Diplomatic Immunity (4 page)

A good reporter will often find a story that happened somewhere else and try to make it matter locally, so I started the article off with this headline:

IS CHISWICK ACADEMY PREPARED FOR EVERY POSSIBLE OUTCOME FROM SHUTTING DOWN THE SCHOOL'S WATER? THE CITY OF DETROIT WASN'T.

I wrote two pages on the story, ending with a warning and the Alabama woman's death. I handed it in to Jesse at the end of the first hour.

A few minutes later, he came to my desk.

“This is some interesting stuff,” he said, plopping the papers down in front of me. “I've never been so scared of a water shutoff.”

“Right?” I said with a smile.

“Yes. The problem is, I asked for two paragraphs.”

“Two paragraphs would've been boring,” I said.

“Two paragraphs would've been just the right length to alert students to the shutoff. But with this”—he pointed to the story—“the readers have to make it through a Detroit scandal and a dead woman before they find out the school's water will be out.”

I glanced down. “But our water shutoff is going to happen after school's out. When no one's here.”

“That's the point. We want to make sure that if someone
is
here, they'll know to plan ahead. And that's it. End of story.”

A few of the other students glanced in our direction.

“But this is a good story.” I put my finger on the headline. “This is the kind of stuff I'm used to writing. I'm not very good at fluff.”

Jesse sat down in a chair next to me. “Here we write everything. No matter how small or unimportant we think it is. Plus you're new. You've got to earn it.”

I sighed. “I'm already a senior. I don't have time.”

Jesse ran his hand through his hair. “If you want to be on staff, you don't have a choice. Got it?”

I nodded.

“Then give me two paragraphs.”

The electric bell rang, signaling the end of school.

“I can't right now,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows. “This is important. Our reporters usually stay late. I hope that won't be a problem.”

“Normally, it won't. But today, I have . . . a thing.”

“A thing?”

I winced. “A detention kind of thing.” I scratched the back of my head.

“Detention? You've been here one day.”

“Oh, I wasn't here even a minute when I got it. But don't worry, it's not a habit. It's my first and last time.” I felt my cheeks go hot. This was not the first impression I was hoping to make.

“Then after detention.”

I bit my lip. “I have a shift at the Yogurt Shop.”

He just shook his head and walked away. I put my forehead in my hand and squeezed my eyes shut. Maybe this was a bad dream. Maybe I would wake up soon. Maybe cats and dogs would start living together. I shook my head.

I gathered up my things and made my way toward the Potomac Room, or at least I thought I was making my way there, but another annoying thing about this school was that the rooms didn't have room numbers. They had names. The Jefferson Room.
The Lincoln Room. The Avery Cafeteria. And just to make outsiders feel like outsiders, the names weren't even in alphabetical order. If anything, they seemed to be ordered by prominence, and you had to have at least a working knowledge of American history to guess which room was where. The Washington Room was the assembly hall, so I assumed the Potomac Room would be one of the smaller ones, since it was a river and not a hero of American history, but my first few tries turned out to be dead ends. By the time I finally found it, the teacher checking the detention roster was about to shut the door.

“Piper Baird!” I said. “Sorry, I got lost.”

“You're ten minutes late. I shouldn't admit you.”

My shoulders sagged. “Please. I have to get this over with today.”

He groaned and stood aside. There were about eight students there. I didn't know any of them, except a skinny girl with black hair and pale skin who I recognized from the journalism staff.

I sat next to her.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey,” she said without a smile.

“You're in journalism, right?”

“Video editor. And I do the graphics.”

“Whatcha in for?” I said.

She shrugged. “They found my ID locker.”

“ID locker?”

“I get people fake IDs. Run the business out of an empty
locker. I change its location periodically, but they usually find it. And then I get a week's detention.”

“You know how to make fake IDs?”

“My dad's in the CIA. He taught me everything he knows.”

“Wow,” I said. I didn't know anyone at Clarendon who had a fake ID.

She took in a deep breath. “It's a living. Most of my clients are the rich kids here.” She finally lifted her head up from her desk and looked at me. “You in the market? Three hundred.” Then she looked closer at my outfit. “Or I could give you a discount.”

“I barely have three hundred cents, let alone three hundred dollars.” Actually I had a few thousand dollars in savings, but I wouldn't waste any of it on a fake ID that could lead to real criminal charges. “Why aren't your clients in detention?”

She raised her eyebrows. “'Cause they're rich.” I was about to ask if she was on scholarship too, but she seemed to anticipate me. “I have a wealthy aunt. Gives me tuition money and nothing else. Not the same as a rich parent. I'm in a weird no-man's-land in this school.”

That was the second time today I'd heard that the difference between detention and freedom at Chiswick Academy was a powerful parent.

