Diplomatic Immunity

by Brodi Ashton

  I rolled my eyes and nodded. He didn’t look foreign, but he sure didn’t understand English very well.

  “I’m Samuel. Why did you take my drink?”

  “Well, Samuel, if that really is your name—”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t that be my name?”

  “You tell me.”

  He didn’t.

  “As I was saying, Samuel, it’s not technically your drink until you ingest it. Before then, I believe it’s anyone’s drink.”

  He smiled. “That’s very philosophical of you.”

  “I philosophize often. You don’t go to Chiswick.”

  “Huh?”

  Seriously, what was this guy’s deal with plain English?

  “You. Don’t. Go. To. Chiswick. It’s a simple question.”

  This time he seemed to be suppressing a laugh. “Sorry. You just change subjects so quickly. And technically, it’s not a question. But you’re right, I don’t go to Chiswick. I go to Sidwell.”

  I took another drink and turned to the dance floor, where Giselle and Raf were dancing super close. Raf looked over at me and smiled, and then did this double-take thing as he seemed to register that Samuel and I were talking.

  I turned to Samuel. “The president’s kids go to Sidwell!”

  He nodded and looked at me as if I was stating the obvious. “Yeah. How do you know Rafael?”

  “See that brace on his wrist?”

  Samuel nodded.

  “I did that.” I made two fists, put them together, and then twisted them apart. “Snap. Care to dance?”

  “Um, I think I’m going to go over there.” He motioned to the opposite side of the great room.

  “What’s over there?”

  “People. Other people.”

  “Don’t be silly. Come dance.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him to the dance floor.

  Samuel shouted something from behind me, but it was muffled. Something about how I should be careful with his wrists?

  It was at that moment that I remembered I was supposed to be a reporter. What better way to observe than by blending in on the dance floor?

  Raf looked at me and smiled and then looked at Samuel and did that boy-greeting thing where he flicked his head upward once. Hey, dude. ’Sup?

  Samuel did it back. Not much, dude.

  I always added commentary in my head when guys were being guys.

  The good thing about a distinct techno beat is that it kind of dictates how a person is supposed to move on the dance floor. I’d never felt very comfortable dancing, but tonight it was like the music had penetrated my bones, and my mind was somewhere else as my body just danced.

  I raised my arms and swung my hips and Samuel was facing me and he was a lot cuter than I’d originally thought, mostly because I hadn’t gotten a good look at his face until now. But he was. Cute. And his shoulders were broad.

  “You okay?” Samuel said.

  I realized I wasn’t moving anymore. I was frozen. And staring at Samuel while I studied him. I shrugged.

  “You’re just cuter than I’d originally thought.” I shouted the words. Loud. At what seemed to be the quietest (relatively) part of the song.

  The people around us glanced our way. Raf stared for a long moment. He didn’t smile.

  I felt I had to explain myself.

  So I said to Raf, super loud, “It’s only because I didn’t get a good look at him before. I didn’t mean it rudely. If there were better lighting over in that corner over there where we were, I would’ve noticed.”

  Were my words slurring together? When I said “would’ve,” it sounded more like “woodiff.” And my Rs were significant. “Where we were” sounded more like “wrrrr wrrrr wrrrr.”

  I went back to dancing to the music in my bones, and Samuel was smiling, and I was spinning, and bodies were everywhere, and suddenly Raf was dancing in front of me, where Samuel used to be. I noticed it because Samuel was taller than Raf.

  “Samuel’s taller than you,” I said. For a fleeting moment, I realized the filter between my mouth and my brain was malfunctioning. But then that moment passed. “That’s how I know it’s you.”

  “Because I’m short?”

  “No. You’re six foot feet. Which is not considered short. But Samuel’s super tall.”

  “Ah.”

  We kept dancing, and he was getting closer to me, and his pants touched my pants.

  “Your pants touched my pants.” Filter officially gone.

  He smiled this wry smile. “Yes, I believe they did.”

