Diplomatic Immunity (12 page)

“Sorry, I didn't know anyone was in here,” I said. Feeling a need to explain my appearance, I added, “I was tired of the music. So loud.”

The boy looked up, revealing a face that looked very similar to Raf's. He instantly smiled. “Hi. I'm Alejandro Amador.” Just as quickly, he frowned and looked back down at the book.

“Oh. Hi. I'm Piper. A friend of Raf's.”

“I know,” he said, his face still down. “I've heard about you.”

I fanned my face with my hand. “All good things, I hope.”

He finally looked up again. “No. I'd say eighty-five percent of what I've heard was good, if you're using the usual measurement for ‘good' referring to positive information about one's appearance, countenance, or behavior.”

“Huh?”

He Euro-shrugged, although slightly less emphatically than Raf usually did. “My percentages would be better if there were a universally agreed upon basis of measurement for the term ‘good.' Since there isn't, I'll define ‘good' as I said. Eighty-five percent.”

Alejandro lowered his head back to his book.

I scratched my forehead. “So, of the things you've heard about me, eighty-five percent of them were good.”

“As I said.”

“So, fifteen percent of the things you've heard were . . . bad?”

He looked up again, and this time there was a flash of irritation in his eyes. “Yes. Percentages are based upon a full portion equal to one hundred. So one hundred minus eighty-five is fifteen. Although given what I now know of your rudimentary math skills, perhaps the number is closer to eighty-four.”

“Hey! I have good math skills. I did the subtraction right, didn't I?”

“Yes, but confidence is a factor in math skills, and you displayed no confidence. Minus one from the good side.”

I looked left and right to see if there was some sort of hidden camera there. Not finding anything suspicious, I turned back to Alejandro.

“Well, how do you know I'm the same Piper you've heard so much about?”

“Pipper Baird. Clumsy, torn pants, western-style rider, astute, easy smile, tendency to speak her mind, even if it's rude.”

“Some people like that about me,” I said, defending myself.

“Why are you in here?” he said.

“Exploding eardrums,” I said, pointing to my ears.

He gazed at me quizzically. “They don't look exploded.”

Before I could answer, Raf's voice came from behind me. “He doesn't get exaggeration.”

I jumped. “What?”

“Clichés, sarcasm, metaphors, exaggeration. Alejandro is a very literal person.”

Raf went around to the side of the table where Alejandro was seated and scruffed his hair in a loving, brotherly kind of way. Alejandro quickly smoothed the messed parts.

“I also don't read facial expressions, but I have an app to help me out.” He pulled out his phone, fiddled with it a bit, glanced at my face with narrowed eyes, looked back at the app,
then to my face again. “You are bemused.”

Raf then studied my face. “I would've guessed bewildered, but I think you nailed it with bemused.”

I glanced from Raf to Alejandro and made a mental note not to speak in metaphors.

Alejandro nodded his head toward me. “Pip came looking for refuge from the overly loud decibels of the music you chose.”

Raf held his hands out, palms up. “You don't like my music?”

I turned to Alejandro. “Way to throw me under the bus.”

Alejandro tilted his head and Raf raised an eyebrow as if to say,
Did you not hear anything we just said?

“Why would I throw you under a bus?” Alejandro said. “There are several problems with that suggestion, not the smallest of which is the fact that there are no buses nearby.”

“I meant . . . when you ratted on me for not liking the music. I felt like you had thrown me under the bus.”

“Have you ever met someone who has been thrown under a bus? Because if you do, please don't tell him this story about how I told the truth about your music preferences, and then end with, ‘so I know exactly how you feel.' Because I would think the real bus victim wouldn't agree.”

“I . . . uh . . .”

Raf looked like he was enjoying the scene before him immensely. “It's great, isn't it? Practicing the literal meanings of words?” He put his hands on Alejandro's shoulders and gently kneaded them. “Makes you think about what you say.”

Right then, I wasn't thinking about the literal meaning of words, though. I was feeling a certain kinship with Raf that I wasn't expecting. More than that, I was
feeling
something. Empathy.

“My brother spins hangers,” I blurted out.

Raf gave me a confused look, but Alejandro just nodded, as if he had expected no other words but the ones I'd just uttered to come out of my mouth.

The room fell quiet for a moment. Even the usually loquacious Raf had nothing to say, and who could blame him? What are you supposed to say to the whole spinning-hangers remark?

Besides, the story I was looking for wasn't in this room. I'd gotten sidetracked, and now I had to go do some exploring.