“I'm Piper Baird,” I said.

“Yeah, I heard. Mack Ripley.”

I stared at her for a moment. “That's, like, the best name ever.”

She sighed. “Lemme guess. You're an
Aliens
fan.”

“Yes! Favorite movie. Hands down.”

“I hear that a lot. Mostly from older people.” She shrugged and went back to carving her initials into the desk.

I spent the rest of detention making a list of possible story ideas that could win me the Bennington. If I had any hope of beating out people like Jesse, I would have to come up with brilliant stories, preferably not the kind that dealt with dates and times of water shutdowns.

I started to write down ideas that could put me over the edge—maybe human trafficking at the school? OxyContin-selling ring? Could Chiswick be a front for raising superspies?—but that was the thing about stories. It was hard to find them without some sort of inspiration, and inspiration was in short supply in the Potomac Room.

“What are you doing?” Mack said.

“Trying to come up with stories. I want to win that Bennington Scholarship.”

She kept her eyes on her desk. “Good luck with that.” She didn't sound very optimistic.

“You don't think there's a chance?”

She shrugged. “I've never seen someone who wasn't here all four years win it. But there's a first time for everything, right?”

We were quiet for a moment. A month ago, I would've thought getting into Chiswick was impossible. Now wasn't the time to start believing the odds.

I leaned toward her. “So what's it like to be a have-not among all these haves?”

She looked up from her carving. “This school has train tracks running right through the middle, and either you're on the right side or the wrong side.”

“How do you know which side you're on?”

She shrugged. “As if the blinged-out lockers aren't enough of a sign, every week, the people on the right side of the tracks get a text with a secret password and location for an exclusive party. They treat their parties like knowledge of the specific whereabouts is a matter of national security. You'll know you've made it if you get one of the texts.”

“Have you ever gotten a text?”

“Nope.” She sighed. “We go to the same classes. Have the same homework. Walk the same halls. And yet we live on different planets.”

I thought back to my encounter with Raf, and how he'd made such a big deal out of helping the “less fortunate.” He probably regretted momentarily crossing the train tracks.

That night at work, I tried to calmly tell Charlotte about my day, but I couldn't help ranting.

“There's marble everywhere, and the lockers look like apartments and cute boys drag strangers into bathrooms and tape cheerleaders to walls and want to make out with you for booze . . .”

Charlotte tilted her head. “I'm not following.”

“And then they give you detention.”

“You got detention?” Charlotte froze with a spoonful of chocolate chips over a medium vanilla cup.

“Yeah.”

“Was it research for a story?”

“No! It was actual detention.”

She stayed frozen.

The customer waiting for the yogurt cleared his throat. She finally dumped the chocolate chips on the yogurt and finished the order.

“So, any cute guys to report on?” Charlotte said.

“No. At least none in my price range.”

“Since when do guys have price ranges?” she asked as she rang up the customer.

“Since Chiswick.”

She gave the customer change, and he pocketed it instead of tipping. At least that meant we didn't have to sing.

The next day, I experienced my first lunch in the Chiswick cafeteria. And I say “experienced” because that's what it was. An experience.

The cafeteria was a swanky affair. Aged gouda and brie with sliced baguettes, crusted tilapia, roasted edamame and shiitake mushrooms, marinated and grilled asparagus topped with shaved Parmesan . . . My scholarship included the meal plan. Otherwise, I never would've been able to afford to eat like this.

The tables and chairs were actually made of wood. Not plastered with faux-wood laminate like at my old school.

I put some cheese and bread and tilapia on my plate and looked for a place to sit. Rafael Amador was at a large table full
of the shiniest people at the school. Had he already told them about my embarrassing first day? Probably. The girl sitting next to him looked as though she had just walked off the runway. The model kind, not the jet kind. I hadn't seen her yesterday. I would have remembered.

The entire group, with their manicures and sleek buns and designer handbags and bodyguards, screamed,
Go away.

Una was sitting with Julia and a few other people who I assumed were also scholarship students. They had the kind of look that would've blended in at Clarendon but stuck out at this place, which was filled with designer labels. Not a knock-off in sight. I started toward them, but then I spotted Mack sitting at a small table with a guy I didn't know. She gave me a kind of nod that I took for an invitation.

I walked over and put my tray down next to her and tilted my head toward Raf's table. “This school . . .”

“I know, right?” she said.

“Who's the girl next to Raf?”

“Giselle Bouchard.”

I nodded. “So she's not only gorgeous, she's also French.”

“Yep. If it makes you feel better, she sucks at math.”

I nodded. “That does make me feel a little better.”

She raised a celery stick in the air. “Piper, think of this school as a stepping-stone. You have to suffer through it, but it will get you where you want to go. By the way, this is Faroush.” She pointed the celery to the guy next to her. “Faroush, Piper.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

He simply nodded.

