Diplomatic Immunity (18 page)

“They can still do that?”

“It's a boarding school. They get away with a lot of shit. So my knuckles were swollen and I kept complaining to Mark about how much they hurt. And suddenly he winds up and punches me in my gut.”

“What?”

“Yeah. But then, as I'm doubled over and trying to catch my breath, he's all, ‘Bet you don't feel your knuckles now.' And he was right.”

He poured himself another drink.

“You look for danger so you don't feel the pain that's already there?”

He shrugged. “It's a way to cope,” he said.

“It's a stupid way to cope.”

He turned to me. “Why?”

“Because sure, pain can be masked by greater pain, but other feelings will be masked as well. Like joy and peace. And love. And I think it would be stupid to mask those.”

He smiled. Wide.

“Why are you smiling? I just said you're stupid.”

“It's one of my favorite things about you. You're not scared
to say what you really think. Remember that time in the hallway when you didn't hold back about how much you disapproved of my lifestyle?”

My cold cheeks went warm. “Uh, yeah. I said I was sorry.”

“That was the first time I thought, it hurt, but for a moment I could focus on that pain and forget about other pain.”

“So, you're saying my words to you were like a punch in the gut?”

“Exactly.”

“Hmm. How do I have any friends?”

He laughed. “I keep telling people to give you a chance. I say, ‘Be friends with Pip. She's like a fist to the gut.'”

I smiled and then we lay there in silence for a while. Somehow, in the time since we'd started talking, the bottle of sangria was empty, and my insides were warm and gooey.

“What are you going to do after you graduate?” I said. “Join the sangria business?”

He took a sip before answering. “My father is on the board of directors at IE Law School in Spain. So after I graduate, I'll go there. Study law. Get into politics.”

“Sounds like your dad has it all planned out.”

He frowned and nodded. “He does.”

“What about chemistry?” I said.

“What about it?”

“You love it.”

He sighed and looked up at the sky. “I want to study chemistry, which would be useful in the sangria business, because I have some ideas, but my dad would never go for it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn't involve ruling Spain.”

“So? It's your life.”

“But it's his money.”

“Are you afraid of making it on your own?” There went my filter.

Raf frowned. “Tell me something, Pip. Do you save any harsh truths for yourself? Or just for others?”

“I probably share my harsh truths with others so I don't have to look at my own.”

“What are some harsh truths of yours, Pipper Baird? Good grades. Columbia bound. Will probably one day save the world through journalism. What are your harsh truths?”

I thought for a moment. “Sometimes when I'm doing homework, I have the air-conditioning on and a space heater at my feet. At the same time.”

Raf nodded. “Global warming be damned. What else?”

I thought for a moment more. “Sometimes I'm jealous of Michael, because he doesn't have to pretend to be anyone.”

Raf smiled. “These are things that just make you even more likable.”

I blushed.

“Tell me the real stuff. The harshest truth.”

I don't know if it was the drink or the night or what, but I started talking.

“I lie. I have no hesitation lying to get a story. And I don't feel bad about it.” He stayed quiet and watched me as I fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. “And I wonder why I don't feel bad about it. Does that scare you?” I said.

“Do you lie to me?” he said.

Crap.
“No,” I said, and I could taste the lie in my mouth.

“You don't scare me, Pip,” he said.

“My mouth can run away with me.”

“I love staring at your mouth. Even when it's calling me stupid.”

There was that warm gooey feeling again. He was sucking me in. I shook my head because . . . Giselle's face.

“Wait. What are you doing?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why am I here and not Giselle? You can't tell me it's because she hates rooftops. Or views.”

“Nope. She hates heights.”

“No, she doesn't!” My outburst was louder than I'd meant it to be. Maybe I cared about why I was here and she wasn't more than I'd thought. I wanted him to have a good reason why I was here and she wasn't, and I wanted it to have to do with Raf's feelings.

He turned toward me in his lounge chair. “The truth is, I like you. You are ambitious and hilarious and quirky, and I can't get over the fact that you talk to paintings, and you have this daredevil streak that you work really hard to keep hidden—”

“I'm not a daredevil. I'd never even had detention until that first day of school.”

He leaned closer. “You let me show you the back side of water, and I know you were scared of falling yet you went over the edge. Don't tell me you're not a daredevil.”

“Falling is not my biggest fear.”

“What
is
your biggest fear?”