“So . . . um . . . sorry for intruding. I think my ears have recovered enough.”

Raf followed me out of the room.

“Tell me more about the spinning hangers.”

I bit my lip. “I have no idea why I blurted that out like that. I just think your brother and my brother have some similarities.”

“Your brother is on the spectrum?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah. He spins hangers to stay calm.”

“Self-stimming.”

I nodded, a little surprised.

“How do you like the party?” Raf said.

“It's great. How do you like Giselle's mouth?”

Raf frowned.

“Sorry, I have even less of a filter than normal right now. And that reminds me. Is there a bathroom around here?” I said.
“El baño?”

Raf nodded. He pointed down the hallway. “Left, then right, then the first door on the right.”

“Thank you.”

He didn't follow as I walked away. “Come back to the party when you're done.”

“If I can find my way.”

I returned to the great room with a slightly clearer head. Giselle was talking to a guy I didn't know.

Samuel waved from across the dance floor and came over.

“How are you feeling, Pip?”

“Who told you to call me ‘Pip'?” I narrowed my eyes.

“Raf. We were talking about you after you walked out. You didn't seem to be in a particularly good place.”

I closed my eyes and let out a breath. I'd come here for a story. The last thing I wanted was to become a story myself.

“I'm okay.” Somebody handed me a yellow plastic cup and I was about to take a drink when Samuel grabbed it from my hand. “Why is everyone grabbing my cups tonight?”

“It's a yellow one,” Samuel said. “Yellow means mellow. That means it has a little something extra in it.”

“Like what?”

“Like, usually some type of hallucinogen.”

My mouth dropped open.

“Not enough to knock anyone out,” he said, as if that would reassure me. “Just enough to make the lights dance.”

“Do you drink it?” I said, pulling out my phone and discreetly taking a picture of someone with a yellow cup.

“Never,” he said. “I prefer the lights to just sit there.”

There was a commotion at the entryway. Raf was trying to lunge at another guy but Franco was holding him back. I ran over to see what was going on and heard Raf say, “Get out of here, asshole.”

I didn't recognize the guy he was shouting at. He was shorter than Raf and thicker and at the moment he was smirking. Another guy I didn't know was blocking him in front.

“It's ancient history, Amador.” He broke free and lunged toward Raf, and I have no idea what made me do it, but I leaped in front of him. He knocked me down immediately, and I heard my head hit the floor.

Things were fuzzy from that point on, but somehow Raf got free from Franco and he landed a few punches on the guy's face and the guy got a hit in just before the guards broke them apart.

And then I was in Raf's arms. A trickle of blood ran from his nose and he looked a little off balance. Samuel came over and put
my arm around his shoulders. “I've got her,” he said.

Raf stood there panting.

The guards escorted the other guy out, Giselle went to check on Raf, and everyone resumed the party like it wasn't a big deal.

Samuel helped me out to the hallway, where it was quiet. I sank against the wall, and he followed.

He brushed my hair back and kept telling me to look in his eyes.

“I am,” I said, feeling a slight headache.

“What made you do that?”

“I'm a pacifist.” The words were slurred. “I hate fighting. What was that about?”

“Who knows?” he said. “But it happens. More with Raf than with other people. Sometimes guys need to let off steam. And Raf has a lot of steam.”

I shook my head. “It's crazy. These guys fight each other because . . . what, they're bored in their privileged lives full of maids and keepers and chauffeurs and . . . and . . .” I realized I was hyperventilating, so I leaned my head down so blood could get flowing there again. “Do you remember which way out?” I asked, still hunched over. “I have to get my keys.”

“Your keys? You didn't have a driver bring you?”

I shook my head. “I'm on scholarship. I have food stamps. I don't belong here.” The truth of my money situation felt heavy on my shoulders.

“You're not driving.”

“I can't stay.”

The door burst open. “Is she okay?” It was Raf.

“She's fine,” Samuel said. “I've got her. Go take care of your guests, Amador.”

I couldn't exactly tell how Raf reacted, but the door closed.

Samuel turned back to me. “My driver can take you home.”

He put an arm around my shoulders and navigated the hallways and parlors as if he'd been there a bunch of times before. We went out the front door and he led me to one of the dark sedans. His driver was named Longborn, and he didn't seem to mind an extra passenger.

“What do I do about my car?” I said.

“Trust me,” Samuel said. “Your car has never been safer.”

