Diplomatic Immunity (9 page)

The next morning, at the ass crack of dawn, I stood in front of my mirror assessing the situation. What does one wear to Mass? I'd opted for a black skirt, black tights, black mary-jane pumps, and a black T-shirt with a black cardigan over it. I looked so severe. But church was a serious thing, wasn't it? Eternal salvation was not to be taken lightly.

Michael stopped by my room. “Today's Saturday. Are we going to Costco?”

He and I liked to go to the warehouse stores to get the free food samples on the weekends.

“Not today, bud,” I said.

“But it's Saturday.”

“I know. I can't go today, though.”

He paused for a moment and looked like he wasn't sure what to do next.

“I'll go next week. Why don't you go get your list of swears and go over them with Mom and Dad.”

He nodded and walked away. I was glad the change in routine hadn't caused a storm.

On my way out of the house, I passed my mom and dad, who were in the kitchen having their morning cup of coffee.

“Off to a funeral?” my dad said, taking in my appearance.

“Nope. Mass.” I grabbed my car key off the hook by the door.

“Sounds great,” my mom said. “Except you know we're not Catholic, right?”

I blew them a kiss, and just before I went out the door, I glanced at a stack of small, rectangular papers peeking out of an envelope on a small table. The top of the papers read, “Food Coupon.”

Food stamps.

I left before I could process the discovery. Maybe they were for someone else. Some other family. Maybe they were free samples from the government. Maybe food elves had left them in the middle of the night.

By the time I got to Saint Ann's, I was resigned to the fact that no, the food stamps weren't meant for anyone else.

Except us.

Were we really in such dire straits?

Maybe I would ask my mom when I got home.

Maybe I wouldn't.

The cathedral was down the street from Chiswick, but the traffic was unexpected. I was five minutes late. The heavy wooden doors squeaked as I entered, making everyone already seated turn to stare at the person who'd dared show up late to Mass.

Ugh.
I waved my hand in an apologetic way and quickly scanned the crowd for Raf and Giselle. When I finally saw the backs of their heads, I sighed. They were dead center in the front row. A girl with red hair was next to Giselle. It was probably Katie.

All at once, the congregation opened hymnals and stood to sing, following the music leader, who had to be at least a hundred and ten. I walked as quietly as I could up the aisle, but my blasted mary janes echoed off the stone walls with each step.

Heads turned as I passed by. Basically the only way I could've attracted more attention would be if I were a bride walking down the aisle.

Once I was seated, Raf leaned over and said, “Quite the entrance there, Pip. Wasn't the marching band available to accompany you?”

“Shut up,” I said.

The singing ended and everyone sat down to listen to the sermon.

Father Mannion, bespectacled and wrinkled, droned on and
on about the evils that tempt us as teenagers, and after twenty minutes of his monotone, I started to drift. My last thought before dozing was wondering if research for my story was really worth enduring Mass.

A sharp elbow in my arm woke me.

“You were snoring,” Raf said.

“I don't snore,” I muttered.

Katie leaned over. “You have the most delicate snore,” she said with a grin.

Raf cough-laughed.

“Why did you wake me up?” I said.

“You were about to miss the best part,” he said.

“How can anything beat that sermon?”

He didn't answer as a line of altar boys dressed all in white filed in, the last one carrying a chain with a silver ball attached at the end. Smoke escaped through vents inside the ball and swirled above the boy's head. I recognized him. It was Gabriel Martínez, the son of an Argentinian diplomat.

He swung the smoking ball back and forth, and as he passed the front row, our row, he arced the ball perilously close to our faces.

I flinched away. Why hadn't anyone warned me church was dangerous? Were you considered more faithful if you didn't flinch?

I was about to comment on it when a familiar odor reached my nose. I'd smelled it only once before, and that was at a bluegrass festival my mom took me to.

“Breathe it in, Pip,” Raf said.

The odor seemed to be emanating from the silver ball.

“Is that . . . is that . . .” I sniffed in what I'm sure was a most unattractive way. “Pot?”

“It is something of the cannabis family, that is certain,” Raf said. “Gabriel has a greenhouse in his basement.”

Giselle and Franco, who were on the other side of Katie, leaned forward in their seats, inhaling as much as they could. After a while, Giselle let her head fall onto Raf's shoulder. Gabriel walked back and forth in front of us, his face a solemn mask, never betraying the fact that the holy incense burning inside his silver ball was not, in fact, incense.

Father Mannion looked on with a faint smile of approval. Was he high?

“Did I mention that Father Mannion lost his sense of smell due to nasal polyps?” Raf said.

My mouth hung open.

“Close your mouth, Pip. Inhale.”

“But I've never smoked pot,” I whispered, turning my head to see if anyone of the police variety was coming down the aisle.

