All Fall Down (8 page)

“N
o.”

I don’t wait for Ms. Chancellor to stand before I bolt to my feet. It’s all the proof they should need that they are after the wrong girl. I drop my linen napkin on the floor for good measure.

“No. Just no,” I say.

“Grace.” Ms. Chancellor is trying to come after me, but I’m moving too fast. I have always been fast. “Grace, hear me out.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, turning briefly to glance at the woman behind me. “I mean no,
thank you
.”

When I reach the doors, I try to throw them open — but there must be some kind of trick to the latch, because they don’t budge.

“The tradition is three hundred years old.”

“Then they know how to do it without me!”

“It is an essential part of maintaining our place in diplomatic society! Without it, the United States would no longer have diplomatic status here.”

“All the more reason to leave it to the professionals,” I tell her.

Ms. Chancellor takes my shaking hands, pulls them away from the door. “Grace, you are officially the lady of this house. It is your duty to be by your grandfather’s side at events like this. Like it or not, your country needs you.”

She knows how to play me — I’ll give Ms. Chancellor that much. Honor. Country. Code. These are the things that have been drilled into me all of my life.

“Grace” — she grips my shaking hands harder — “it has been a very long time since your grandfather has had someone by his side. The other ambassadors, they bring their spouses. Their children. But your grandfather … Please do this. For him. For your mother. Or, better yet, do it for yourself.”

She’s looking at me now — not at my stained yoga pants and messy hair. She’s looking at
me
, as if maybe a part of me actually does resemble the girl with the pink canopy bed. Like maybe I might belong here after all.

But she’s wrong. And I don’t have the heart to say so.

“I …” I start slowly. My voice is more of a whisper than a scream. It’s harder than it should be to admit, “I don’t know what to do.”

Ms. Chancellor smiles. The doors pick that moment to slide open, and I see Noah standing there. He must have been holding them closed all this time.

“That is why I’m here,” he says.

Before I can do anything, Ms. Chancellor is embracing Noah in a hug. He wears a polo shirt with a navy blazer and khaki slacks. His hair is slicked back and his posture is perfect. He looks like diplomacy personified, and I can’t help thinking that this is a boy who knows his way around the gold-ware.

“Thank you so much for coming,” Ms. Chancellor says, then turns to me. “Grace, this is Noah Estaban. He’s offered to help us. Plus, I thought you two should know each other.”

“I —” I start, but Noah quickly holds out a hand, cutting me off.

“Hello, Grace. It’s so nice to finally meet you,” he says. When Ms. Chancellor looks away, he winks.

“Oh. Yes. It’s nice to meet you, too,” I say.

“Noah’s mother is one of my dearest friends and one of the most cultured women I know,” Ms. Chancellor says.

“But she wasn’t available, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me,” Noah quips and flashes the kind of grin that grown-ups love. “Don’t worry, Grace. I’ve been doing this stuff for years. A bow here. A curtsy there. You’ll do fine.”

“Yes. Because you know me. I
live
to curtsy.”

Ms. Chancellor ignores my sarcasm, and Noah offers me his arm.

“Stick with me, kid.”

I know I don’t really know Noah. One moonlit excursion doesn’t count for much in the grand scheme of things. But I look at the boy beside me, so confident and comfortable. He’s different from the boy on the cliffs. He’s not in either of his countries, but I can’t shake the feeling that Noah is back on his home turf.

“Shall we begin with a waltz?” Ms. Chancellor asks.

“What do you say, Grace?” Noah eyes me. “Shall we?”

There’s no furniture in the room next door. I know why as soon as Ms. Chancellor leads us inside, walks to an old-fashioned record player, and drops the needle on a vinyl album. It scratches to life, and soon we aren’t two twenty-first-century teens being drawn into an archaic tradition. No. We are two young people transported back in time. The grand room makes sense. My messy hair is all but forgotten as Noah places his hand at the small of my back.

“Yes. Very nice. Very nice,” Ms. Chancellor says. “Now, Grace. Chin up. Shoulders back. And follow Noah’s lead.”

“Hear that, Grace?” Noah asks. “Follow my lead.”

When we start to dance, I don’t protest. Noah is pretty good at this. At least, I do more stepping on his feet than he does stepping on mine.

