the packet of envelopes out of the front of her bag and pulled out the top one. She held it up to the streetlight’s glow coming in through the window. This next letter was covered in a pen-and-ink drawing of a castle high on a hill and the small figure of a girl on a path at its base.
    “Okay,” Ginny said softly. “Forget it. Moving on. What’s next?”
    88

    #4

    #4
    Dear Gin,
    Ever see one of those kung fu movies where the student travels to the remote outpost where the Master lives?
    Maybe not. I only have because my sophomore-year roommate was kung fu obsessed. But you get the idea—Harry Potter goes to Hogwarts, Luke
    Skywalker goes to Yoda. That’s what I’m talking about. The student goes off to get schooled.
    I did it myself. After a few months in London, I decided to go and meet my idol, the painter Mari Adams. I’d wanted to meet her my entire life. My dorm room in college was covered in pictures of her work. (And pictures of her. She’s very . . .
    distinctive.)
    I don’t know exactly what made me do it. I knew I needed help with my art, and I suddenly realized that she wasn’t that far away. Mari lives in Edinburgh, which is grand and spooky.
    Edinburgh Castle is a thousand years old or so and sits high up smack in the middle of the city on a big rock called The Mound. The entire city is ancient and strange, full of twisted little alleys called wynds. Murders, ghosts, political intrigue . . . these things permeate Edinburgh.

    So I got on a train and went there. And she let me in. She even let me stay for a few days.
    I want you to meet her too.
    That’s the entire task. I don’t need to be more specific. You don’t need to ask her anything. Mari is the Master, Gin, and she’ll know what you need even if you don’t. Her kung fu is that powerful.
    Trust me on this one. School is in session!
    Love,
    Your Runaway Aunt

    The Runner
    Some people believe that they are guided by forces, that the universe cuts paths for them through the dense forest of life, showing them where to go. Ginny did not believe for a second that the whole universe was bending itself to her will. She did, however,