All Fall Down (2 page)

M
s. Chancellor thinks the room at the end of the hall is mine.

I am so paralyzed by her mistake I don’t even know how to tell her that she’s wrong. So I just stand perfectly still, watching the lights flicker and buzz when she flips them on. It’s like the room is having trouble waking up from its long slumber. It hasn’t been used in years, after all.

Three years.

The electrical outlets all look funny and, in the attached bathroom, there is one spout for hot water and another one for cold. These are the things that remind me where I am — how far I have traveled. This isn’t just another relocation from one army base to another. This time I am deep in enemy territory, and I am on my own.

Ms. Chancellor opens the window and lets the cool breeze fill the room. It smells like the sea.

“Now, I know we’ve arranged for the majority of your things to be shipped over, but — Oh, good, someone brought your luggage up.” She motions to the big rolling suitcase and duffle bag that sit beside the bed. “You should have plenty of time to unpack before dinner. Would you like some help?”

She stops and watches me for a moment. Eventually, though, the silence is too much and she blurts, “So? What do you think?” She smiles too brightly; I feel like there’s too much riding on whatever answer I’m being asked to give. “Do you like it?”

Someone has put fresh flowers on the desk, and I reach out to touch them. I eye the white lace curtains and the big queen bed with the twirly, twisty frame and soft-pink canopy. It is every little girl’s dream room. Too bad I’m not a little girl.

Too bad I’m not my mo —

“I think there’s been some kind of mistake,” I say too quickly. “I’m always in the yellow room.” I point in the direction of the smaller bedroom three doors down. “That’s my room.”

“Well, your grandfather and I thought that you’d be more comfortable in this room. Since you’ll be staying with us longer this time. It’s larger, see? And, of course, it has its own bathroom, and —”

“This is my mom’s room,” I say. As if she doesn’t know. As if it isn’t obvious.

The signs are everywhere, from the ballerina-topped jewelry box on the dresser to the stuffed animals in the window seat. Every summer of my childhood, my mother made a pilgrimage back to a room that never changed. She grew up, but it did not. When I was a kid, I thought it felt like a time machine. Now it feels like a shrine.

“We can redecorate,” Ms. Chancellor tells me. “Of course, you should pick out your own things. We have a lovely selection of furniture in the attic. Do you like antiques?” she asks, then realizes how silly it sounds. “Of course you don’t like antiques. Well, maybe we can ship some of your furniture over from the States if you’d prefer.”

“That’s okay,” I tell her. “I don’t have a home there either.” For a second, she looks at me like I’m the saddest little orphan in the world, so I point at myself and say, “Army brat,” as if living on ten bases in fifteen years has left me impervious to change. As if what happened is just something else I can move away from and forget.

“Oh.” She nods. “Well, how about we go look around the attic, just in case? Or you can move to the yellow room if you think that would be better.”

As she talks, I pull aside the lacy curtain and stare out the window. Mom’s old room is at the back of the embassy, right beside the ancient wall that runs around the city’s edge. From my place on the third story, I have a bird’s-eye view of the Russian flag that waves atop the next building over. On the other side, I can see Germany and a smidge of Canada — dozens of embassies all stacked together like dominoes in a ring around the city. Suddenly I am overwhelmingly afraid that I’m going to knock them all down. It’s just a matter of time.

That’s why, even with the window open, I’m finding it hard to breathe. Ms. Chancellor is saying something about dinner plans and a midnight curfew. She doesn’t notice that the walls are closing in. Her wrists don’t itch so badly she wants to scratch them until they bleed. When she opens the closet and pushes aside a red sundress, she doesn’t hear the voice in the bathroom, calling,
“Gracie, honey, can you zip me?”

I close my eyes and take a step back, but Ms. Chancellor doesn’t notice. She’s not looking closely enough.

“Grace?” Ms. Chancellor says. “What do you think?”

I think I have to get out of here. I need to run. To breathe.

“It’s …” I start, struggling for breath.

“Grace, are you okay?”

I’ve got to get her out of here
, I think as I turn to the window and notice the tree that stretches up to the sky, its big branches easily within my reach. “It’s perfect.”

When Ms. Chancellor leaves, I know I’m supposed to unpack and settle in. But I can’t touch my things. There is already a hairbrush in the drawer in the bathroom. An old raincoat and umbrella hang from a hook on the back of the door. The dresser drawers are empty, but the shelves are full of books. My mother’s books. Nancy Drew and Agatha Christie. She always loved a good mystery.

And the one thing I know for certain is that I don’t want to be here. Not in this room. Not in this embassy. Not in the city of Valancia or the country of Adria.

I. Don’t. Want. To. Be. Here.

The cry is in my throat, rising up, but I don’t dare let it out. Instead, I open the window wider. I’ve already thrown one leg over the sill and am reaching for the nearest tree branch when I hear a small voice say, “Where are you going?”

