Diplomatic Immunity (11 page)

It wasn't as big as Carnegie Hall. I guess that was the only place I could really compare it to. Except for the room under the dome at the Capitol Building. But as for houses, I'd never seen anything like it.

It looked to be the length of half a football field.

The walls were covered in tapestries and paintings, and there were a dozen chandeliers overhead, but none of them were lit. The room was rather dark, except for the swirling lights from the equipment of the DJ.

The music itself seemed like an additional presence in the room. It filled the empty spaces and pressed into my ears like it wanted to bypass the eardrums and go straight to my brain.

There had to be about a hundred people inside, most dancing to the music, many drinking from clear plastic cups. I recognized a bunch of them. Mateo Lopez, Franco, Gabriel, Katie, two other girls from the paper, Pat Bagley—son of a Scottish diplomat—and a few others. A lot of faces were unfamiliar.

Raf leaned over and shouted something in my ear, but I couldn't make it out exactly. Did he say,
Grab a drink
?

Giselle emerged from the crowd on the dance floor, carrying an extra clear plastic cup. She handed it to me with a smile and then she seemed to register my face. She gave me a confused look.

Hi?
I was sure she shouted, but it looked more like she just mouthed the word.

I took the plastic cup and mouthed, or shouted,
Thank you
, even though I couldn't hear which way I'd said it. I was glad the music was too loud for her to ask any questions.

Giselle rejoined the party in the middle of the floor, and I was suddenly alone, holding a cup, so I took a drink mostly because I was feeling awkward and deserted.

Whatever was in the clear plastic cup, it was stronger than my regular juice, and a tad sparkly.

As my ears adjusted to the decibels, a girl with brown hair came up to me.

“You're in my chemistry class,” she said.

I had no idea how I was able to make out a single syllable she'd said. Maybe I was getting used to the music. Maybe I'd killed all the fragile ear hair thingies and now I was partially deaf.

“Yeah, I'm Piper.”

“I know,” she yelled. “Thank you for getting school out early! I'm Hillary!”

“I didn't do it!”

“What?”

“The fire. I didn't . . . Never mind!”

She sat there, smiling, waiting for me to say something else. Why would anyone want to make small talk in all this noise? It would be like aliens came to blow up your city on Independence Day, and during the explosions, you asked your neighbor if they'd read any good books lately.

I tried to think of something, anything, we might have in common.

“Loud music, huh?” I said.

“What?” she shouted.

“
Loud music
. . . Never mind.”

“Huh?”

This was really pointless. I put a finger against a crack in my cup and tapped it and Hillary smiled and nodded in an
oh, I get it
kind of way, even though I had no idea what I'd meant. All I knew was, I wasn't going to get a story by trying to talk over the music.

As I walked away, apparently to the emergency cup repair station, I sipped my drink and tried to check out everyone around me without looking too suspicious.

THINGS I WAS LOOKING FOR:

       
1. Drugs. Drug paraphernalia. Drug deals. Manila envelopes being exchanged. Joints being lit.

       
2. Prostitutes.

       
3. Cops looking the other way.

As for number one, I couldn't find anything that looked like rolled joints, or under-the-table deals, or a bong. I'd seen enough television shows to know what a bong looked like.

Number two, there were several girls on the dance floor about whom one could make the argument that they were dressed like prostitutes. But they really looked to be about my age, and their clothes were designer and tailored. No safety pins or hand-me-downs there.

As for number three, I knew there wouldn't be literal cops in the room, looking the other way. But what about the security detail? Where were
they
while their subjects were partying hard?

I glanced at the walls. Oh. There they were, their dark suits blending against the unlit walls as they stood back and watched their charges.

What, were they going to just stand there while their teenage charges . . . did . . . their thing?

Actually, the thing most of the people in the room were doing was dancing. And sipping responsibly from their cups.