There is a parquet floor beneath my feet and antique sconces on the walls. The record is decades old, and for a moment I feel timeless, weightless, and unafraid.

When we make it to the other side of the room, Noah leans a little closer and lowers his voice.

“So last night …” he starts, and it all comes rushing back to me.

The cliffs.

The party.

The Scarred Man.

I’m starting to shake as Noah goes on. “We aren’t going to have a repeat of that little performance anytime soon, are we?”

“Did Alexei feed you that line or did you come up with it all on your own?” I ask.

We dance a little more. From the other side of the room, I can hear Ms. Chancellor chanting, “One two three. One two three.”

“What you did was dangerous. You know that, right? It was insanely, ridiculously, freakishly dangerous.”

I stare up at him. “It was a calculated risk.”

“Chin up, Noah. Shoulders back!” Ms. Chancellor chides.

“Besides, if I’m not mistaken, I kind of saved your sister’s hide,” I tell him. It’s meant to sting, but he smiles instead.

“Thank you.” He glances away. “Don’t do it again. But thank you.”

“
You’re
not the one who owes me,” I point out.

He nods. “Yeah, well, Lila is … Lila. I’m just grateful that she didn’t eat me in the womb.”

“Grace, dear, the waltz is not what one would call a humorous dance,” Ms. Chancellor scolds when I start laughing.

“Noah?” I say once I’ve regained my composure.

“What?” Noah asks.

“Do people ever go in there?”

“Where?”

“There,”
I say.

“In the
Iranian embassy
?” Noah whispers, glancing to where Ms. Chancellor stands on the far side of the room, thumbing through a stack of records. “Is that what you’re asking? Do people ever go
in the Iranian embassy
?”

“I take that as a no.”

“No. That’s an
are you out of your mind?
Wait — what am I saying?” he asks with a shake of his head. “You jumped off a cliff.
Of course
you’re out of your mind.”

“It’s just …” I can’t find the words — or maybe the strength — to finish.

“It’s just what?” There’s an edge to Noah’s voice. He’s known me less than twenty-four hours and already he knows he should be worried about whatever is going to come next.

“I heard something.” As I say it, the music fades away. In my mind, I can hear the creaking floor, the scurrying vermin. And the voices. I can see the man with the scar.

I cannot forget the man with the scar.

“When I was in there,” I go on, “I thought I
heard something
.”

“The place has been abandoned for years. The whole building is probably falling down. Half the rats in Valancia live in there. I’m sure you heard a lot of things.”

The needle scratches. The music stops for real this time. In the silence I whisper, “Voices, Noah. I heard voices.”

“You did not hear voices.”

“But —”

“No one goes in there, Grace. No one. And that includes you. Okay?”

“Okay,” I tell him.

“Okay,” Ms. Chancellor parrots the word but not the tone. She slaps her hands together, obviously pleased with our morning thus far. “I believe we are ready for phase two.”

N
oah says good-bye even though I beg him to stay. I’m far less likely to kill Ms. Chancellor if there’s a witness.

“No boys allowed for phase two,” Ms. Chancellor teases as she pulls me toward the open doors across the hall. “Look at these, Grace. Aren’t they beautiful?”

She honestly sounds like a schoolgirl as she walks toward the racks of clothes that fill what is usually a formal living room. Now the furniture has been pushed aside. There are long rolling racks covered with dresses. Stacks and stacks of shoe boxes.

But the worst part isn’t the rows of clothes and shoes. It’s the girl who stands on the opposite side of the room, staring at me.

“Megan!” Ms. Chancellor throws open her arms. “Hello, dear.” She gives Megan a big hug, then pulls away. “Did you see Grace is back with us?”

Megan did see me. She saw me jump off a cliff and crawl under an Iranian fence. Megan has seen plenty. And I can’t help but hold my breath, waiting on her answer.

“Hi,” Megan says, turning to me. “Welcome home.”

Home.
The word hits me. I’ve spent all my life thinking that I didn’t have one, but now that I’m back I can’t deny that I’ve spent more of my life on Embassy Row than in any other place — that maybe it wasn’t just my mother’s childhood home. In a way, it’s mine, too.

“Thanks,” I tell Megan. Then I turn to the rows and rows of dresses. “Where did you get these?”

“All the designers, dear,” Ms. Chancellor says. “It’s the event of the season in Adria.”

