All Fall Down (5 page)

The path is overgrown and winding and steep. Thorny bushes scrape my legs. Low-hanging branches catch in my hair. Noah tries to be chivalrous and hold the branches and vines out of my way, but the poor guy just ends up half eaten by a bush, and I have to rescue him. I wish I’d brought a flashlight. In the dense overgrowth there is no moonlight. We stumble, practically blind.

“So what’s the occasion?” I ask him. Despite the rough terrain and steep incline, I’m not even a little out of breath. “I hope it’s something special to be worth all this trouble.”

“It’s the last day of school, first day of summer; full moon; you’re here — take your pick.”

“Me?”

The brush is a little thinner overhead, and the moon slices across his face. It’s the first good look I’ve gotten at him. I can see his freckles.

“New blood, Grace,” Noah explains, his voice soft beneath the ever-stronger pulse of the music. “The sharks can smell it. Now come on. It’s time for the real tour.”

When Noah takes my hand it’s all I can do not to pull away. Not to run down the hill, back to the embassy and the canopy bed, not to lash out again for reasons he can’t possibly understand. But he’s looking at me like I’m a normal girl, and that stops me. No one has looked at me that way in a long, long time.

He leads me up the winding path. It grows wilder with every step, and I know the smart thing would be to turn around and go back to the safety of the embassy. But the sense of déjà vu that has been haunting me for hours is slowly fading. I realize Noah might be leading me to the only place on Embassy Row where my mother’s memory will not follow.

“What is this place?” I ask when I realize just how high we’ve climbed.

“Technically? It’s
nowhere
. I mean, once upon a time it was the grounds of one of the embassies, but then the country sold the land back to Adria and this happened.”

Noah gestures to the overgrown path that surrounds us.

“Oh, it’s
lovely
,” I say in my best Ms. Chancellor voice.

Noah laughs. “Just you wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“Until you see
this
.”

He pushes aside one last branch and steps from the moss-and-leaf-covered ground onto solid stone. Overhead, the canopy of the trees disappears, and I look out onto a plateau that stretches for thirty yards in front of us. Beyond that, there is nothing but the deep-blue sea and the largest moon that I have ever seen. It’s as bright as any of the streetlights, there at the top of the city.

“Welcome to the secret side of Embassy Row,” Noah tells me as I ease forward to take in the scene. The music is louder, but so is the crashing of the waves against the rocky shore. I inch forward and look straight down over a cliff that is at least a hundred feet high. Probably higher.

“Easy, there,” Noah says, taking my arm and pulling me gently back.

I feel the mist in the wind coming off the water. The air is damp and salty. My hair clings to my forehead, and even though I haven’t slept in two days, I am wide awake in the middle of the night, standing on a cliff with a boy who, technically, broke into the US embassy and absconded with the ambassador’s granddaughter.

“Bet you didn’t see
that
when you were a little girl,” Noah says with a smirk. He seems entirely too pleased with himself. He doesn’t know the half of it. I look back to the overgrown path, waiting for my mother to follow, but, for once, she’s not there.

I scan the cliffs and the sea and then let my gaze fall onto the land beneath us, the massive wall that encircles the city, the flags that rise above the mansions on the row, waving through the spotlights that streak through the night sky. And then a cold chill seeps into my bones.

“Wait, if that is the US” — I point toward the familiar flag that flies in the distance — “then that’s Russia, Japan, Italy, and” — I look down at the embassy closest to the cliffs — “that makes this …”

I shift my gaze onto Noah, who shoves his hands deep into his pockets. He rocks back on his heels. “Iran.”

“We’re in Iran!” I don’t even try to hide the terror in my voice, but Noah pushes my fear aside.

“Technically, Iran sold this land back to the city at the same time they gave up diplomatic relations with Adria. Iran still owns the building, of course. But the land is fair game.” He points down to the base of the cliffs, the small stretch of beach that reaches from the sea to the back of the abandoned building.

“It’s a shame. It’s the only embassy with private beach access. I tried to talk our ambassador into buying it, but for some reason the Israelis didn’t think the Iranians would be up for a real estate swap.”

“Fancy that,” I tell him.

Noah gasps in mock surprise. “I know!”

“So the local teenagers come up here to party … in what used to be Iran?”

“What can I say? We’re resourceful. But, Grace —” He steps closer to me. “We do not go past the fence. I mean, we could. But we don’t. Because none of us are superexcited about starting World War Three. So
we
do not go past the fence
.” He stares at me, as if waiting for a protest that never comes. “Say it with me, Grace.
We do not go past the fence
.”

“Noah.”

“Say it.”

“We do not go past the fence,” I tell him.

“Because we do not want to start World War Three.”

“We do not want to start World War Three,” I add.

“Good girl.”

Noah smiles and takes a few steps closer to the party. For a second, he can’t quite meet my gaze. It’s a look (or, rather, a non-look) that I know well.

“So what did Ms. Chancellor tell you about me?” I ask.

Noah shrugs a little. “Not much.”

“You flare your nostrils when you lie.”

“I knew that,” he says, nostrils flaring again.

The clouds are gathering over the moon, and for a moment we are shrouded in shadow, there atop the rocky cliffs. Someone changes the music and it’s quiet for a split second. But that is all it takes for me to see it — the look that fills people’s eyes when they think they know the truth about me and what happened. About my mom’s death and what I did — or didn’t — see. It isn’t fear; it’s pity. And I hate that even more.

“I’m not crazy,” I tell him.

“I know that, too,” he says. This time it’s obvious he’s telling the truth. Or at least he thinks he is.

“Do you want to ask me about it?” I ask as the music comes back on.

