by Brodi Ashton
“‘Disappeared,’ like a verb?” My words were all a-tumble.
“Exactly like the verb. You’d think it would be this big commotion, but it was more like a soft breeze coming through and quietly carrying her away. I only saw it because they were sitting at our table.”
“So what were you doing there? Who’s your dad?”
“My dad’s the secretary of state.”
“Secretary of state of what?”
He smiled. “The union?”
My eyes went wide. “Your dad’s Scott Morrison?”
Samuel nodded.
“Wow. He’s big.”
“Yep.”
“Literally big too. He’s like six four.”
The car went over a bump and I held my head again and Samuel seemed to sense it was a good time for quiet.
Before too long, Longborn pulled up in front of my house.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said.
“Hey, Pip?”
“Yeah?”
He glanced down. “It was nice to meet you.”
Ask for my number. Ask for my number. Why isn’t he asking for my number?
I paused for a moment before opening my door. “Nice to meet you too.”
20
The next morning was ugly, from my bloodshot eyes to my angry stomach to my brain, which seemed to be bursting through my skull. All I could think about was Raf’s bloody face. And the drinks.
Sangria? More like paingria.
I emailed Gramma Weeza to tell her I’d had my first drink, since she’d been dying for me to “live life a little.” She had yet to master texting, and probably never would, but she could definitely email.
Then I wandered into the kitchen and grabbed the pot from the coffeemaker, but there was nothing in it.
“There’s no coffee because it’s no longer morning,” my mom said. “It’s one in the afternoon. But the more troubling problem is, where’s your car?”
I closed my eyes and grunted. “The Spanish embassy. I got a ride home from a guy with a driver.”
I went to the fridge and took out a bottle of seltzer, poured a cup, and drank most of it in one breath.
“Sit down, Pipe.”
Uh-oh.
“How was the party?”
“It was okay.”
“Have you been drinking?”
I sighed. “Spain’s drinking laws are different than ours. Eighteen is the legal drinking age.”
“You’re seventeen.”
“But it’s not strictly enforced. And apparently since they have this one province in Spain where the drinking age is still sixteen, it’s okay to do it at the embassy.”
I squeezed a lemon into the seltzer, took another sip, and instantly felt a little bit fresher.
My mom put her hand over mine. “Here’s the thing, Pipe. Underage drinking might fly in Spain—”
“It’s technically not underage drinking there.”
“Don’t play your word games with me. Underage drinking might be okay in Spain, but you still live under my roof.”
I nodded.
“You did the smart thing by not driving.”
I decided not to tell her about the part where I would have driven home if it weren’t for Samuel.
“But I’m not sure it’s any smarter to go home with a boy you don’t know.”
“Technically, I didn’t go to his home—”
The look in my mom’s eyes made me stop.
“He wasn’t just any boy. He was the son of the secretary of state. Scott Morrison. And it was his driver driving.”
My mom nodded as she took in this new information. As if it were every day her daughter was driven home by the son of the secretary of state. “Listen. I trust you. I’ve never worried about your choices. I like seeing you making new friends and putting yourself out there. But we’re going to have to set some ground rules. Number one, tell me first if there’s going to be drinking. Number two, if you drink to the point of puking, that will be the last time you drink. Number three, you do it only on international soil, where it’s legal. Am I clear?”
“Warn you. Don’t puke. Stay out of the country.”
My mom smiled. “More or less. And if I ever see the sunrise before I see you . . .”
“I know, I know.” I put my wrists together the way someone would if they expected to be handcuffed.
“Good. I’ll put another pot of coffee on. So, did you have fun last night?”
I thought about my night. Met Raf’s dad, drank sangria, danced with Samuel and then a bunch of people, met Raf’s autistic brother, watched Giselle put her lips all over Raf, saw the yellow cups, got in the middle of a fight, was knocked to the ground—
I drew in a sharp breath. “Ohmygosh.”
“What?”
“I . . . my story. Bye!”
As I ran out of the kitchen, I heard my mom give a confused “Bye?”
I went to my room and called Charlotte and told her to come over, and when she did, I told her everything.
“Whoa,” she said. “Where do these people come from?”
“I have no idea.” I pulled out my laptop and opened up a document and started typing.
THE QUEST FOR DANGER IN THE LIVES OF PRIVILEGED KIDS
“I’m not sure ‘quest’ is the right word there,” Charlotte said. “It’s a little Lord of the Rings.”
“You’re right.”
THE LIFE OF THE PRIVILEGED TEEN: DRUGS, DANGER, AND DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY
“Oh yeah, that’s much better,” Charlotte said. “Good alliteration.”
I pulled up the footage of the party to show Charlotte the pictures I’d gotten the night before. Students in a daze holding yellow cups. The fight between Raf and that other guy.
“Why would Raf do that to such a great face?” Charlotte said.
I slowly traced his face with my finger. “I don’t know.”
I started typing again.
“Do you think I can make it rain?” the handsome son of the Spanish ambassador asked me just before he caused a chemical explosion in the school lab.
“Ooh, that’s good,” Charlotte said.