“Then I shouldn’t go,” I say, looking only at Ms. Chancellor, trying to make her understand.

“Nonsense,” Ms. Chancellor says before stage-whispering to Megan, “Grace doesn’t think the ball sounds like very much fun. What do you think we’re going to have to do to convince her?”

“Obstacle courses help,” I say. “I’m really, really good at obstacle courses.”

“I bet you do an excellent belly-crawl.”

Megan’s voice is flat. Our stares lock. This is how things are going to be, I can tell. Her knowing something that can destroy me. Me waiting for her to either throw the grenade or put the pin back in.

“Yes,” I say slowly. “I’m a good person to have around in a crisis.”

If Ms. Chancellor hears the undertones of our exchange, she doesn’t show it.

“What about this one for Grace?” Megan asks, selecting a gown that is long and puffy and very, very pink. “The color will look good with your skin.”

I want to glare at her. I am as pale as ice in winter except for when I’m angry or embarrassed, and then my cheeks go red.

In other words, my cheeks are almost always red.

Megan has maybe the prettiest skin that I have ever seen. Her hair is sleek and black, perfectly straight and constantly shiny. My hair is thin and shoulder length and looks like the stuff you pull out of the dryer after doing a load of yellow towels.

But Megan just holds the dress up against my skin as if to prove her point.

“Oh, I love that,” Ms. Chancellor says.

The dress is the color and texture of cotton candy, with a tight bodice and a long, full skirt. There must be acres and acres of fabric.

“That’s called a princess cut,” Ms. Chancellor says, eyeing me over the top of her glasses.
But I’m no princess
, I want to say.

“I’ve never seen you wear pink before, but I always thought you should,” Megan tells me, and something in the words makes me panic.
Always thought you should
.

That’s when I realize that Megan knows me.

Even worse, Megan
knew
me.

Before.

There is a privacy screen set up in the corner of the room. I freeze as I recognize it, as I remember.

“Grace —” My mother steps out from behind the screen, then spins around. Her dress is long and white with beautiful black lace covering the bodice. She actually does look like a princess. “What do you think?”

“So, Grace —” Megan’s voice is too loud. I shudder. “What do you think?”

“What?” I say, remembering where and when I am.

“The dress?” Megan’s arms look like they are filled with cotton candy. “Do you want to try it on?”

“It won’t fit,” I say. “See, it’s dragging on the floor.”

“That’s a train, dear,” Ms. Chancellor tells me, and she and Megan share a chuckle at my expense.

“You have to try it on,” Megan says.

“I don’t have to do anything,” I counter.

“Sure you do. It’s as easy as, say, jumping off a cliff.” Megan crosses her arms, and I know she’s got me, so I go behind a screen and try to wiggle into the contraption. But there are so many straps and zippers and hooks that Megan has to come help me.

While I slip out of my clothes, she takes the dress off the hanger. It puddles on the floor like a pale-pink volcano.

“So, how have you been?”

Is she asking for Ms. Chancellor’s benefit or her own? I honestly don’t know, so I say, “Fine.”

She helps me step into the dress then work it up over my hips.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” she says as she finds the zipper.

“Thanks.”

“I thought I’d see you at the funeral, but …”

“Yeah. Couldn’t make it. Got tied up.” If she hears the bitterness in my voice, she ignores it.

“Suck in.”

I do as she says.

“Did you get my letters?” she asks.

“Yeah. Thanks,” I say. “I was going to write back, but …”

“It’s okay. I know.”

And the scary part is that I think she really does.

When Megan speaks again, her voice is a whisper. “So are you going to tell me what happened last night?”

“You were there. You saw what happened.”

“No. Last night … that wasn’t you.”

“The last time you saw me I was jumping off the wall, Megan.”

Megan’s gaze burns into me. She isn’t backing down. “You were always a daredevil, but you never had a death wish. The girl I knew was always running toward something. Last night … you were running away.”

“Megan, I’m fine,” I say again, but Megan just shakes her head.

“No, you’re not.”

She pulls the zipper up. Smooths the fabric into place. And then she walks away. I hear the door open and close, and there is no doubt in my mind that she is gone.

“Grace?” Ms. Chancellor calls over the screen. “Grace, let’s see the dress.”

“No.” I shake my head, emphatic, as if she can see me. I can handle stressful situations. I am equipped. Prepared. Drop me into a war zone and I’ll be fine. But this is different.