As we pulled out of the drive, I looked through the window, back at the Spanish embassy, and thought about the headlines I had now, but my brain was still too cloudy to come up with actual words. As it disappeared from view, I could've sworn I saw the front door open and someone with dark brown hair watch our car as we left. Maybe I was imagining it.

I turned to Samuel, who'd been looking at me. The fact that he was watching me made me flush.

“So, have you ever been to an embassy party before?” he asked.

I shook my head and felt the clouds in my brain. “I've never been to anything like that before.”

Sangria and dancing and yellow cups and fights and blood.

I put my hand on my head to keep it from spinning.

“I met Raf's dad at a fund-raiser for something,” Samuel was saying. “It was crazy—he and his wife had this shouting match halfway through dinner, and this team of security guys swooped in and disappeared his wife.”

“‘Disappeared,' like a verb?” My words were all a-tumble.

“Exactly like the verb. You'd think it would be this big commotion, but it was more like a soft breeze coming through and quietly carrying her away. I only saw it because they were sitting at our table.”

“So what were you doing there? Who's your dad?”

“My dad's the secretary of state.”

“Secretary of state of what?”

He smiled. “The union?”

My eyes went wide. “Your dad's Scott Morrison?”

Samuel nodded.

“Wow. He's big.”

“Yep.”

“
Literally
big too. He's like six four.”

The car went over a bump and I held my head again and Samuel seemed to sense it was a good time for quiet.

Before too long, Longborn pulled up in front of my house.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said.

“Hey, Pip?”

“Yeah?”

He glanced down. “It was nice to meet you.”

Ask for my number. Ask for my number. Why isn't he asking for my number?

I paused for a moment before opening my door. “Nice to meet you too.”

The next morning was ugly, from my bloodshot eyes to my angry stomach to my brain, which seemed to be bursting through my skull. All I could think about was Raf's bloody face. And the drinks.

Sangria? More like
pain
gria.

I emailed Gramma Weeza to tell her I'd had my first drink, since she'd been dying for me to “live life a little.” She had yet to master texting, and probably never would, but she could definitely email.

Then I wandered into the kitchen and grabbed the pot from the coffeemaker, but there was nothing in it.

“There's no coffee because it's no longer morning,” my mom
said. “It's one in the afternoon. But the more troubling problem is, where's your car?”

I closed my eyes and grunted. “The Spanish embassy. I got a ride home from a guy with a driver.”

I went to the fridge and took out a bottle of seltzer, poured a cup, and drank most of it in one breath.

“Sit down, Pipe.”

Uh-oh.

“How was the party?”

“It was okay.”

“Have you been drinking?”

I sighed. “Spain's drinking laws are different than ours. Eighteen is the legal drinking age.”

“You're seventeen.”

“But it's not strictly enforced. And apparently since they have this one province in Spain where the drinking age is still sixteen, it's okay to do it at the embassy.”

I squeezed a lemon into the seltzer, took another sip, and instantly felt a little bit fresher.

My mom put her hand over mine. “Here's the thing, Pipe. Underage drinking might fly in Spain—”

“It's technically not underage drinking there.”

“Don't play your word games with me. Underage drinking might be okay in Spain, but you still live under my roof.”

I nodded.

“You did the smart thing by not driving.”

I decided not to tell her about the part where I would have driven home if it weren't for Samuel.

“But I'm not sure it's any smarter to go home with a boy you don't know.”

“Technically, I didn't go to
his
home—”

The look in my mom's eyes made me stop.

“He wasn't just any boy. He was the son of the secretary of state. Scott Morrison. And it was his driver driving.”

My mom nodded as she took in this new information. As if it were every day her daughter was driven home by the son of the secretary of state. “Listen. I trust you. I've never worried about your choices. I like seeing you making new friends and putting yourself out there. But we're going to have to set some ground rules. Number one, tell me first if there's going to be drinking. Number two, if you drink to the point of puking, that will be the last time you drink. Number three, you do it only on international soil, where it's legal. Am I clear?”

“Warn you. Don't puke. Stay out of the country.”

My mom smiled. “More or less. And if I ever see the sunrise before I see you . . .”

“I know, I know.” I put my wrists together the way someone would if they expected to be handcuffed.

“Good. I'll put another pot of coffee on. So, did you have fun last night?”

I thought about my night. Met Raf's dad, drank sangria, danced with Samuel and then a bunch of people, met Raf's
autistic brother, watched Giselle put her lips all over Raf, saw the yellow cups, got in the middle of a fight, was knocked to the ground—

I drew in a sharp breath. “Ohmygosh.”

