Diplomatic Immunity (10 page)

Did I mention Raf held his folder above my head?

No. Because why would I? He's just a story.

The school closed early because of the “incident,” and evacuated us all, which I was pretty sure was the reason Raf had done what he'd done.

I kept practicing writing the story of the explosion in my mind. It should've started out with a headline like “When the Privileged Get Bored: A Simple Lab Experiment Turns into an Explosion.”

But instead, the only headline I was coming up with was “Rafael Amador Holds Folder over Head of Scholarship Student.”

Maybe he was just trying to be nice. Or maybe he had seen
the beginnings of my smeared makeup and thought,
No more. Please, no more.

He probably wouldn't have held his folder above my head if he'd known he was the focus of my exposé.

But for now, the exposé was still just in my head.

Once we were outside, I stood there awkwardly as Raf took a moment longer than necessary to lower the folder.

“What is wrong with you?” I said. “You could've burned the school down.”

He didn't answer me. Instead, he took out a pack of gum (some foreign type, because I couldn't read the label), popped a piece into his mouth, and balled up the wrapper. Then he held it between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, and with his right hand closed his fingers around the paper, making a fist around the wrapper. Then, voilà, he opened his fingers and the wrapper had magically disappeared.

With his other hand, he pretended to take it out of my ear.

I rolled my eyes.

“I saw the wrapper the whole time,” I said. “It stayed in your left hand.”

“You're just assuming that.”

“I'm not. Do it again, and switch hands or don't, and I'll tell you which hand it's in.”

He did it again.

“Left,” I said.

He did it again.

“Left again.”

He did it again.

“Right.”

He sighed. And then he did it again.

“Left.”

“Hmm. Maybe it's because I have a brace,” he said.

I shrugged. “I told you. I'm very observant.”

“You are. Has anyone ever told you you should be a reporter?” He smiled.

“So, back to the fire: What is wrong with you?”

He looked upward at the blue sky. “It's too beautiful a day to be trapped indoors, wouldn't you say?”

“Is that what you're going to tell the judge?
It was a beautiful day, so I burned down the school
?”

“What judge?”

I sighed, frustrated and flustered. “Oh, yeah. Diplomatic immunity. No judge. No jury. No consequences. A lifetime surrounded by yes-people and nothing to show—”

He put his finger on my lips. “Can we stop with the prosecution?”

I glanced away. “Sorry. Habit.”

“You know, Pip, you have a bright future. There are plenty of stories of those who started with nothing and persevered to great success.”

“You think I have nothing?” My mind flashed to the food stamps in my kitchen.

He closed his eyes for a long blink. “Well, sometimes you act like the downtrodden.”

Ow.

He walked away.

“I don't act like the downtrodden,” I muttered.

Like he would even know what the downtrodden looked like.

I guess that's what the downtrodden would say.

I decided to ignore Raf's comments. Maybe I was acting like the downtrodden, but that was only because I
was
a downtrodden.

I shook my head. My dad wouldn't like to hear that.

I decided again to ignore his comments. After all, I'd scored the password to one of their exclusive parties. If I was one of the downtrodden, I would share this moment as the one that changed everything.

The night of the party, I felt the same way Christiane Amanpour must have felt the first time she was allowed to be embedded with US troops in Iraq, except I was now embedded with what could be the biggest scoop inside the Beltway.

I'd been texting Charlotte all day.

Me:
Going to the party!

Charlotte:
Don't forget to go through the medicine cabinets. 98% of secrets are hidden there. And if you open the closet and find a giant plastic bag full of fingernails, run.

Me:
You thought there would be any scenario where I found a bag full of fingernails and didn't run?

I did all the necessary things to prepare for covert investigation: I programmed my phone to record sound with the touch of a button, video with the touch of another one. I brought a notebook and pen in my purse, in case I ran out of battery and there was a power outage or something. I wouldn't be caught unprepared.

As for personal preparations, I psyched myself up. I wanted to play it cool. I would try to be witty and inviting, but not too inviting. I assumed one of the security guards would be taking the password, and as long as I could get by, then I could stay under the radar inside.

I practiced faces in the mirror, working on an expression that hopefully said,
Feel free to tell me all your secrets
.

“What are you doing, Pipe?”

I jumped and turned at the same time. My dad was standing behind me, watching me make faces in the mirror.

“Nothing,” I said, short of breath. “Why?”