“And you still haven't. You've only inhaled.”

Pot in the church. Now I could see why no one missed Mass. But how was it that no one had gotten caught, either?

As if I'd asked the question out loud, Raf leaned over and said, “Gabriel's dad has a good relationship with church security. It's part of his distribution network.”

Distribution network? Those were charged words. Those were words around which a reporter could frame a story. Those were words rarely spoken on the record. That was the tricky thing about reporting. Unless you say “off the record” before the interview, anything is fair game. Normal people didn't know that.

But I did.

In the stained glass interior of a cathedral, I'd found my first possible headline.

CANNABIS IN MASS . . . HOW DID ARGENTINIAN DIPLOMAT CONVINCE POLICE TO TURN THE OTHER WAY?

It was a headline, to be sure. But not enough for the kind of exposé I needed. Not only that, it was obvious Raf seemed to trust me enough that “off the record” went without saying. But it didn't.

When Mass was over and we were all outside, a handsome couple was waiting. “Gigi,” the woman called out, waving to Giselle. It must've been her mom, but she looked too young. Giselle took Raf's hand.

“See you around, Pip,” he said.

“Oh. Are you guys all going home? For . . . the day? And night?”

He shrugged. “Not sure. But we'll catch up Monday, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Are you good to drive?”

“Yeah. I don't feel anything.”

He smirked. “You might want to take a little walk anyway. See you later.”

I tried to mask my disappointment. As I walked away, I wobbled a bit. I grabbed the bag at my shoulder, as if it would steady me.

The pot had affected me more than I'd thought.

Raf and Giselle waved as I left.

I was disappointed on an investigative reporter front, but I sensed I was also disappointed in other ways. Ways I could feel inside my chest, just underneath my ribs. Ways that had to do with Giselle's perfect face. So instead of letting myself explore those feelings (because every good reporter knows there's no room for those kinds of feelings, those ones you feel in your chest under your ribs), I sat down on one of the benches lining the sidewalk and texted Charlotte.

Me:
Guess what? Pot in the incense balls at Mass!

Charlotte texted back immediately.

Charlotte:
Is that a euphemism?

I rolled my eyes.

Me:
No! I went to Mass. There was pot in the little silver ball thingies they swing around!

Charlotte:
You went to Mass??

Me:
How is that the bigger question?

Just then, I caught Raf walking alone out of the corner of my eye. I looked up. Maybe now was my chance.

Me:
brb

“Hey, Raf! 'Sup?” It came out loud and clumsy.

Raf stopped and smiled. “What did you think of Mass?”

His smile was sort of brilliant, and my breath caught a little in my throat. “It was interesting, to say the least.”

“Mass isn't normally held on Saturday mornings, but Father Mannion knows none of us would show up on Saturday night. He likes to feel hip and brag about catering to the younger crowd.”

“Apparently,” I said.

Probably because of the pot, Raf seemed a little floaty. And slightly blurry around the edges. And a little distorted.

“But still beautiful,” I said, finishing the conversation I'd been having in my head.

“Huh?” Raf said.

“Oh, um . . . Mass. It was beautiful.”

“Okay.” He glanced at the ground and his hair did that perfect thing where it fell across his perfect eyes perfectly. I could see why he got in trouble with so many girls. If I were into perfect floppy hair, I would probably be affected by the floppage. But I wasn't. Because I knew this was the pot talking. It was replacing Raf's annoying habits with attractive ones, because pot can do that. This is why pot was dangerous. Pot made you irrational.

“So can I borrow your phone, or what?” I said.

He raised his eyebrows, as if the question was unexpected.
“Weren't you just texting on your own phone?”

He'd been watching. I scrambled. “I was, but then it ran out of all the batteries.” Yes, it was a lie, but not a bad lie, because it was in pursuit of a story.

Raf looked wary, but took his phone out of his pocket and handed it to me.

Now what? How was I supposed to find the password with him looking over my shoulder?

“Um, could you give me a little privacy?” I said. Raf didn't move. “I need to text my brother about our upcoming Scrabble game.”

He looked to be suppressing a smile but turned away.

His phone was like mine, so it was easy to find the text messages. Once I did, I scrolled down past all the Giselles (okay, there was just the one Giselle, but she'd sent lots of texts, and maybe I clicked on one of them for a second) to a text sent to a group. It said:

SPAIN 15-11

Luchar contra el hombre

15-11. In America, that was 11/15. November 15th. That was next Saturday.

“Ha!” I said.

“What?” Raf said.

“I . . . just beat solitaire. Thank you.” I handed him back his phone and left him to go for a long walk. Because I really shouldn't drive in my condition.