I freeze.

It’s always quiet here. I’d forgotten that about Embassy Row. You would think that so much diplomacy would make some kind of noise — a hum at least. But all I hear are birds, the wind in the tree. Maybe a little bit of traffic in the distance, but for the most part it is silent. I stand perfectly still, waiting for the voice to come again.

“Hello! Hello!”

Then I see her, sitting on the edge of the wall, back straight, one skinny arm waving in my direction. She can’t be older than twelve. She has pale skin and white-blond hair. It’s like looking at a ghost.

“Where are you going?” the girl asks again. Her accent is northern European — German, perhaps.

“Nowhere,” I say.

“You look like you’re going somewhere!” she yells.

I climb back into my mother’s room and rush out the door.

I’m not going to have a panic attack. I’m not going to let it come and sweep over me. I’m not going to give anyone a reason to call my father or the doctors, to count my pills or make me talk. I solemnly swear that I will never talk again if I can help it. So I run faster. The stairs come two at a time, swirling, spiraling. Taking me away from the room with the canopy bed, from the hairbrush and the mysteries, from the problems I can’t solve.

But as soon as I reach the landing I can see the bottom of the stairs and the boy who is already standing there, waiting.

I freeze, stunned.

He is not supposed to be here.

When he says, “Well, if it isn’t Grace the Ace,” I know it is too late to run. Wherever I might hide, he’d find me. He was always able to find me.

“Isn’t that what your brother always calls you?” the boy asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway, welcome back.”

He smiles like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. But he’s not. His accent alone is enough to tell me that he is on the wrong side of the wall.

He’s not supposed to be here.

For a second, I almost wish Ms. Chancellor was still with me. I feel too small again, the embassy too big. It’s like I’m ten and about to be in trouble. Locked in a closet, then scolded for following the boys and told to go back to my room. I feel the sudden urge to jump off the wall or out the window, just to prove I can.

“So when did you get in?” the boy asks.

“I’m sorry,” I say, forcing myself to walk closer to the blue eyes that are staring back at me, too big, too intense. It’s a gaze that might burn if I let it, so I decide not to let it. Not even a little bit. I cock my head and eye him. “Have we met?” I ask.

The boy laughs. “Nice try, Grace. So how’s Jamie?”

“Perfect. As usual. If you actually knew my brother, you’d know that.”

“Oh, but I
do
know your brother,” the boy says, his accent stronger. “In fact, I know
you
.” The boy doesn’t wink, but he gives me the kind of smile that goes with one.

“Oh, gee, I’m sorry I don’t remember,” I say as I reach the main floor and turn to start down the hall. “I guess you didn’t make much of an impression.”

“Sure I did. Of course, the last time we saw each other they were scraping what was left of you off of the German courtyard, so I can see how your memory might be impaired.”

“Canadian,” I say. “I was in the Canadian courtyard. I’ve never fallen into Germany.”

I start to push past him, but the boy moves to block my path.

“How long are we going to play this game, Gracie?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Then allow me to introduce myself,” he says, playing along as he gives me a low bow. “Alexei Volkov, at your service. I live next door.” He nods out the window toward the Russian embassy.

Because that’s the thing about Embassy Row. The boy next door is probably Russian.

He is
not supposed to be here.

“Then shouldn’t you be getting home?” I ask. “I’d hate for us to have an international incident. It’s only my first day back.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here. You see, I’m the guy your brother put in charge of you.”

At this, I have to laugh. “Oh, he did, did he?”

“Yes. I am to … and I quote … ‘keep Grace from killing herself or anyone else.’ Especially me. He was most emphatic about that last part.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“That is not what I hear.” Alexei crosses his arms and leans against the wall, blocking my way. But there’s something in his eyes as he looks at me. “You grew up, Gracie.”

“People do that. Even little sisters.”

“You will always be Jamie’s little sister.”

“So he likes to remind me. But that doesn’t make me your problem.”

“I guess this is where we must … what is it you Americans say? Agree to disagree.”

Alexei has lived on Embassy Row since he was three. He’s attended the English-speaking international school since he was five. His English is as good as mine, but he likes to play this game. They all do. I don’t play any game that I can’t win.

“How have you been, Gracie?” he asks. His voice is too soft now. Too sincere. And I hate the sound of it. It makes me wonder: What does he know? What has Jamie told him?

For better or worse, I lower my head and say, “Alive.”

“Good,” Alexei says. Then a darkness crosses his face, and I can feel the words coming even before he tilts his head and says, “I was very sorry to hear about your mother. She was always very kind to me.”

“I …”

The doors to the formal living room are open, and when I stare through them
I see blankets
draped over chair backs. Somebody has built a fort.

“Jamie!” a little blond girl calls. “Alexei!”

But the boys are nowhere to be seen.