Exposés were different from regular news articles, in that they were told more like a story—with a little more artistic license—and they required a good hook at the beginning.
“Or what about . . .”
“Don’t drink from the yellow cup,” the boy said. “It will make the lights dance.”
“I like that one too,” Charlotte said. “How do people live like this?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. The thing is, it’s not always like this. I’ve seen Raf be pretty normal, too. Especially with his brother.”
“He has a brother?” Charlotte said.
I nodded. “Alejandro. He’s on the spectrum. Raf is really sweet with him.”
Charlotte tilted her head. “You sound like you like him.”
I acted all taken aback, although I didn’t know if I really was. “Who, Raf? No. Did I also mention he was sucking face with Giselle all night?”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t like him.”
I shook my head. “He’s a possible story. Nothing more. Now help me write it.”
I typed a few sentences about Raf’s need for danger and his scaling the national monument and his broken wrist and his fight.
We were quiet for a moment. I didn’t know what Charlotte was thinking, but I was wondering what could be going on inside a boy to make him do the things that Raf did. Was it really a spoiled childhood and the need for attention? Or was it something more?
I had a hard time believing a boy who’d been given everything had some deep, dark wound to numb.
So I tried to focus on the story, not the boy. I’d successfully infiltrated a DI party (with minimal physical harm) and I’d gotten some headlines. That had to be something, right?
“Who’s that?” Charlotte said. She was looking out my window.
I leaned over and saw two cars pull up to th
e curb outside my house. One was my red Toyota, and it was followed closely by a black sedan. The cars pulled up to my curb, and the driver of the red Toyota stepped out.
“It’s Rafael,” I said, my stomach fluttering. I wasn’t sure if it was due to the fact that we were writing about him and now he was here, or the fact that my mom had left her coupon stash scattered all over the living room floor.
I was bothered I didn’t know.
“Ohmygod. I’m dying to meet him,” Charlotte said.
I shook my head. “You can’t. I’m on the verge of being in with them. If the two of us meet him, looking like crazed puppies . . . ?”
“All right. You go,” Charlotte said. “He’ll be more comfortable with you alone. I’ll slip out the back.”
“Okay,” I said. I shut my laptop and went down the hall to the front door, opening it just as Raf had his finger up to the doorbell.
“Oh. Hey, Pip.”
“Hi.”
His cheek was a little swollen, but on the whole he didn’t look as bad as I remembered. And he was still beautiful by anyone’s definition of the word.
“I was just returning your car.” Raf took the keys out of his jacket pocket and put them on the table by the door.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “But thank you.”
“It was no problem. Yours was the only car that needed returning.”
We stood there for a few long moments, the security guy in the black sedan watching us through sunglasses and a tinted front window.
“Um . . . am I supposed to tip?” I said.
Raf smiled. “No. The car return service is complimentary. Part of the ‘invitation’ to the party.” He gave air quotes.
“Ah.” I waved toward the car. “Hey, Fritz.” He didn’t wave back.
We stood there for a few moments.
Part of me wanted to invite Raf inside and see what other information I could get out of him, and another part of me wanted to bring him in and tend to his injuries. That part of me was unexpected. I didn’t want to appear too anxious. “Um . . . am I supposed to invite you in?”
Raf chuckled. “Well, that would be entirely up to you.”
“Okay.”
We stood there for another few moments.
“So, would you like to come in?”
He smiled. “Sure, Pip. Thanks.”
Raf waved to the black sedan and then followed me as I led him to the living/dining room. I used to call it the “great room.” I didn’t anymore, now that I’d seen what a real great room looked like.
“Do you want some coffee?” I asked.
“That would be lovely. Black.”
I filled a cup for him and one for me and we sat down in my kitchen. I’d always thought our kitchen was adequate, but seeing Raf here, even in his bruised state, made me acutely aware of the peeling wallpaper and dated wooden cabinets. I spotted the food stamps by the microwave. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice.
“Did you get home okay?” Raf said. Then he shifted in his seat. “I mean, I can see you got home okay. But did you?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “I got a text from Samuel. Did you know that was the name of the guy you were with? Samuel Morrison?”
“Yes.” What was he getting at?
“Samuel wanted your phone number.”
I could feel my cheeks flush slightly. “Oh. Um, you can give it to him.”
Raf scratched the back of his head. “I don’t have your number.”
His voice was soft, hardly that of a guy who had punched someone the night before.
“That’s quite the shiner you have there,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. That. A side effect of raucous parties.” He glanced down. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. “I don’t know what got into me. Probably the sangria. What’s your story?”
“You’re the reporter. Aren’t you supposed to figure it out?”
He sipped his coffee, safe in some protective shell. Did he know that he was the story? I could tell he wasn’t about to let me in. Not right now. And to tell the truth, maybe I didn’t want to be let in. Raf was reckless. And he seemed intent on getting hurt. Maybe Giselle was after the same thing, and that was why they were together.
But I wasn’t intent on getting hurt. Which is why it was a good thing I was the reporter and not some starstruck girl hanging on for scraps of time with him.
