Diplomatic Immunity (23 page)

I didn't get the Bennington.

But I did get a scholarship to the University of Maryland, College Park, thanks in part to the letter of recommendation Professor Ferguson sent.

. . . Piper Baird was one of the brightest and most difficult students I've ever had, but what she lacks in manageability she makes up for in resourcefulness. You'd be a fool not to pay for her to come to your school. . . .

The scholarship paid for everything including room and board. And the best part about it was that Charlotte would be
going there too. She didn't have a scholarship, but it was a top-ten program and her parents could afford to help her. They even talked about renting a room for her near campus.

Late April brought the annual National Cherry Blossom Festival. The tradition commemorates the gift of three thousand cherry trees from Japan to Washington, DC. When they bloom, they blanket the perimeter of the tidal basin next to the Jefferson Memorial in a layer of pink. It was late this year, due to an unseasonably cold winter that seemed interminable.

On the morning of the middle Saturday of the festival, Charlotte texted me.

Charlotte:
Hey! Want to meet at the Jefferson Memorial at noon?

The memorial was at the center of the cherry blossoms.

Me:
Sure! Want to ride together? We can save on gas.

Charlotte:
I can't. I'm going to be in DC beforehand.

Me:
Why?

It took a few moments longer than usual to get a response.

Charlotte:
Shopping. For college stuff. Lamps.

The answer seemed too detailed, but I shrugged it off.

Me:
Okay. See you at noon.

Before I left, I opened my laptop and put together a little postcard collage made of various pictures of the Spanish flag, and I typed the words I'M SORRY over the top. Then I sent it in to Post-Anon.

It was the thirty-fifth
I'm Sorry
I had sent since my first
message. Only two had been published on the site. The rest ignored. The people at Post-Anon were probably tired of receiving them.

I didn't know why I was doing it anymore. I guess I hoped that one day my apology would reach him.

Michael popped into my room as I was shutting my laptop.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“An exercise in futility,” I replied.

“I hate exercise.”

I chuckled.

I took the metro to the Smithsonian station, the closest to the Jefferson Memorial but still a fifteen-minute walk. It was actually a gorgeous day to walk and contemplate the meaning of life and how I'd already screwed something up so bad. Did other people my age have this much regret?

Maybe. But right now, I felt alone in the weight of it.

The wind picked up, and pink cherry blossom leaves floated and danced above my head. One of the things that make cherry blossoms so beautiful is the fact that they're so ephemoral. They bloom all at once, and then just when you're growing accustomed to the Tidal Basin being blanketed in brilliant pink, they're gone.

I was not about to make it a metaphor for life, or disappointment, or missing someone. That would be such a cliché, and reporters . . .

Who was I kidding? I wasn't a reporter. Yet.

I got to the steps at 12:05, but there was no Charlotte.

Just as I sat down, my phone rang. The number was one I didn't recognize. I swiped it open.

“Hello?” I said.

There was a pause.

“Hello?” I said again.

“Did you mean it?”

It was Raf's voice. His smooth rich voice. I'd know it anywhere. I bit my lip and put my hand over my heart to keep it from bursting through my lungs.

“Did I mean what?”

“What you wrote.”

I shook my head even though I knew he couldn't see me. “No. I didn't mean it. I should never have written it. I am so sorry. I thought about all the things I would say to you if I ever got to speak to you again, but now they just all seem so trite and inadequate. I was stupid. So stupid. Seriously, dumb as dirt. And . . . did I say stupid?” My voice trailed off.

“Keep going,” he said.

“So so stupid. I just . . . Ever since I was twelve I've been obsessed with how to pay for college, and I got it in my head that this was the only way. The tips I make at the Yogurt Shop are nothing. I was desperate.”

He was quiet on the other end for a few long moments.

“Okay, maybe that sounds like too much of an excuse. I'm sorry.”

Quiet again.

“I wish you were here,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I'm looking at the prettiest cherry blossoms we've had in years. Seriously, they look like a nuclear bomb went off, only instead of fire and destruction, there . . . are . . . blossoms.”

“Yeah, not the best analogy, is it?”

“No, it isn't.”

He was quiet again, and I wanted to reach through the phone and touch his face.

“Where are you?” I said.

“I can't tell you.”

“Oh,” I said. He still didn't trust me. And rightly so.

“I miss you, Pip.”

The words. The words. I'd let myself go so long without hoping I would ever hear them.

“Does that mean . . . you forgive me?”

He didn't answer for a long time. Hours.

“Yes,” he said.

I blinked and a tiny tear fell down my cheek. “A fat lot of good that does, now that you're half a world away.”

“At least you know I'm not out there somewhere in the world hating you.”

My breath caught. “What?”

“I'm not out there in the world hating you.”

Not out there in the world hating me.
I'd written those words in my Post-Anon essay.

“So, did you mean what you wrote?” he said.

“You're not talking about the
People
article, are you?”

“No.”