That night I told Charlotte about my detective work, and she came right over with some “educational material,” which consisted of a flash drive of clips from Christiane Amanpour making the Taliban talk and Joyce Latroy making dictators cry.

“You see how they use empathy as a tool?” she'd say.

“Look how she lets the silence fill the room,” she'd say.

“Nobody acts desperate,” she'd say.

“See how she tries to analyze the subject's behavior? That's a good opening. Everyone loves to be analyzed.”

When we were done studying, we decided to visit the Post-Anon site.

“Ooh,” Charlotte said, pointing to a poem titled
I Lost You.
I clicked on it and read.

I am ugly without you to tell me I'm pretty

I am lost without your hand on my back

I am drowning in all of this space you now give me

I would do anything to get you back

“Love sucks,” Charlotte said.

“I couldn't agree more.”

Around one in the morning, we fell asleep to the dulcet tones of the twenty-four-hour news channel.

The following Monday, I felt a little bad about my deception, but I had more digging to do.

Bob Woodward always said, “You get the truth at night, and lies during the day.” And he broke Watergate, so he knew what he was talking about.

That's why I stole the code off Raf's phone. So I could find the truth at night. At a DI party.

When I got to Professor Wing's class, Raf saw me and smiled, and I swear somehow he'd gotten cuter since Saturday. He didn't annoy me as much as he used to, and that realization annoyed me.

I sat down next to him. “Scale any monuments lately?”

“Nope,” he said. “But as soon as this heals”—he pointed to his brace—“I have plans for the Washington Monument.”

“Because it's there?” I said.

“Naturally,” he said.

“You know, there are professionals who can help you curb your appetite for seeking thrills.”

“Why would anyone want to do that?”

I shrugged. “Survival? No broken bones?”

“That doesn't sound like living.”

I shook my head and decided to try out Charlotte's advice about analysis. “I have a theory about you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I'm flattered you've given me so much thought. What's your theory?”

“I think you do stupid stuff so you can feel.”

He scratched his head. “Feel what?”

“I don't know yet.”

He nodded. “It's not a very well-formed theory yet, is it?”

Professor Wing closed the door as the bell to begin class rang, and we didn't get a chance to continue.

The next day, in chemistry, Professor Ferron was demonstrating what happens when sodium reacts with water. Raf and I were sitting in the front row of desks (his choice). And I was madly taking notes.

Raf wouldn't need to borrow these notes. He was really good at chemistry, and he kept everything in his head. But he needed my help for the finagling of doohickies during labs. Not that my
finger dexterity was something to write home about, but it was marginally better than that of a guy with a brace on his wrist.

Then again, who would ever write home about finger dexterity anyway? That was why it was important to steer clear of clichés, because what would the letter look like?

Dear Mom,

I met this boy who can pick up a single grain of sand between his thumb and forefinger! Dexterity!

Love, Piper

Dear Piper,

Marry that boy!

Love—

“What kind of notes are those?” Raf was reading over my shoulder. I'd started absentmindedly doodling the “letters to home” on my paper.

I swept the paper off my desk and got a fresh one out. “Nothing. Just practicing my shorthand.”

The crack of an explosion came from the front of the classroom. Professor Ferron had taken a tiny piece of sodium and dropped it in a petri dish of water. The class clapped unenthusiastically and ironically, and Professor Ferron took a bow. I liked Professor Ferron. He was simultaneously obsessed and unimpressed with science.

A knock came at the door, and the school secretary poked her head in, motioning for Professor Ferron. As he was momentarily preoccupied with whatever news she'd come to deliver, Raf leaned over toward me.

“Tell me, Pip,” he said, “do you think I can make it rain?”

“What?”

“Shall I make it rain?”

I rolled my eyes. “I know you think you can do anything, Rafael Amador, but I highly doubt you can control the skies.”

“Not the skies.” With the flick of his wrist, he took his water bottle and threw the water on the slightly larger lump of sodium on Professor Ferron's desk.

I jumped out of my chair as a flash of light, much brighter and louder than the first, exploded.

Professor Ferron lunged from the doorway and threw a handful of sand onto his desk, and the bright light and crackling explosions stopped.

The entire classroom heaved a sigh of relief.

Then the fire alarm went off—much later than I would've considered safe. Maybe that could be my next exposé: “Why the Alarms Are Delayed at Chiswick Academy.” And then the sprinklers on the ceiling turned on. Streams of water pelted the desks.

Giselle held her backpack over her head. I wanted to tell her not to bother, because even with makeup streaming down her face, she still looked great. Other students would start wearing
makeup streaming down their faces just to look as gorgeous as Giselle in this downpour.

The students rushed toward the door, and I realized that I wasn't as wet as I should've been. Raf had been holding his folder above my head.

“And you thought I couldn't make it rain,” he whispered.