“Faroush isn't so much about the talking as he is about the staring off into space in an angsty way.”

Faroush smiled and softly punched her in the arm.

“And he's my boyfriend,” Mack said.

“Ah,” I said.

We ate for a few minutes in silence.

“So, where is Chiswick going to get you next year?” I asked.

“MIT,” she said. “I'm kind of a genius.”

I nodded as if I knew what that was like. “And what about you, Faroush?”

“I go where she goes.”

“That's commitment for you,” I said. “So, Faroush is an interesting name.”

“It's my last name.”

“What's your first name?”

“John.” He squinched his nose as if the name disgusted him.

We ate the rest of our lunches in silence. In literal silence. These people loved their silence.

Despite my hope for being promoted to scandal or tragedy, my first two weeks at Chiswick were full of fluff pieces like “Most Productive Study Techniques” and “Best Power Foods for the High School Student Brain,” and incredibly short on anything meaty.

The more I worked with Jesse and the rest of the staff, the more it confirmed my earlier suspicions that Jesse was, indeed, the front-runner for the Bennington Scholarship. He oversaw every editorial meeting, he had the final say as to content and assignments, and the way he convinced Professor Ferguson to run one of the weekly editions in color made me think he could sell beef Popsicles to a colony of vegans.

I'd hoped he'd see I was “earning my stripes,” but on my third Monday at Chiswick, he handed me yet another dry informational pamphlet, this one about security systems.

“The school is updating their security. One paragraph and a twenty-second voice-over, please.”

I tried not to roll my eyes as I opened the pamphlet. Another nothing piece.

After the meeting broke up, I went to the administration area to interview the principal about the new security systems. He welcomed me into his office.

“Miss Baird,” he said, holding his hand out. “Nice to meet you in person. How are you liking Chiswick?”

“It's good,” I said, omitting the fact that I'd received detention from the Beast on my first day. “I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about the new security system.”

“Of course,” he said. He leaned back in his chair and the leather squeaked.

I sat down and pulled out my notebook. “First off, why are you changing the old system?”

“It's always smart to keep everything updated.”

I nodded and scribbled notes. “And what does the security system entail? What equipment?”

“Well, the intercoms. The telephones. The camera feeds, et cetera.”

“And when was the last time you updated the system?”

“Um . . . uh . . .”

I looked up from my notepad.

“Last year.” He frowned.

We were both quiet for a moment.

“Last year?” I repeated, the scent of a story prickling at the back of my brain. “I'm all for keeping current, but is it typical to do it so often?”

He sighed and was suddenly very intrigued by the books on his bookcase. “We have a lot of generous donors. We can afford to be extra vigilant.”

“Vigilant? Is there a reason to be extra vigilant at Chiswick?”

“An administration should always be vigilant.”

I took a breath and tried to slow things down. “Right. So one last question.”

“Okay.”

“Do you change the system every single year? In the name of vigilance?”

He sniffed. “I don't know what you're implying, Miss Baird—”

“I'm not implying anything,” I said.

“The purpose of your story is to educate students about the new system.”

“Respectfully, sir, I disagree. The purpose of any story is the story.” That had sounded better in my head, but I hoped he got the gist.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I follow where the story takes me.”

He pressed his hands onto the top of the desk. “Look, Miss Baird. There is no story here. It's a simple system update. That's it.”

He stood and ushered me out the door, practically slamming it shut behind me.

“Oh, there's a story,” I said under my breath.

I glanced toward the receptionists in the office. One was on the phone. I walked up to the other. “Hi, Ms. Preece?” I read the name off her nameplate. “I'm Piper Baird. New girl. I just interviewed the principal about the new security system at the school. He said I could talk to you next. Would that be all right?”

She looked mildly unsure but didn't object.

I pulled out my notebook. “The principal told me the reasoning behind the change. What do you think? Will a new system solve the problems?” A good reporter acts like she knows more than she does.

Ms. Preece nodded as I spoke. “I don't know. Personally I feel a lot safer with the change, but I guess it's always possible someone could hack the new system.”

Hack?
I tried to keep my face calm as I took notes. There it was. The answer to my real question.

“I thought they caught the person,” I said, taking a chance.

She shook her head. “No. In fact, I'm surprised the principal told you about it, although I will say I'm glad. The students deserve to know.”

Right then, the Beast came out of an office next to the principal's, and I scooped up my bag and mumbled something to the secretary that resembled
Thank you for the help with my schedule.
Then I ran back to the newsroom and made a few phone calls to the new security company and then the local police departments and eventually confirmed that there was a case of stalking at Chiswick Academy, which had prompted the installation of the new system.

Finally, after weeks of slogging through fluff stories, I had a scoop.