I looked away and back to the lights twinkling in the city. I took a deep breath. “A crazed man with a gun to my head ranks pretty high. Being caught in an avalanche. Topping the list, though, is probably mayonnaise that's been left out of the fridge for too long.”

“Huh?”

“You have no idea what the little things growing inside it can do to the human body.”

He laughed.

“Yeah, you think it's funny now, until you have to live with your colon in a bag attached to your hip.”

“Ew.”

Mental note: if you're hoping for the possibility of romance, don't bring up bagged colons attached to hips.

“See, this is what I mean,” he said. “Who says that? Moreover, who looks cute while saying that?”

Never mind about the mental note.

“You think I'm cute?”

And that's when he leaned forward and his lips were close to my lips and my heart was all aflutter and then Giselle's face was in my head again.

I put my hand on his chest. “No.”

“What?”

“I know it's not a word you hear very often, but no.”

He looked confused. “It seems like I hear it from you all the time.”

“Do you think that just because your dad cheats . . .” My voice trailed off as Raf's face fell. I couldn't believe I'd taken something he'd shared like that and thrown it at him.

“I have to go.” I sprang from the lounge chair, throwing the blanket to the side, and even though my head was a little bit woozy, I quickly made my way to the rooftop door and then every time I saw a staircase, I went down, farther and farther, until I found the opulent entryway.

By this time, Raf had almost caught up. “Wait, Pip, it's not what you think!”

“I doubt that she would say that,” I said over my shoulder.

Just as I reached for the handle of the entrance, the door swung open and in walked Raf's dad.

“Papa,” Raf said, obviously surprised, and not in a good way.

“Hello . . . Pipper, was it?” His dad frowned.

Raf stopped trying to prevent me from leaving, and that's when I knew I really had to get out of there.

I blew through the front door and said to the driver waiting by the town car, “Take me home. Now and fast.”

My parents were waiting for me in the kitchen when I got home. They hadn't waited up for me in a long time. I started to worry.

“Hey, Pipe,” my dad said.

My mom kept her gaze on the table.

“What's going on?”

“How was your date?” Dad said.

I looked at him skeptically. “That's not why you both stayed up, is it? To ask me how my date was?”

My dad sighed and rested his head in the palm of his hand. “We need to talk to you about something.”

My mom raised her head.

“You probably know how our finances have been tight.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, we're behind on the mortgage. Our salaries haven't been able to keep up with our debt. And it's getting to the point where they're going to have to foreclose. Which means moving.”

“Moving where?” I said.

My mom looked at my dad. “Cleveland,” he said.

I felt a stab to my heart. “Ohio? What's in Cleveland?”

“A new job,” my dad said. “And a lower cost of living.”

“When would this happen?”

My parents exchanged looks. “Soon,” my dad said.

I took a few deep breaths. “I would have to leave Chiswick,” I said. Not a question.

My dad nodded.

“How can we stay?” I said.

“I'm not sure we can,” my dad said.

“Chiswick is my future. I can't give it up.” I closed my eyes for a moment and then opened them. “How can we stay here until the end of the year?”

My dad looked at my mom again, and suddenly I knew.

“You need to drain my savings.”

“We are not going to do that,” my mom said.

I tilted my head. “You need to drain the money that was earmarked for my college tuition.”

My dad shook his head. “It would buy us some time with the bank, but it's not enough to make a significant dent in our money troubles.”

“I know.” It wasn't enough to make a dent in my tuition, let alone a dent in my parents' debt. “How long have you known about this?”

They were quiet for a long moment before my dad answered, “A while. We've tried everything.”

“What about Gramma Weeza?”

“She lives on social security,” my dad said.

“But what if I lived with her?”

My dad shook his head. “I checked into that. For you to keep your scholarship, she'd have to legally adopt you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“We're not using your money,” my mom said.

“Wait,” I said, holding up my hand. “Just wait.”

What were my options? Leave now and give up my chance for a prestigious scholarship, but keep the meager college fund, or stay and drain whatever was left in the fund, and put everything into the Bennington.

I thought about Raf and how when it came to his dad, he was ashamed of me. And also how he was with Giselle and how likely it was that, given everything I knew about him, he was probably playing me.

I stood. “Drain it.”

“Sweetie,” my mom said.

“Drain it. I'll gamble on the chance of winning the Bennington. It's my dream. Drain it.”