“You look like you're somewhere between very confused and very hungry.”

I sighed. “I was going for trustworthy.”

“Ah. Try a little less frown. And not quite so much squint in your eye.”

I adjusted my look.

“There. That's a little less constipated looking.”

“I thought you said ‘confused and hungry'?”

“Yeah, I meant constipated. Why are you practicing a trustworthy face?”

I bobby-pinned a clump of my hair up to keep it from falling into my eyes. Must stay sharp and not obscure my vision!

“I got invited to a party at the Spanish embassy.” I didn't tell him I was using the term “invited” loosely. “This, Dad, is where I get the scoop.”

He smiled. “I'm glad you have your fire back. I'll leave you to practice your faces.”

“Thank you.”

I started singing along with the song on my playlist. Michael walked by. “Stop singing,” he said. “You're ruining everything.”

As he walked away, I smiled. At least I'd never have to wonder what he was really thinking. I worked on my facial expressions again, focusing on the changes my dad had suggested, frowning a little less and widening my eyes. Once I'd settled on a face a nation could trust—I dubbed it the “Walter Cronkite”—I texted Charlotte again.

Me:
I'm ready! Recording devices set, facial expressions mastered, notebook in hand.

Charlotte:
Great! What are you wearing?

Crap!
I glanced up from my screen and looked in the mirror again.

Me:
Hello Kitty T-shirt. Jeans. Sneakers . . .

She texted me a “grrrrr” emoji.

Charlotte:
You don't want to repel your assets, do you?

Me:
Ack! No! What should I wear?

Charlotte:
Wear your jeans, those black boots with the silver thingies, and the shirt we bought that one time when your finger got caught in the dressing room door.

Everyone needs a best friend who can say,
Wear that one thing from that one time
and you know exactly what they're talking about.

I rifled through my closet until I found the outfit, changed into it, and took a mirror pic to send to Charlotte.

Perfect. Now get that piece of lettuce between your teeth.

I pulled my lips back from my teeth and, sure enough, there it was. What would I do without her?

I drove my car to the Spanish embassy. I was pretty sure I was the only one who'd driven their own car. The lot was jam-packed with long black sedans and drivers leaning against doors, drinking coffee and smoking.

I pulled up to the gate. A man in a blue security uniform strode out of a guard station and over to my car.

“Yes?”

“Um . . .
Luchar contra el hombre
?”

I'd looked up the phrase at home. It roughly translated to “fight the man.” Whatever that meant to someone like Raf.

The guard nodded. “Reason for visit?”

To uncover and expose the underground network known as “diplomatic immunity.”

“A party?”

He frowned. Then he asked for my license, and after looking at it, his frown deepened.

No way was I going to be turned away at the gate. What would Christiane Amanpour do?

She'd say something in Arabic that would be just the right thing that would convince the guard to let her through. Because that was her specialty.

What could I do here?

I could speak in Spanish.

“¿Dónde está la baño?”

He looked up from my license, and as he handed it back, he said, “There are twenty-two bathrooms inside. I'm sure you'll find one to your liking. And it's ‘el
baño
.' Not ‘la.'”

I could feel the heat reach my cheeks. “Right. Thank you. I guess you're not available for Spanish lessons?”

He didn't even acknowledge that I'd spoken again. He just pressed a button, and there was a buzzing noise, and he opened the gate.

I parked my old Toyota behind the sea of black sedans. When I got out, a man in a tuxedo approached me and asked for my
keys. I handed them over and he started to walk away.

“Wait, don't you need my name?”

He held the keys up with just his thumb and forefinger and said, “I think I'll remember the girl with the Toyota.”

I went to the door and looked up at the ornate knocker. The gold in it could've paid for my college tuition, I was sure. Maybe instead of going for the Bennington, I should just steal the knocker.

Okay, Pipe. Slip inside and blend in. Slip and blend. Slip and blend.

Unexpectedly, the door flew open. Even more unexpectedly, it was Raf. My heart did a little twitterpation, and I considered diving into the bushes, but at this point in our relationship, that would be cliché.

“Pip?” he said, looking confused.

“I . . . uh . . . I . . .”
Crap.
What could I say? “I followed a . . . dog.”

“A dog?”

I shook my head. “A car. I thought I knew it?”

“The car?”

“The driver.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“And I thought it was my cousin. Who has been missing.”

“Your cousin's missing?” he said, true concern on his face.