I took another swig, the music sounding twice as loud as it had been before. Wasn't it supposed to sound softer as the tiny
hairs in your ears became permanently damaged? What were those ear hairs called? The ones that registered sound waves. Stereo-cilia?

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Raf. He leaned toward me and put his lips on my ear.
On my ear.

“You seem miles away!” he shouted. “Are we not entertaining you?”

I used my pointer fingers to make circle motions in the air.

Raf nodded.
Loud.

He motioned toward the DJ lights and the music went down one decibel. Then he took my wrist and raised the hand holding my cup and poured some more pink sparkly stuff in it.

“Sangria!” he said. “From Spain. My family makes it.”

I heard him better this time. “It's delicious!” I took another sip. “Does it have alcohol?”

He wrinkled his eyebrows. “Yes. It's like sparkly wine.”

“Ah. I've never had the alcohol!”

His eyes went wide, and he went to grab the cup from my hand, but I yanked it away, the liquid sloshing a little over the sides.

“It's not because I haven't wanted to! It's because my dad used to participate in the ‘Not a Drop before Twenty-One' neighborhood campaign.” It was a small campaign, consisting of the houses in our cul-de-sac.

Raf still seemed uneasy—or maybe he just hadn't heard my infallible reasoning over the music—and looked like he was ready
to pounce on my cup again, but right then, Giselle came up and put her arm around his neck, kissing him on the cheek. At least, I think it was supposed to be a kiss on the cheek, but she ended up very close to his lips. Where was Raf's security guy when I needed him?

I mean, when
Raf
needed him.

“Dance with me!” she said.

He smiled and nodded, but before he left, he quickly switched my cup with his. His had less of the . . . what was it called? Santaria? Santa Maria?

I didn't like the idea of someone else dictating what I could and couldn't drink, even though I guess technically the law did that. But I was in Spain. It was no longer my law. And when in Spain . . .

I switched my cup with the cup of the guy standing next to me. His had more in it. He gave me an annoyed look, which was weird because all the cups looked alike, and he could just go get more of the drink whenever he wanted it. Who was this guy?

“Who is this guy?” I shouted at him.

He looked side to side and then pointed at himself. “Who am
I
? As in, what's my name?”

I rolled my eyes and nodded. He didn't look foreign, but he sure didn't understand English very well.

“I'm Samuel. Why did you take my drink?”

“Well, Samuel, if that really is your name—”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn't that be my name?”

“You tell me.”

He didn't.

“As I was saying,
Samuel
, it's not technically
your
drink until you ingest it. Before then, I believe it's anyone's drink.”

He smiled. “That's very philosophical of you.”

“I philosophize often. You don't go to Chiswick.”

“Huh?”

Seriously, what was this guy's deal with plain English?

“You. Don't. Go. To. Chiswick. It's a simple question.”

This time he seemed to be suppressing a laugh. “Sorry. You just change subjects so quickly. And technically, it's not a question. But you're right, I don't go to Chiswick. I go to Sidwell.”

I took another drink and turned to the dance floor, where Giselle and Raf were dancing super close. Raf looked over at me and smiled, and then did this double-take thing as he seemed to register that Samuel and I were talking.

I turned to Samuel. “The president's kids go to Sidwell!”

He nodded and looked at me as if I was stating the obvious. “Yeah. How do you know Rafael?”

“See that brace on his wrist?”

Samuel nodded.

“I did that.” I made two fists, put them together, and then twisted them apart. “Snap. Care to dance?”

“Um, I think I'm going to go over there.” He motioned to the opposite side of the great room.

“What's over there?”

“People. Other people.”

“Don't be silly. Come dance.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him to the dance floor.

Samuel shouted something from behind me, but it was muffled. Something about how I should be careful with his wrists?

It was at that moment that I remembered I was supposed to be a reporter. What better way to observe than by blending in on the dance floor?

Raf looked at me and smiled and then looked at Samuel and did that boy-greeting thing where he flicked his head upward once.
Hey, dude. 'Sup?