  I went to take another drink, but suddenly Raf lunged forward, bumping into me and making me drop my cup.

  “My sanataria!”

  “Sorry! Someone bumped me.”

  I looked behind him and couldn’t see anyone.

  “And it’s sangria. Not . . . whatever you said.”

  Then we were dancing again, and Samuel changed places with Raf, and then Franco changed places with Samuel, and then I was dancing with a guy I didn’t know, and that’s when the room really started to spin and then I saw Raf kissing Giselle in the corner of the room. Really kissing. Not the kind you can write off as a kiss on the cheek.

  I was hot. Really hot. And the room suddenly felt stuffy.

  I turned quickly away from the Raf-kissing-Giselle scenario and immediately saw a guy in a gray hoodie, exchanging something with one of the students near the door. He stood out because everyone else here was dressed better than a hoodie. Next to him was a table with dozens of yellow cups. Maybe it was a drug deal. But I couldn’t make it out because it was all fuzzy.

  I put a hand on my cheek, and it felt warm and wet. The great room was getting smaller and more crowded, which seemed inconvenient for a great room, so I leaned over to the stranger and said something about how he should take over dancing for me and I stumbled out of the crowd and out the door I thought we’d come in.

  Only the hallway I was in now didn’t look familiar. I tried a few doors on my left and my right, but none of them opened up to a bathroom.

  I thought about what the guard had said. “Twenty-two bathrooms, my eye.”

  I stopped opening doors and decided to put a little more distance between myself and the great room. I was pretty sure it was the general stuffiness and loud music that were making me act the way I was acting.

  I turned left then right then I don’t know, and ended up in a room that was blessedly quiet. It seemed to be some sort of second parlor to the first parlor. I didn’t know what to call it. My mom would’ve known—she was obsessed with Downton Abbey.

  I shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief. I would rest here for a bit and then venture back out into the fray. I turned around to face the room, and gasped.

  There was a boy at a table in the center of the room, his nose in a book.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here,” I said. Feeling a need to explain my appearance, I added, “I was tired of the music. So loud.”

  The boy looked up, revealing a face that looked very similar to Raf’s. He instantly smiled. “Hi. I’m Alejandro Amador.” Just as quickly, he frowned and looked back down at the book.

  “Oh. Hi. I’m Piper. A friend of Raf’s.”

  “I know,” he said, his face still down. “I’ve heard about you.”

  I fanned my face with my hand. “All good things, I hope.”

  He finally looked up again. “No. I’d say eighty-five percent of what I’ve heard was good, if you’re using the usual measurement for ‘good’ referring to positive information about one’s appearance, countenance, or behavior.”

  “Huh?”

  He Euro-shrugged, although slightly less emphatically than Raf usually did. “My percentages would be better if there were a universally agreed upon basis of measurement for the term ‘good.’ Since there isn’t, I’ll define ‘good’ as I said. Eighty-five percent.”

  Alejandro lowered his head back to his book.

  I scratched my forehead. “So, of
the things you’ve heard about me, eighty-five percent of them were good.”

  “As I said.”

  “So, fifteen percent of the things you’ve heard were . . . bad?”

  He looked up again, and this time there was a flash of irritation in his eyes. “Yes. Percentages are based upon a full portion equal to one hundred. So one hundred minus eighty-five is fifteen. Although given what I now know of your rudimentary math skills, perhaps the number is closer to eighty-four.”

  “Hey! I have good math skills. I did the subtraction right, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but confidence is a factor in math skills, and you displayed no confidence. Minus one from the good side.”

  I looked left and right to see if there was some sort of hidden camera there. Not finding anything suspicious, I turned back to Alejandro.

  “Well, how do you know I’m the same Piper you’ve heard so much about?”

  “Pipper Baird. Clumsy, torn pants, western-style rider, astute, easy smile, tendency to speak her mind, even if it’s rude.”

  “Some people like that about me,” I said, defending myself.

  “Why are you in here?” he said.