“Well, you could give me Samuel’s number. And I could just contact him myself,” I said.
I watched for his reaction. He stared hard at his coffee cup, clenching it as if he would fall off the face of the earth if his grip slipped.
Before he could say anything, my phone rang. It was Gramma Weeza.
“Is that the infamous grandma who believes in the power of duct tape?”
I was surprised he’d remembered. “Yes. I told her I had my first drink last night. She’s most likely calling to find out how it was.”
He leaned closer. “Your grandma is the first person you told about that?”
“Well, the first person I talked to about it was my mom, who put me through the wringer making sure I was okay. But Gramma is the first person I actually wanted to talk to about it.”
He smiled. “I like that about you. Family is very important to me as well.” He stared at his cup of coffee, and we were quiet for a moment. What was going on? What was he doing here? I’d crashed his party. Why wasn’t he angry?
“Thanks for letting me stay at the party last night,” I said. “Do your parents mind the parties?” I thought about his scary dad.
“The parties? No. Gathering friends and loved ones to celebrate life is a Spanish tradition. My father encourages taking many moments in the day to just sit and soak it all in.”
“Soak what all in?”
“The beauty of life.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Are all Spaniards this optimistic?”
“Recognizing beauty isn’t optimism. It’s living with your eyes open.” He picked at a peeling piece of laminate on the counter, and I cringed a little bit at the cheapness of our house.
“Is part of the beauty of life beating the crap out of one another?”
Raf frowned, but he didn’t get a chance to answer because Michael wandered into the kitchen, spinning his hanger. When he saw Raf, he stopped. “Why are you here?”
“I brought your sister’s car back,” Raf said.
Michael went over to the window to check and make sure Raf was telling the truth.
“Who’s your dad?” Michael asked.
“That’s how he categorizes people in his head,” I explained. “By parentage.”
“Ah,” Raf said. “My dad is . . . Leon.”
“Leon?” Michael repeated.
“Yes.”
Michael went up to Raf and put a finger on his chest. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen.” He seemed impressed. “So you can make someone.”
Raf raised his eyebrows and I stifled a laugh. “Milestone birthdays are very important to Michael. Especially the ones that make you legal. When you’re sixteen, you get to drive a car. Eighteen, you’re an adult. Twenty-one, you can gamble and vote. Eighteen, in his mind, means you’re old enough to . . .” I made circular motions with my hands, but Raf just raised his eyebrows in a confused sort of way. “To . . . to . . . make a baby.”
Michael interjected then. “When I’m eighteen, I want to make someone. A boy.”
“Ah, okay,” Raf said. “I think I might wait to make someone. It’s kind of a big responsibility. And it can be expensive.”
Michael shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got gems.”
He didn’t wait for Raf’s reply. He just walked out of the room without saying another word, off again in another world.
“Gems?” Raf said.
“They’re from his computer game. You earn enough gems, you can buy an army. He’s pretty sure that will one day translate into real wealth.”
<
br /> Raf smiled. “I like the way his mind works.”
“Me too.”
My heart twitterpatted as it often did when someone seemed to appreciate Michael. For a moment, I forgot I was even considering a story. I forgot Raf was the notorious son of the Spanish ambassador who duct-taped cheerleaders and spilled all my humiliating secrets. I forgot that digging into his personal life was my ticket to the Bennington and Columbia.
For a moment, I was having coffee in my kitchen with a cute boy who liked my brother. Light snow had started to drift outside the window, layering the fallen leaves with a thin sheet of white.
“There are people who can help him,” Raf said. “He’s getting therapy, yes?”
I shoved the feeling back down and looked at Raf. “Therapists cost money. We have to work the state system, and it’s not very good.”
But how would he know that? I shook my head. Raf represented everything that was wrong with the world. He was reckless and entitled. If I acted like he did, I would have nothing. No scholarships. No letters of recommendation. And I wouldn’t have any rich parents to bail me out.
A loud rap came from the front door. Fritz didn’t wait for anyone to answer, he just swooped in and walked back to the kitchen as if he’d seen the house blueprints. Come to think of it, maybe he had seen the blueprints.
“Mr. Amador. You’re needed at the house.”
I stood up and Raf stood up and we were facing each other and Raf blurted, “Don’t get with Samuel,” he said.
“What? Why?”
“Just . . . don’t.”
I was flummoxed. “Why are we having this conversation? And aren’t you with Giselle?”
Raf looked startled for a moment and then closed his eyes for a long blink. “Thank you for the coffee, Pip.”
“Are you with her?” I pressed.
He nodded.
“Then . . . why do you care who I date?”
Fritz looked rather impatient, but Raf was standing his ground in my kitchen.
“Because we’re friends now,” he said.
Maybe that’s how they treat friends in Spain. I held out my hand. “Okay. Friends.”
He let out a breath. “Good friends.”
21
Good friends. Good friends. That was unexpected. Was I supposed to be good friends with an asset? The subject of a story? No. Raf was bad news, and I had college plans. Christiane Amanpour would never have let that happen, would she? I tried to picture it.