Diplomatic Immunity (14 page)

Christmas break came and Raf had yet to speak to me. I tried not to worry that I had lost my source.

I spent my break taking on extra shifts at the Yogurt Shop. I lost my voice due to all the singing of “Have a Very Dairy Christmas,” but my calves were becoming more defined from all the dancing. (I found that our tips increased with dancing.)

Gramma Weeza brought her plumber to Christmas dinner. Her face glowed the entire night, and when the plumber fixed a leaky faucet in the bathroom, my parents' faces glowed too.

I didn't ask them about the money situation. I figured it wasn't the right time, considering it was the holidays. But I left small bills on the kitchen counter and in the junk drawer so my
mom would find them without suspecting me. It was hardly anything.

Jesse still had us covering stories during the break, although my most exciting assignment was a snowplow ride-along. I was beginning to think that I would've had a better chance at a college scholarship if I had stayed at my old school, but I didn't let myself think it for very long. Chiswick was a privilege.

On my last night of working at the Yogurt Shop before the end of break, an older man with two young kids tipped me ten dollars and requested the song, “I Will Survive.”

I started singing, and halfway through the chorus the door to the shop opened and a familiar face walked through. It was Samuel. The son of the secretary of state, Samuel.

I faltered a bit in my singing, and then kept going because . . . tips.

When I finished, the grandpa and his two little ones clapped. And then Samuel clapped. I served the grandpa and the kids.

“Hi,” Samuel said.

“Hi.” I was a little out of breath. I hadn't seen him since the party.

“You work here?”

I smiled. “No, why?”

He laughed. “That's cool. I thought about getting a job like this.”

“Why don't you?”

He went quiet for a moment. “I don't know.”

I nodded.
Because you have money.

“How did you find me?”

“I asked around. I didn't get your number at the party, so I had to do some detective work. “

I nodded.

“So . . . can I have your number now?”

I squinted. “For what?”

“As in to text, maybe even call?”

“What for?”

He smiled as if his words weren't getting through. “For to get to know you. Maybe take you out.”

“Okay,” I said, waiting for a catch. Apparently, there wasn't one.

I gave Samuel my number, and he plugged it into his phone. I didn't know if he would ever text me. Part of me really wanted him to. Part of me also thought he might be another glimpse into the life of the privileged elite, even though he didn't have the elusive diplomatic immunity card.

When I got home from my shift that night, I checked my phone for anything new.

There was nothing.

When I started back at school, not much had changed except the number of brand-new cars in the parking lot (because that's what Santa brings the rich) and the fact that Mack and Faroush had broken up—though they still sat together at lunch.

And I sat with them.

In awkward silence.

“So, who broke up with who?” I finally said.

“I did,” Mack said.

Faroush nodded.

“Ah,” I said.

More silence. I glanced around and caught Raf looking at me. I waved. He didn't wave back. So some things had remained the same.

Enough was enough. We were, by most definitions of the word, friends. I'd been to his house. We'd played Scrabble with our brothers. He was being rude.

I picked up the remnants of my lunch, threw them away, and marched over to his table.

He seemed aware I was coming but kept his eyes on his food.

“Raf, can I talk to you?”

Giselle looked from me to Raf and then to me again.

Raf finally glanced up.

“It will just take a minute,” I said.

He shrugged and then stood up and followed me out of the cafeteria.

“What's up, Piper?” he said.

“It's Pip. And I think you know what's up. Why are you being so rude?”

His shoulders sagged a bit. “You think I'm being rude?”

“Yes. By every definition of the word. And I've researched every definition.”

He nodded. “I am. Being rude. Aren't I?”

“Yes. Is this how you treat friends in Spain? I mean, we were friends, weren't we?”

He sighed and leaned back against a row of lockers. “Yes, Pip.”

“Then why are you being this way?”

He closed his eyes. “You wouldn't understand.”

“Try me.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“Let me guess,” I said. “You have a dad who would prefer you stick to your own kind.”

“My own kind?”

“The rich.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “My dad is from a different generation. A different century. And he can be scary.”

“But he knows you're with Giselle. So what does it matter who your friends are?”

“My dad has control in all areas of my life. He'd say my friends now will determine my connections later.”