“Grace, tomorrow night is very important for your grandfather.” Ms. Chancellor’s voice is low. Her words sound mildly like a threat.

“Then he should ask me!” I don’t mean to shout — but I can’t stop myself. The dress is too tight and I can’t breathe.

“He should talk to me,” I go on. “He doesn’t want me here. And he really doesn’t need me at some fancy party where all I’ll do is embarrass him.”

Ms. Chancellor doesn’t bite back. She doesn’t snap. She just steps calmly forward and pulls me from behind the screen. “He wants you here, Grace. He has been alone in his duties for a very long time. And he is going to want you with him tomorrow night.”

She stops and steps back, points to the full-length mirror that someone has leaned against the opposite wall. I can see the girl who stands there. Long, billowing pinkness over very pale skin. The same shade of pink fills my cheeks.

Ms. Chancellor smiles. “And he is going to want you wearing this.”

The next day is a blur of dress fittings and dance lessons and trips to various salons with Ms. Chancellor. Some of her instruments of torture are hot. Some are cold. Some are hard and some are soft. All are dangerous, I decide. If the army knew about curling irons, basic training might look very, very different.

It’s almost six when we make our way downstairs.

“Stand up straight, Grace,” Ms. Chancellor tells me, as if I have any choice in the matter. My dress is so tight I couldn’t slouch if I wanted to. I’m pretty sure they’re going to have to tie me to the hood of the car to get me to the palace.

“You look lovely, dear,” Ms. Chancellor tells me with a smile. Her dress is long and black. She wears a shiny blue wrap around her shoulders and has piled her auburn hair on top of her head. I can’t quite decide if her sapphire earrings are real or not, but then I know they must be. Ms. Chancellor is simply
not
the kind of woman to put up with imitations.

“You look nice, too,” I tell her. I am gripping the rail too tightly. I really don’t want to fall.

“Thank you, Grace.” She smiles at me and takes my free hand. “It’s going to be a wonderful evening.”

And I know she means it — she really does. This is her world. Her domain. Politics and intricate back-alley deals, trade alliances formed over champagne and shrimp cocktail.

“Well, there are my girls!”

My grandfather has a big, booming voice that fills any room. It floats up the stairs and greets us.

Then he throws open the door. “Let’s go.”

They don’t tie me to the hood of the stretch limo that waits outside. But I wish they would. I half sit, half lean along the seat, my back to the driver. Grandpa and Ms. Chancellor sit across from me. They don’t touch. But there is an easiness between them, a comfort borne from twenty-five years of late nights and early mornings, good times and bad.

“You clean up real good, kid,” Grandpa says, but he’s not looking at me. He slaps Ms. Chancellor’s hand. “Now, how about me?”

“You look like a man who has never quite mastered the bow tie.” She takes his shoulders and turns him to face her. “Here.”

As Ms. Chancellor goes to work on his tie, he shifts his gaze to me.

“You, too, Gracie. I almost didn’t recognize you with the dirt washed off. No casts?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Good.” He eyes my dress. “So how many people had to force you into that thing?”

“Just her. But she’s stronger than she looks.”

Ms. Chancellor pulls his tie tight. He grunts.

“Tell me about it,” Grandpa says.

“I’ll have you know, William, that Grace is very excited to be taking part in her first official function.”

“Her first!” Grandpa sounds almost nostalgic. He turns and looks out the tinted window at the scene that is rolling by. Ancient buildings and cobblestone streets. Bicyclists and fruit stands. As we climb higher and higher toward the city center, we can glimpse more and more of the sea.

“My first came six months after I got here. There I was, fresh off the boat, just a junior State Department employee at the time, and I was told to go to the palace. The king’s father was on the throne then. He was a big man, powerful. World-class polo player, they said, but if you ask me, so few people play polo, how hard could it be to be world-class, really?” Grandpa considers this for a moment and then talks on.

“Anyway, the president was supposed to visit that day, but something came up at the last minute and he needed to cancel. And instead of calling on the king himself, the ambassador at the time sends
me
, hat in hand, up to the palace to make our apologies.”

Grandpa laughs a little at the memory. I try to imagine him as a young man, insecure and frightened, but the mental picture simply doesn’t fit. I can’t see him as anything but a senior statesman.