  “Exploding eardrums,” I said, pointing to my ears.

  He gazed at me quizzically. “They don’t look exploded.”

  Before I could answer, Raf’s voice came from behind me. “He doesn’t get exaggeration.”

  I jumped. “What?”

  “Clichés, sarcasm, metaphors, exaggeration. Alejandro is a very literal person.”

  Raf went around to the side of the table where Alejandro was seated and scruffed his hair in a loving, brotherly kind of way. Alejandro quickly smoothed the messed parts.

  “I also don’t read facial expressions, but I have an app to help me out.” He pulled out his phone, fiddled with it a bit, glanced at my face with narrowed eyes, looked back at the app, then to my face again. “You are bemused.”

  Raf then studied my face. “I would’ve guessed bewildered, but I think you nailed it with bemused.”

  I glanced from Raf to Alejandro and made a mental note not to speak in metaphors.

  Alejandro nodded his head toward me. “Pip came looking for refuge from the overly loud decibels of the music you chose.”

  Raf held his hands out, palms up. “You don’t like my music?”

  I turned to Alejandro. “Way to throw me under the bus.”

  Alejandro tilted his head and Raf raised an eyebrow as if to say, Did you not hear anything we just said?

  “Why would I throw you under a bus?” Alejandro said. “There are several problems with that suggestion, not the smallest of which is the fact that there are no buses nearby.”

  “I meant . . . when you ratted on me for not liking the music. I felt like you had thrown me under the bus.”

  “Have you ever met someone who has been thrown under a bus? Because if you do, please don’t tell him this story about how I told the truth about your music preferences, and then end with, ‘so I know exactly how you feel.’ Because I would think the real bus victim wouldn’t agree.”

  “I . . . uh . . .”

  Raf looked like he was enjoying the scene before him immensely. “It’s great, isn’t it? Practicing the literal meanings of words?” He put his hands on Alejandro’s shoulders and gently kneaded them. “Makes you think about what you say.”

  Right then, I wasn’t thinking about the literal meaning of words, though. I was feeling a certain kinship with Raf that I wasn’t expecting. More than that, I was feeling something. Empathy.

  “My brother spins hangers,” I blurted out.

  Raf gave me a confused look, but Alejandro just nodded, as if he had expected no other words but the ones I’d just uttered to come out of my mouth.

  The room fell quiet for a moment. Even the usually loquacious Raf had nothing to say, and who could blame him? What are you supposed to say to the whole spinning-hangers remark?

  Besides, the story I was looking for wasn’t in this room. I’d gotten sidetracked, and now I had to go do some exploring.

  “So . . . um . . . sorry for intruding. I think my ears have recovered enough.”

  Raf followed me out of the room.

  “Tell me more about the spinning hangers.”

  I bit my lip. “I have no idea why I blurted that out like that. I just think your brother and my brother have some similarities.”

  “Your brother is on the spectrum?” he asked quietly.

  “Yeah. He spins hangers to stay calm.”

  “Self-stimming.”

  I nodded, a little surprised.

  “How do you like the party?” Raf said.

  “It’s great. How do you like Giselle’s mouth?”

  Raf frowned.

  “Sorry, I have even less of a filter than normal right now. And that reminds me. Is there a bathroom around here?” I said. “El baño?”

  Raf nodded. He pointed down the hallway. “Left, then right, then the first door on the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  He didn’t follow as I walked away. “Come back to the party when you’re done.”

  “If I can find my way.”

  19

  I returned to the great room with a slightly clearer head. Giselle was talking to a guy I didn’t know.

  Samuel waved from across the dance floor and came over.

  “How are you feeling, Pip?”

  “Who told you to call me ‘Pip’?” I narrowed my eyes.

  “Raf. We were talking about you after you walked out. You didn’t seem to be in a particularly good place.”

  I closed my eyes and let out a breath. I’d come here for a story. The last thing I wanted was to become a story myself.