Samuel did it back.
Not much, dude.

I always added commentary in my head when guys were being guys.

The good thing about a distinct techno beat is that it kind of dictates how a person is supposed to move on the dance floor. I'd never felt very comfortable dancing, but tonight it was like the music had penetrated my bones, and my mind was somewhere else as my body just danced.

I raised my arms and swung my hips and Samuel was facing me and he was a lot cuter than I'd originally thought, mostly because I hadn't gotten a good look at his face until now. But he was. Cute. And his shoulders were broad.

“You okay?” Samuel said.

I realized I wasn't moving anymore. I was frozen. And staring at Samuel while I studied him. I shrugged.

“You're just cuter than I'd originally thought.” I shouted the words. Loud. At what seemed to be the quietest (relatively) part of the song.

The people around us glanced our way. Raf stared for a long moment. He didn't smile.

I felt I had to explain myself.

So I said to Raf, super loud, “It's only because I didn't get a good look at him before. I didn't mean it rudely. If there were better lighting over in that corner over there where we were, I would've noticed.”

Were my words slurring together? When I said “would've,” it sounded more like “woodiff.” And my
R
s were significant. “Where we were” sounded more like “wrrrr wrrrr wrrrr.”

I went back to dancing to the music in my bones, and Samuel was smiling, and I was spinning, and bodies were everywhere, and suddenly Raf was dancing in front of me, where Samuel used to be. I noticed it because Samuel was taller than Raf.

“Samuel's taller than you,” I said. For a fleeting moment, I realized the filter between my mouth and my brain was malfunctioning. But then that moment passed. “That's how I know it's you.”

“Because I'm short?”

“No. You're six foot feet. Which is not considered short. But Samuel's super tall.”

“Ah.”

We kept dancing, and he was getting closer to me, and his pants touched my pants.

“Your pants touched my pants.” Filter officially gone.

He smiled this wry smile. “Yes, I believe they did.”

I went to take another drink, but suddenly Raf lunged forward, bumping into me and making me drop my cup.

“My sanataria!”

“Sorry! Someone bumped me.”

I looked behind him and couldn't see anyone.

“And it's sangria. Not . . . whatever you said.”

Then we were dancing again, and Samuel changed places with Raf, and then Franco changed places with Samuel, and then I was dancing with a guy I didn't know, and that's when the room really started to spin and then I saw Raf kissing Giselle in the corner of the room. Really kissing. Not the kind you can write off as a kiss on the cheek.

I was hot. Really hot. And the room suddenly felt stuffy.

I turned quickly away from the Raf-kissing-Giselle scenario and immediately saw a guy in a gray hoodie, exchanging something with one of the students near the door. He stood out because everyone else here was dressed better than a hoodie. Next to him was a table with dozens of yellow cups. Maybe it was a drug deal. But I couldn't make it out because it was all fuzzy.

I put a hand on my cheek, and it felt warm and wet. The great room was getting smaller and more crowded, which seemed
inconvenient for a great room, so I leaned over to the stranger and said something about how he should take over dancing for me and I stumbled out of the crowd and out the door I thought we'd come in.

Only the hallway I was in now didn't look familiar. I tried a few doors on my left and my right, but none of them opened up to a bathroom.

I thought about what the guard had said. “Twenty-two bathrooms, my eye.”

I stopped opening doors and decided to put a little more distance between myself and the great room. I was pretty sure it was the general stuffiness and loud music that were making me act the way I was acting.

I turned left then right then I don't know, and ended up in a room that was blessedly quiet. It seemed to be some sort of second parlor to the first parlor. I didn't know what to call it. My mom would've known—she was obsessed with
Downton Abbey
.

I shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief. I would rest here for a bit and then venture back out into the fray. I turned around to face the room, and gasped.

There was a boy at a table in the center of the room, his nose in a book.