Noah takes my hand. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

He leads me toward the party. It isn’t much, as big, rowdy shows of adolescent rebellion go. As we walk closer, I feel the gazes of three dozen strangers land upon me. Noah drops my hand. This isn’t a date. We aren’t a couple. Only then do I register that people aren’t staring just at me.

“On our left,” Noah starts slowly, speaking low into my ear, “we have the wealthy locals.” He points to a small group of kids speaking Adrian and Spanish and Arabic. They wear expensive watches and nice clothes and immediately stop talking when we pass, glare after us as if we aren’t supposed to be there.

“The gifted locals.” These kids nod at Noah, but don’t speak to me. They are in skinny jeans and T-shirts for bands that I don’t know. “Popular embassy kids.” We pass another small pocket of kids, who are sitting around the fire. It looks like a miniature, more beautiful version of the United Nations. There are probably half a dozen countries represented in that one small group alone. A girl asks a question in Spanish. A boy answers her in French. But the looks they give me are universal. I am the new girl in every possible language.

“And, finally, embassy kids who just really want to go home.” Noah points to the last group. Here, the kids stand on the outskirts of the party, shifting their weight from foot to foot, constantly checking their phones.

“So the unifying factor is … what?” I ask. “You all go to the international school?”

“Correction.” Noah raises a finger. “
We
all go to the international school. Or we will come fall. Tonight, we are the children of summer.”

He raises his hands dramatically, gesturing to the fire and the groups of talking teens, the cliffs and the crashing waves of the sea that sweeps out below us.

“The children of summer?” I try to tease.

“It sounded better in my head.”

“And where do you fit into all of this?” I glance back at the carefully sequestered cliques.

“I am a man without a country. Or I’m a man with too many countries — you pick. Ultimately, in both global politics and the high school power hierarchy, they amount to the same thing. Do you want some water or something? Wait here. I’m going to get you some water.”

I nod, and Noah wanders off into the night, leaving me alone with the wind and the sea and, finally, with a small voice that says, “Hi.”

For a second, I think I must have dreamed it. I turn, looking for whoever spoke, but it’s like the word came from the wind.

“Hi,” the voice says again. “I’m down here.”

And then I see her, on a ledge that sticks out from the cliff below me — not clinging, not frightened, just sitting there, staring up at where I’m standing. It’s the girl from the wall outside my window. Again, she is so pale and solitary that I think for a moment she might actually be a ghost. I can’t help but glance around, wondering if I’m the only one who can see her.

“You’re the new American,” she says.

“So I’ve been told.”

“Do you want to see a trick?”

“Sure,” I say.

She gets up, and no sooner is she on her feet than she begins to run straight for a tree that’s growing out of the side of the cliff, and I can do nothing but stand, dumbfounded, as the girl jumps straight into the air and grabs its lowest limb. The force of her momentum pushes her around the branch, swinging in a broad circle not once but twice before she lets loose of the limb and flies through the air, landing safely right in front of me as if it’s as easy as falling off a log.

“Wow,” I say. “That was … Wow.”

“I was going to be a gymnast. But now I’m not. Too big,” she explains, even though, to me, she looks positively tiny.

Then I feel the need to say what people are always saying to me: “That looked really dangerous. Maybe you shouldn’t do that anymore.”

The girl shrugs. “I’m Rosie. Germany. Twelve.”

The way she says it, I know these are the facts that matter here, the embassy-kid equivalent of name, rank, and serial number.

“Grace. United States. Sixteen,” I tell her. She nods as if we’ve bonded. And I guess perhaps we have.

“Do your parents know you’re here?” I ask.

Rosie crosses her arms. “Do yours?”

“Well, Mom is dead and Dad is getting shot at, so I don’t think they’re in a position to care. Now it’s your turn to answer the question.”

“Did you know there are five hundred kilometers of tunnels beneath the city?” Rosie asks as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “At least that much. There may be more. I bet there’s more. The Romans built them. People died down there all the time. There are bones and everything. I can show you if you want. I’m kind of an expert.”

Before I can respond to this, I see a beautiful girl coming toward us. She’s got olive-colored skin and striking black eyes. But there’s something else about her. She reminds me of someone, I think, but I can’t quite imagine who.

Before I can say a word, the pretty girl starts shouting.

“No. No. No. Get out. Get out now! Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. Get. Out. Now.”

For a second I just stand, stunned. Then I realize that she’s not talking to me. She’s talking … behind me.

I turn and see Rosie at my back, my white-blond shadow. She’s so small she must have been pretty unnoticeable there, but the girl with the perfect cheekbones isn’t fooled.

“You don’t belong here,” the pretty girl snaps.

“Excuse me?” I tell her.

“I’m not talking to you,” she says in a tone that makes it clear I’m too inconsequential to bother tossing aside. “I’m talking to
that
.” She points at Rosie, who stands defiant, not giving any ground.

The girl looks around me. “You’re not welcome here.”

“They aren’t your cliffs,” Rosie shoots back.

“But it’s my party,” the pretty girl corrects her.

“Funny,” Rosie quips, “I didn’t see your name on it.”

“Listen here, tiny blond person, I’ve warned you before, and you are testing my patience.
Auf Wiedersehen
.”

“Hey,” I say. “Leave her alone.”

When the dark-haired girl looks at me now it’s like she’s seeing me for the first time. She scans me from head to toe, taking in my sloppy ponytail and dirty old sneakers. I’m ready for whatever insult she might hurl my way, but instead she crosses her arms and says, “You’re new.”

“Did you figure that out all by yourself?” I reply.

“I guess I should introduce myself. I’m Lila. And I’m —”

“Oh, I know who you are,” I cut her off, and she smiles a little, pleased that her reputation has preceded her.

“You do?” When she tosses her hair it catches the moonlight, so pretty it’s almost fake. A joke. But she’s as serious as she can possibly be.