“And you can't be connected to the likes of me?” I got a little pit in my stomach. “Look, it's fine. You don't have to be friends with me.” In fact, it was better for the story if he wasn't. “But if you could at least be courteous—”

“I'm sorry. You deserve more courtesy.”

“Thanks.”

I walked away, feeling more than a little confused. Obviously, my friendship wasn't important enough for him to fight for. I guess it shouldn't have been surprising, since he had hundreds of friends.

But why did that hurt so much?

The silent treatment continued through the end of January. Which was fine. It was the incentive I needed to keep writing my story.

And yet, I started to feel something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Lonely.

I was lonely at Chiswick. Mack and Faroush helped a bit, but they were so quiet, and I didn't have the same closeness with them that I had with Charlotte.

By the time February rolled around, silence between me and Raf was the norm. But then, one Friday night, everything changed. It was late, and I was in my bed, starting to doze, when a scratching noise came from my window. The wind must have been blowing hard, making the branches outside hit against the glass.

It got louder and louder and suddenly turned into a knock.

I put my hand over my heart. Someone was outside my window. I was on the second floor. Maybe they climbed the tree?

I couldn't see outside, since it was dark and my light was
on. Without acknowledging the person at my window—
I know you're there, but I'm going to pretend I don't
—I slowly rose and crept to the light switch and flipped it off.

The silhouette of a head appeared at the glass. I clamped my hand down over my mouth to keep from screaming. Then I thought,
Why the hell
shouldn't
I scream?
but before that message reached the muscles in my mouth, I heard a muffled voice through the glass.

“Pip! It's me. Raf.”

What?
What?
Rafael Amador was outside my window. Did that still warrant a scream?

I decided no, that didn't warrant a scream. But it did warrant a walk of indignation across my room and some strong words.

I threw open the window.

“What the hell, Raf? You scared the crap out of me! You could've fallen again!”

He smiled. “What is it with Americans and their reluctance to use the hard words?”

“What hard words?”

“Shit, damn, fuck.”

“Fine. You scared the damn out of me.”

He smiled.

“My word choice is not the issue right now. This”—I gestured wildly at him—“is the issue. It's the middle of the night.”

Raf looked at his watch. “Hardly. Judging by the fact that you probably go to sleep at ten thirty on a regular school night, and right now it is twelve thirty, it's not the middle. More like the first third.”

I rolled up a magazine that had been sitting on the bench of my window seat and bopped him on the head.

“Focus. You are here at my bedroom window. At twelve thirty. Why are you here? You're not even supposed to be speaking to me.”

Raf looked right and then left. “I need a favor. And because we're not speaking, you're the only one who can help me.”

“I find that hard to believe. You have a billion friends, all of whom are much richer than myself. And you haven't spoken a word to me in months. Why would you need my help?”

“My security detail knows exactly who my friends are. And all my friends have diplomatic plates on their cars.”

“Isn't that beneficial?”

“For where we're going, no, it is not. What would be most beneficial is a piece-of-shit Toyota.”

“It's not shitty. It's old.”

“Please,” he said.

I sighed, weighing my options.

“You didn't talk to me. For months,” I said.

“I know. I'm still asking for your help.” He looked slightly desperate.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Yes, Raf was dangerous, but he was
also a story. And the truth comes out at night. Maybe this was my chance.

“I'll be right out.”

My Toyota was parked on the street, which would make it easier to drive away without anyone noticing. I unlocked the doors and Raf slipped into the front seat with the stealth of a Navy SEAL.

“Is your license current?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, it's current. Why wouldn't it be?”

“It's just that most Chiswick students don't have one.”

“Right. Why would you need licenses? Licenses are for ordinary folk, and you, by gosh, are anything but—”

“For God's sake, Pip, just drive!”

I pulled out into the road and headed toward DC.

“Where are we going?”

“Jake's on M.”

The only thing I knew about Jake's on M was that it was a bar. “And what are we doing at Jake's on M?”

Raf stared out of the passenger-side window. “I don't know how long we have until my security guy finds me. Will you just take me there, please?”

“Why didn't you call a cab?”

“Because with cabs, or car services, or even buses and the metro, there are paper trails.”

I automatically glanced into the rearview mirror. “Paper trails? I have to admit, I've never given paper trails a second thought.”