I walked out, and I think my parents didn't know what else
to say, because how could they refuse my offer? Especially when they knew what the Bennington meant to me.

When I got to my room, my phone displayed two texts.

Charlotte:
How's the story? Are you getting closer to Raf?

Jesse:
How's the story? Any corroborating evidence?

There was no way I was going to admit to either of them the position I'd gotten myself into with Raf, a person who thinks cheating on his girlfriend is no big deal. Besides, I was actually grateful it had happened, because there couldn't be a better reminder of the type of person Raf was, the things he got away with, and the fact that he was just a story, and I would be just a fling. I couldn't believe I'd almost become a girl he wooed and discarded while he carried on a relationship with his real girlfriend.

And now I had no backup. I had no more money. I needed the Bennington more than ever. My parents' financial situation was the clincher. I had to go after the exposé.

There was no better time to finish the story than now, when the fire of retribution was hot, the sangria was getting the creative juices flowing, and the threat of poverty was a fire beneath my feet.

I pulled out my laptop and began adding everything I'd learned since my first draft. Illegal landing of planes. Cracking precious vases over the heads of boyfriends. Ins with the guards at national parks. Faking a 911 call to the son of the secretary of state. I included all the new stuff, complete with information
I'd gotten from Mack about the fake IDs. (She'd decided she was ready to quit for good.) I used it all. It was beautiful. And this time I didn't hold back on describing Rafael Amador.

I sent it to Charlotte before I went to bed. Maybe Raf had made me look like an idiot, but who would look like the bigger idiot when I was holding the Bennington trophy?

Okay, it was a scholarship, not a trophy, but the picture in my head was so much more poignant with me holding a golden trophy of a girl at a typewriter, and Raf wondering what had hit him.

This was all ethical, though. I was leaving out the part about Raf's brother. I would never divulge those secrets. I had standards.

In the morning, I had an email from Charlotte, and a sinking feeling in my stomach that I wasn't sure was from the sangria or the article.

But it must've been the sangria, because Charlotte's email about the article was glowing, using words like “standout” and “fascinating” and “captivating,” and I knew I'd struck just the right balance between compelling and tabloid.

She texted me.

Charlotte:
What are you going to do with it?

Me:
Not sure how to handle it yet. Jesse (news director) thinks anonymous is the way to go. But I want to wait awhile.

Charlotte:
I think it will work better in a magazine. You'll get more space. More photos.

Me:
Do you think it would work at People?

Charlotte:
Definitely.

Me:
Okay. I want to sit on it for a bit.

Charlotte:
Pipe, are you scared?

Finally, something I could answer honestly.

Me:
Yes.

Charlotte:
Of what?

Me:
People who have tried before have failed and failed hard.

Charlotte:
Is that why you're having a hard time pulling the trigger?

I couldn't quite explain my hesitation, except that maybe now in the light of day something was holding me back. And that something was Raf.

Me:
I'm having a hard time pulling the trigger because of what it would do to Rafael.

This time there was a long pause on Charlotte's end. And then:

Charlotte:
Herbert Matthews didn't let any feelings for Fidel Castro get in the way of his story.

Me:
Can't argue with that.

Charlotte:
This is your future, Pipe. Your dream. Pull it together.

Me:
I'd never let anything stand between me and my dream.

Charlotte:
Don't pull a Dave Benoit.

Dave Benoit was a reporter who'd hidden information he'd gotten about a corrupt senator because he'd fallen in love with
her. That wasn't me. It couldn't be me.

Me:
Never.

Charlotte:
Don't worry. We'll figure it out. I'll help you.

Me:
Thank you.

I purposely arrived at school with only seconds to spare before the first bell, but Raf still found me.

“Can we talk?”

“No.”

I walked past him and to class. The truth was, I didn't need him anymore. I had everything I needed: pictures, interviews, reasonable conclusions. This was another instance where journalism was different from a court of law, especially if it was a magazine exposé written from the viewpoint of the author. I didn't need to prove something beyond a reasonable doubt. There was no such thing as evidence not being admitted because it was obtained in the wrong way.

The article had broad appeal. I thought about the audience. Students without astronomical trust funds would be interested in seeing how the other half lived. Parents in the middle class could read it and pat themselves on the back for not making more money. People who followed the tabloids would love the insider information. I didn't need him anymore.

But Raf leaned over and said, “I'm not with Giselle,” just before class started.