A couple more tears followed that first one, and I wiped my cheek with the palm of my hand.

“Don't cry, Pip.”

“What? How do you know . . . ?” I looked left and right but didn't see anything.

“Your friend Charlotte sent me to the Post-Anon site. My dad filtered emails from you, but not from her.”

I started down the stairs, desperately searching the throngs of people for that face. His face. Where was he?

“You said you loved me,” he said. “Is that true?”

I fought my way through the crowd, going against traffic toward the cherry blossoms.

“Warmer,” he said.

I smiled and scanned the crowds.

“Warmer,” he said.

I was about ready to grab people and turn them around and then I saw him leaning against a tree, his phone up to his ear and a huge smile on his face.

I ran to him and he picked me up and kissed my face all over and I kissed his face off. Clean off.

“So you stayed with your uncle and finished your credits in Spain.” We were lying on the grass, looking up at the blossoms that seemed to outnumber the stars in the sky, my head on Raf's belly. Where it belonged. Though not all the time, because that would be weird.

But it was where it belonged at this moment.

“Yep,” Raf said. “And I learned to make the family sangria.”

Fritz stood nearby, pretending not to notice our flagrant display of affection.

Raf told me that after the article came out, it was the last straw for his father, and he sent him to Andalusia immediately to live with his uncle and be homeschooled for the rest of the year. He took away his phone and restricted his internet access.

“But you must've been able to get on a computer somehow,” I said.

His chest rose and fell. “Yes. But I couldn't bring myself to contact you.”

I nodded. “I understand.”

“But then last week, I got an email from your friend Charlotte, and she told me everything that had happened and then she sent me to the Post-Anon site.”

“I didn't even know she'd seen the post,” I said. “I didn't tell her about it.”

“Well, your friend seems to know you very well.” A soft breeze
shook some blossoms loose, and they fell around us like falling stars. “Anyway, I read it, and I knew it was you, and afterward all I could think about was getting to you. Taking away at least one of your what-ifs.”

I took his hand and put it on my stomach and felt his fingers and his knuckles and compared their lines with the ones in my memory. It all fit.

“What did your dad say?”

“Oh, he forbade me to come back.”

“It's because I'm poor, right?”

He nodded. “Absolutely.”

“So how did you get back?”

“Plane. And a cashier's check with my trust fund.”

I shoved him softly and nestled closer. “Your parents disapprove because I'm poor. My parents will most likely disapprove because they read my article about you and all your shenanigans. And in the fall, I'll be going to the University of Maryland, and who knows where you'll be?”

“The University of Maryland.”

“What?” I sat up and looked at him. His arms were bent, his hands under his head. He had this smile, and he was beautiful.

“They have a great chemistry department,” he said.

“No! You're kidding me, right? Wait. Is that too sudden?”

“It's a college choice. Not a marriage proposal.”

“So, you want the milk for free without buying the cow?”

He turned toward me and raised an eyebrow.

“It's an expression. A stupid . . . anyway, if we're on the same campus and this ends disastrously, and one of us has to dump me, or you, it will be very awkward—”

He stopped me with his lips. I didn't object.

So many people to thank. So so many.

First off, to my amazing editor, Kristin Daly Rens. We sure went through the wringer on this one, didn't we? Or is it “ringer”? Was that question mark supposed to go inside or outside the quotation mark?
Does this acknowledgment feel flat? Could cut?
Yes, but what are your FEELINGS??

To Kristin's assistant, Kelsey Murphy, and to the amazing copyediting team. So many comments to input. So many discrepancies to correct. I don't know the color of my characters' clothes, but you do! And how on earth did you calculate the passage of days to figure out when Thanksgiving was?

To Alessandra Balzer and Donna Bray, for making me feel so at home.

To my agent, Michael Bourret. Seriously, did you think I'd ever be done with this &$%^$%$#ing book? Say yes. Because I need you to say yes. But I don't want to be needy. Because I'm not one of
those
authors who call their agents and dump all their emotional baggage. *Pulls up couch* But I remember it like it was yesterday, and I was all, “How about a book about diplomatic immunity? That should be easy. . . . And I'd especially like it if you could read my mind, and know what I'm thinking so I don't have to communicate. Got it?”

And to Lauren and Erin and the rest of the team at DGLM: high fives! *slaps on the bums*

To my poker group, all of whom have names in this book: I'm going to take your money. So, thank you.

To my family, especially my mom, who never wavers in her love and support, and my boys who can't seem to find the toilet with a map, thank you thank you thank you for being the best parts of my life. And to Sam, the best coparent a gal could ask for. And to Michael, who is my mom's new boyfriend. I'm so sure things will work out that I'm putting his name in a book. No pressure.

And to Mark Pett, who one day said to me, “I have this idea for a book about kids with diplomatic immunity who get away with everything.” And then the next day, I took that idea and
sold that book. Thank you for the inspiration and help, but I will never publicly admit the idea was yours in the first place. Taking that secret to the grave.