  “I’m okay.” Somebody handed me a yellow plastic cup and I was about to take a drink when Samuel grabbed it from my hand. “Why is everyone grabbing my cups tonight?”

  “It’s a yellow one,” Samuel said. “Yellow means mellow. That means it has a little something extra in it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, usually some type of hallucinogen.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “Not enough to knock anyone out,” he said, as if that would reassure me. “Just enough to make the lights dance.”

  “Do you drink it?” I said, pulling out my phone and discreetly taking a picture of someone with a yellow cup.

  “Never,” he said. “I prefer the lights to just sit there.”

  There was a commotion at the entryway. Raf was trying to lunge at another guy but Franco was holding him back. I ran over to see what was going on and heard Raf say, “Get out of here, asshole.”

  I didn’t recognize the guy he was shouting at. He was shorter than Raf and thicker and at the moment he was smirking. Another guy I didn’t know was blocking him in front.

  “It’s ancient history, Amador.” He broke free and lunged toward Raf, and I have no idea what made me do it, but I leaped in front of him. He knocked me down immediately, and I heard my head hit the floor.

  Things were fuzzy from that point on, but somehow Raf got free from Franco and he landed a few punches on the guy’s face and the guy got a hit in just before the guards broke them apart.

  And then I was in Raf’s arms. A trickle of blood ran from his nose and he looked a little off balance. Samuel came over and put my arm around his shoulders. “I’ve got her,” he said.

  Raf stood there panting.

  The guards escorted the other guy out, Giselle went to check on Raf, and everyone resumed the party like it wasn’t a big deal.

  Samuel helped me out to the hallway, where it was quiet. I sank against the wall, and he followed.

  He brushed my hair back and kept telling me to look in his eyes.

  “I am,” I said, feeling a slight headache.

  “What made you do that?”

  “I’m a pacifist.” The words were slurred. “I hate fighting. What was that about?”

  “Who knows?” he said. “But it hap
pens. More with Raf than with other people. Sometimes guys need to let off steam. And Raf has a lot of steam.”

  I shook my head. “It’s crazy. These guys fight each other because . . . what, they’re bored in their privileged lives full of maids and keepers and chauffeurs and . . . and . . .” I realized I was hyperventilating, so I leaned my head down so blood could get flowing there again. “Do you remember which way out?” I asked, still hunched over. “I have to get my keys.”

  “Your keys? You didn’t have a driver bring you?”

  I shook my head. “I’m on scholarship. I have food stamps. I don’t belong here.” The truth of my money situation felt heavy on my shoulders.

  “You’re not driving.”

  “I can’t stay.”

  The door burst open. “Is she okay?” It was Raf.

  “She’s fine,” Samuel said. “I’ve got her. Go take care of your guests, Amador.”

  I couldn’t exactly tell how Raf reacted, but the door closed.

  Samuel turned back to me. “My driver can take you home.”

  He put an arm around my shoulders and navigated the hallways and parlors as if he’d been there a bunch of times before. We went out the front door and he led me to one of the dark sedans. His driver was named Longborn, and he didn’t seem to mind an extra passenger.

  “What do I do about my car?” I said.

  “Trust me,” Samuel said. “Your car has never been safer.”

  As we pulled out of the drive, I looked through the window, back at the Spanish embassy, and thought about the headlines I had now, but my brain was still too cloudy to come up with actual words. As it disappeared from view, I could’ve sworn I saw the front door open and someone with dark brown hair watch our car as we left. Maybe I was imagining it.

  I turned to Samuel, who’d been looking at me. The fact that he was watching me made me flush.

  “So, have you ever been to an embassy party before?” he asked.

  I shook my head and felt the clouds in my brain. “I’ve never been to anything like that before.”

  Sangria and dancing and yellow cups and fights and blood.

  I put my hand on my head to keep it from spinning.

  “I met Raf’s dad at a fund-raiser for something,” Samuel was saying. “It was crazy—he and his wife had this shouting match halfway through dinner, and this team of security guys swooped in and disappeared his wife.”