“What?”

“I . . . my story. Bye!”

As I ran out of the kitchen, I heard my mom give a confused “Bye?”

I went to my room and called Charlotte and told her to come over, and when she did, I told her everything.

“Whoa,” she said. “Where do these people come from?”

“I have no idea.” I pulled out my laptop and opened up a document and started typing.

THE QUEST FOR DANGER IN THE LIVES OF PRIVILEGED KIDS

“I'm not sure ‘quest' is the right word there,” Charlotte said. “It's a little
Lord of the Rings
.”

“You're right.”

THE LIFE OF THE PRIVILEGED TEEN: DRUGS, DANGER, AND DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY

“Oh yeah, that's much better,” Charlotte said. “Good alliteration.”

I pulled up the footage of the party to show Charlotte the pictures I'd gotten the night before. Students in a daze holding yellow cups. The fight between Raf and that other guy.

“Why would Raf do that to such a great face?” Charlotte said.

I slowly traced his face with my finger. “I don't know.”

I started typing again.

“Do you think I can make it rain?” the handsome son of the Spanish ambassador asked me just before he caused a chemical explosion in the school lab.

“Ooh, that's good,” Charlotte said.

Exposés were different from regular news articles, in that they were told more like a story—with a little more artistic license—and they required a good hook at the beginning.

“Or what about . . .”

“Don't drink from the yellow cup,” the boy said. “It will make the lights dance.”

“I like that one too,” Charlotte said. “How do people live like this?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. The thing is, it's not always like this. I've seen Raf be pretty normal, too. Especially with his brother.”

“He has a brother?” Charlotte said.

I nodded. “Alejandro. He's on the spectrum. Raf is really sweet with him.”

Charlotte tilted her head. “You sound like you like him.”

I acted all taken aback, although I didn't know if I really was. “Who, Raf? No. Did I also mention he was sucking face with Giselle all night?”

“That doesn't mean you can't like him.”

I shook my head. “He's a possible story. Nothing more. Now help me write it.”

I typed a few sentences about Raf's need for danger and his scaling the national monument and his broken wrist and his fight.

We were quiet for a moment. I didn't know what Charlotte was thinking, but I was wondering what could be going on inside a boy to make him do the things that Raf did. Was it really a spoiled childhood and the need for attention? Or was it something more?

I had a hard time believing a boy who'd been given everything had some deep, dark wound to numb.

So I tried to focus on the story, not the boy. I'd successfully infiltrated a DI party (with minimal physical harm) and I'd gotten some headlines. That had to be something, right?

“Who's that?” Charlotte said. She was looking out my window.

I leaned over and saw two cars pull up to the curb outside my house. One was my red Toyota, and it was followed closely by a
black sedan. The cars pulled up to my curb, and the driver of the red Toyota stepped out.

“It's Rafael,” I said, my stomach fluttering. I wasn't sure if it was due to the fact that we were writing about him and now he was here, or the fact that my mom had left her coupon stash scattered all over the living room floor.

I was bothered I didn't know.

“Ohmygod. I'm dying to meet him,” Charlotte said.

I shook my head. “You can't. I'm on the verge of being in with them. If the two of us meet him, looking like crazed puppies . . . ?”

“All right. You go,” Charlotte said. “He'll be more comfortable with you alone. I'll slip out the back.”

“Okay,” I said. I shut my laptop and went down the hall to the front door, opening it just as Raf had his finger up to the doorbell.

“Oh. Hey, Pip.”

“Hi.”

His cheek was a little swollen, but on the whole he didn't look as bad as I remembered. And he was still beautiful by anyone's definition of the word.

“I was just returning your car.” Raf took the keys out of his jacket pocket and put them on the table by the door.

“You didn't have to do that,” I said. “But thank you.”

“It was no problem. Yours was the only car that needed returning.”

We stood there for a few long moments, the security guy in the black sedan watching us through sunglasses and a tinted front window.

“Um . . . am I supposed to tip?” I said.

Raf smiled. “No. The car return service is complimentary. Part of the ‘invitation' to the party.” He gave air quotes.

“Ah.” I waved toward the car. “Hey, Fritz.” He didn't wave back.

We stood there for a few moments.

Part of me wanted to invite Raf inside and see what other information I could get out of him, and another part of me wanted to bring him in and tend to his injuries. That part of me was unexpected. I didn't want to appear too anxious. “Um . . . am I supposed to invite you in?”