We were approaching M Street, and Raf looked as though he hadn't heard a word I'd said.

“Turn right on M.”

I put my turn signal on and followed his direction.

“You see where that neon Wild Turkey sign is?”

I nodded. You couldn't miss it. The
I
in the sign was burned out, and so it looked like it said “Wld Turkey.”

“Drop me off at the front. Then drive around back and wait for me there.”

I nodded. Rationally, I knew why I was following this boy and his crazy directions. It was for the story. But there was something else going on for me, and considering that he was with Giselle, it made me want to run in the other direction.

But Christiane Amanpour would never run in the other direction from the Taliban just because of a girlfriend. I wasn't about to let thoughts of Giselle get in the way tonight.

“Wasn't Giselle available?”
Oops.
Okay, from here on out, I wouldn't let thoughts of Giselle get in the way.

“Giselle's would be the first place they looked. But they all know I don't have contact with you anymore.”

I made some sort of hmph noise that was supposed to sound like an agreement but instead sounded vaguely judgy, even to my own ears.

I pulled up in front of the “Wld Turkey” sign.

“I'll try to be quick,” Raf said.

“I'll try not to chicken out.”

He smiled. “Thank you.”

He got out and slipped in through the front door, bypassing the line of people waiting to get in, as if he were a VIP. But then again, he was Rafael Amador, son of the Spanish ambassador, hot troublemaker and paparazzi bait.

Once he was out of the car, I pulled around back and waited.

The back door stayed shut for what seemed like a long time. I had visions of Raf running out, dodging police bullets as he went.
If guns go off, I'm out of here.
I was pretty sure the AP handbook didn't cover scenarios like this, but if it did, it would probably say “run
.
”

I waited. And waited. And I kept thinking the doorknob was turning. I squinted to see clearly, but the door never opened.

I closed my eyes and sighed. What was I doing? Waiting in some dark alley for someone to come through a metal door with a turkey on it? All because a cute boy asked me to?

Why did I keep returning to the hotness factor? Yes, he was cute. That fact was undeniable and nonnegotiable.

“Cute” probably didn't even begin to cover it. Handsome. Gorgeous. With brilliant eyes. And don't get me started on the eyelashes. Is that how they grow eyelashes in Spain? Like, if his nose touched mine, and he tilted his head just so, his eyelashes would probably tickle my cheek.

What the what.

I took a hand and slapped my cheek.

“Snap out of it, Piper!” I pinched the inch of skin between
the corner of my lip and my cheekbone, because: What. Was. Wrong. With. Me?

I turned back to the door. Maybe Raf had started another fight here, and it had gotten out of hand, and maybe he would fly out of the door followed by hordes of angry guys . . .

And then maybe we would take off and drive west and run away together.

I pinched my cheek again, so hard that it brought a little tear to my eye, and that was when I saw the door open. Raf was helping someone walk. I took out my phone and snapped a quick picture.

It took me a few seconds to realize that Raf was hoisting the limp body of his brother.

“Is that . . . is that Alejandro?”

Raf nodded abruptly. “Can you open the door?”

I didn't realize the doors were locked. I pushed the “unlock” button, and Raf and Alejandro fell into the backseat in one motion.

I put the car in drive.

“Where do you want me to go?” I said.

To my surprise, Raf didn't stay inside. Instead, he got back out of the car and shut the door.

“Can you take him to your house for a little while?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“I have to take care of one more thing.”

He turned to walk away.

“Wait. I don't feel comfortable leaving you here on your own.”

He didn't turn around immediately, but there seemed to be a release of tension in his shoulders and his back.

“I'll be okay. Alejandro is safe. That's all I care about.” He looked over his shoulder at me. “Promise me you'll take care of him.”

I didn't know what exactly he was asking of me. Was I covering something up? Lying for him? Was I a pawn in some sort of game he was playing?

At that moment, it didn't matter. I wasn't about to leave Alejandro in a heap on the street.

“You have my word.”

Raf turned to go back inside the “Wld Turkey” place, and that's when I noticed a woman dressed in barely there glittery material holding the steel door open for him. As he walked in, she put her arm around him. She was hot. She was probably college age. She'd probably never set foot in a college.

“Shit,” I said.