I shook my head. “No. He was found. I just forgot.”

Raf scratched his forehead. “Do-over.”

Before I could say,
Huh?
he slammed the door shut. I just stood there. I raised my fist to knock, but before I could, the door swung open again.

“Pip! What a surprise.” His face showed everything but surprise. “Come in.”

He was wearing black jeans and a button-down white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

He looked really good. He gave me a smile that reached from my eye sockets to my kneecaps. I couldn't imagine a happier reaction to a party crasher.

“Hi,” I said. It was about all my heart could manage.

No, not my heart. The heart was about love. What was the part of the body associated with simple physical attraction?

Loins.

Ugh.
Why was that the first word I came up with?
Stop thinking about loins!

“Are you doing that thing again where you're having a conversation in your head, and I am merely an intruder?”

“How did you know I did that?” I said.

“Well, it's either that or you have indigestion.”

“It's indigestion.”

I put my hand in my pocket and felt for my phone. I wanted to keep it at the ready.

“Follow me,” Raf said, starting to look unsure as to why I was there and what he was supposed to do with me.

We started to walk out of the opulent entryway when a man
appeared from one of the several hallways surrounding us. He looked like an older version of Rafael.

“Did I hear that somebody has indigestion?” he asked. Before either of us could answer, he motioned to a pretty woman in a dark suit who was following him. “Lidia, could you get some club soda and that powder Mrs. Amador swears by?”

For someone who was scary and had a history of getting people fired, he seemed pretty nice.

Lidia nodded curtly, made a note on the clipboard she was carrying, and rushed off.

My cheeks flushed. I could feel them burn. There was no way I was going to yell and stop her and try to explain I didn't have indigestion.

Raf didn't stop her either, although I'm sure he knew I didn't have stomach problems.

“Papa. I'd like you to meet Pipper Baird. She's new at our school. Pip, meet His Excellency, Leon Gabriel Amador, the Spanish ambassador to the United States.”

Whoa.
Quite a title.

Raf's dad held out his hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Baird.”

“The pleasure's mine. Your . . . Highness.”

Raf stifled a laugh, but his father merely smiled bigger.

“‘Mr. Amador' will do. Especially for friends of Rafael's. After all, you should've heard the names his mother called me as Rafael was being born.”

“Papa!” Raf said, looking embarrassed. I'd never seen him look embarrassed. It was adorable.

“It's true. That's why his middle name is—”

“Papa!”

“Leandró. It means ‘lion man.' She was sure she had given birth to something the size of a lion.”

Raf looked to the ceiling. “Oh God,” he mumbled.

“Do you have a middle name?” his dad asked me.

I smiled a little. “Lily. It means, like, the flower.”

“And what do your parents do?” he asked.

“Um, my dad works for the Power and Light Company.”

“Ah.” Mr. Amador looked confused, maybe because he didn't realize I was a scholarship student. “And your mother?”

“She takes care of me and my younger brother,” I said. “And she works nights in a bakery.”

Mr. Amador's face lost all traces of his former smile. “Well, I'll let you two get to it.”

Raf put his arm on my back and started leading me away. “Okay, Papa.”

We walked down a series of hallways and parlors and sitting rooms and drawing rooms. Faint music grew louder the closer we got to what I assumed was the “great room” of the house.

“I don't think your dad likes me very much,” I said.

“He's like that with everybody,” Raf said. He wasn't very convincing.

We kept going in silence.

“Are you going to kick me out?” I asked.

He smiled. “I'm not the type. Besides, you must have gone to great lengths to get here. Maybe it involved stealing phones and such.” He gave me a knowing glance.

I looked away, heat filling my cheeks again.

“If you wanted to be friends so badly,” he said, “all you had to do was ask.”

I doubted it. Besides, this wasn't about making friends.

The music became clearer, but I didn't recognize the song. It sounded like it was in another language. German maybe? And it had a techno beat. Suddenly I imagined a giant orgy in the great room. I'd read about them in articles about the lives of the foreign privileged elite. Orgies. Drugs. Hallucinations. Sex. Cool Euro club clothing. Maybe something really weird like gnome bongs or Oompa Loompa limbo.

We were getting close to the room. What would I say if someone propositioned me?

No thanks, I have the clap
?

Honestly, I didn't even know what the clap was, but it did not sound pleasant.

Before I could come up with a respectable rejection, we turned a corner, revealing the largest room I'd ever seen.