Raf chuckled. “Well, that would be entirely up to you.”

“Okay.”

We stood there for another few moments.

“So, would you like to come in?”

He smiled. “Sure, Pip. Thanks.”

Raf waved to the black sedan and then followed me as I led him to the living/dining room. I used to call it the “great room.” I didn't anymore, now that I'd seen what a real great room looked like.

“Do you want some coffee?” I asked.

“That would be lovely. Black.”

I filled a cup for him and one for me and we sat down in my
kitchen. I'd always thought our kitchen was adequate, but seeing Raf here, even in his bruised state, made me acutely aware of the peeling wallpaper and dated wooden cabinets. I spotted the food stamps by the microwave. Hopefully he wouldn't notice.

“Did you get home okay?” Raf said. Then he shifted in his seat. “I mean, I can see you got home okay. But did you?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “I got a text from Samuel. Did you know that was the name of the guy you were with? Samuel Morrison?”

“Yes.” What was he getting at?

“Samuel wanted your phone number.”

I could feel my cheeks flush slightly. “Oh. Um, you can give it to him.”

Raf scratched the back of his head. “I don't have your number.”

His voice was soft, hardly that of a guy who had punched someone the night before.

“That's quite the shiner you have there,” I said.

“Oh, yeah. That. A side effect of raucous parties.” He glanced down. “Are you okay?”

I nodded. “I don't know what got into me. Probably the sangria. What's your story?”

“You're the reporter. Aren't you supposed to figure it out?”

He sipped his coffee, safe in some protective shell. Did he know that he
was
the story? I could tell he wasn't about to let me in. Not right now. And to tell the truth, maybe I didn't want to be let in. Raf was reckless. And he seemed intent on getting hurt.
Maybe Giselle was after the same thing, and that was why they were together.

But
I
wasn't intent on getting hurt. Which is why it was a good thing I was the reporter and not some starstruck girl hanging on for scraps of time with him.

“Well, you could give me Samuel's number. And I could just contact him myself,” I said.

I watched for his reaction. He stared hard at his coffee cup, clenching it as if he would fall off the face of the earth if his grip slipped.

Before he could say anything, my phone rang. It was Gramma Weeza.

“Is that the infamous grandma who believes in the power of duct tape?”

I was surprised he'd remembered. “Yes. I told her I had my first drink last night. She's most likely calling to find out how it was.”

He leaned closer. “Your grandma is the first person you told about that?”

“Well, the first person I talked to about it was my mom, who put me through the wringer making sure I was okay. But Gramma is the first person I actually
wanted
to talk to about it.”

He smiled. “I like that about you. Family is very important to me as well.” He stared at his cup of coffee, and we were quiet for a moment. What was going on? What was he doing here? I'd crashed his party. Why wasn't he angry?

“Thanks for letting me stay at the party last night,” I said. “Do your parents mind the parties?” I thought about his scary dad.

“The parties? No. Gathering friends and loved ones to celebrate life is a Spanish tradition. My father encourages taking many moments in the day to just sit and soak it all in.”

“Soak what all in?”

“The beauty of life.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Are all Spaniards this optimistic?”

“Recognizing beauty isn't optimism. It's living with your eyes open.” He picked at a peeling piece of laminate on the counter, and I cringed a little bit at the cheapness of our house.

“Is part of the beauty of life beating the crap out of one another?”

Raf frowned, but he didn't get a chance to answer because Michael wandered into the kitchen, spinning his hanger. When he saw Raf, he stopped. “Why are you here?”

“I brought your sister's car back,” Raf said.

Michael went over to the window to check and make sure Raf was telling the truth.

“Who's your dad?” Michael asked.

“That's how he categorizes people in his head,” I explained. “By parentage.”

“Ah,” Raf said. “My dad is . . . Leon.”

“Leon?” Michael repeated.

“Yes.”

Michael went up to Raf and put a finger on his chest. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Eighteen.” He seemed impressed. “So you can make someone.”

Raf raised his eyebrows and I stifled a laugh. “Milestone birthdays are very important to Michael. Especially the ones that make you legal. When you're sixteen, you get to drive a car. Eighteen, you're an adult. Twenty-one, you can gamble and vote. Eighteen, in his mind, means you're old enough to . . .” I made circular motions with my hands, but Raf just raised his eyebrows in a confused sort of way. “To . . . to . . . make a baby.”

Michael interjected then. “When I'm eighteen, I want to make someone. A boy.”