“You broke up with her?” I asked. I couldn't resist.

“We were never together.”

I stared at him, and he nodded, but there was no time to ask follow-ups because class began. The rest of the morning, he stuck close by and seemed to be waiting for me to ask a question, any question, but for the first time in my life, I wasn't really ready to ask anything.

If they weren't together, why were they kissing at Raf's party? Was this just another thing Raf was saying so he could smooch me? And what teenager used the word “smooch”?

One who had never been to third base, and had been tagged out at second.

I sat at my usual table at lunch with Mack and Faroush (they were back together, although you'd never guess it from the silence at the table). Suddenly Raf plopped his tray down and joined us. He didn't say anything for a long time. He just waited.

Mack and Faroush looked at each other, and after a few moments, they both grabbed their trays. “We're done here,” she said. “Because this is weird.”

As they walked away, Mack raised her eyebrows, asking if I was okay. I nodded.

“Okay,” I said, looking back at Raf. “What do you mean you're not together?”

“I mean we're only together for show.” His voice was low and soft. “I'm doing it as a favor, and I couldn't tell you about it because it was Giselle's story to tell. I kept trying to get her permission, but she wouldn't give it. She doesn't trust you. I didn't
know if it was just because she didn't like you or because she was scared. Turns out it was mostly because she didn't like you.”

I shrugged. “Not surprising.”

“But then, last night, she finally gave me permission. Because you walked out on me.”

“Why would that make a difference to her?”

“Because she knows how I feel about you.” He blurted it out, then winced and smiled. “It was supposed to go smoother than that. But I told her the truth was the only way to get you back.”

I tried to ignore the thrill that went through my heart. “Why don't you start at the beginning?”

Raf nodded. “I'm only telling you this now because Giselle said it was okay. And because I trust you.”

I didn't stop him.

“Giselle's had it rough. Her mom died a long time ago, and her stepmom is batshit but has her father wrapped around her little finger. Now Giselle is seeing this older guy, and while it's not unusual for her to see an older guy, this guy is the son of one of her father's biggest rivals. The diplomatic community is a very small world. Word gets around, so to hide the relationship, I told her I would pretend to be her boyfriend.” He stared hard at his sandwich and ran his hand through his hair.

“Did it work?” I asked.

“So far, yes.”

We were quiet for another few moments. By this point, my heart was beating outside my chest.

“When I agreed to the plan, that was when I didn't have an interest in anyone. But that's not how it is now.”

My heart leaped to the ceiling and swung around a chandelier.

“So, Pip, I like you. Can we start over?”

“What about your dad?”

“I'll deal with that when we come to it. I won't deny you again.” His eyes looked dark and intense. “So, can we start over?”

I had a choice to make, right then and there. I didn't know how I'd gotten into this position, the one where I had let it all get personal, but here I was, and the truth was, I wasn't a bad person.

But this was the Bennington. This was my ticket.

Maybe I could win the Bennington without the exposé and maybe I couldn't, but one thing I knew for sure: in this moment, staring into two big brown eyes . . . I couldn't . . .
I wouldn't
publish my story now. I couldn't live with hurting him. The end.

I turned my thoughts to living on tips from the Yogurt Shop for a month, and turning that into a story. It could be good. And I wouldn't be destroying anybody.

“Can we?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said sort of breathlessly.

Charlotte would be so disappointed in me. I had broken a basic rule of journalim. It was a rookie mistake. That's all I was. A rookie. Charlotte had made me promise not to pull a David Benoit, and here I was, doing just that.

No, I couldn't tell her just yet. I would break the news to her when I found another Bennington-worthy story. And they were out there. I just had to look, and it would be easier to do that if I wasn't preoccupied with the DIs. I couldn't stand to dash her hopes without something bigger to get excited about.

I took Raf's hand in mine, and his face went instantly soft. “Let's start over,” I said. And then I did what I always did when starting a new project. “First we need a few rules.”

He looked wary. “Okay.”

“Number one. I don't care how bad you're feeling about yourself. I know I metaphorically punch you in the gut, but no provoking me to actually punch you in the gut. Maybe we should make a list.” I pulled out a pencil and piece of paper, and started to write. “One, no punching each other in the gut.”

His lips twitched. “You really think that needs to be written down?”

“Yes. Feel free to add things.”

“Okay, number two, no talking to paintings about the other person.”

I glanced up.