Diplomatic Immunity Page 5

  Still, when I got to the front office, my heart sped up with trepidation.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be bad. Maybe he was going to congratulate me on outfoxing him.

  Okay, that was a long shot.

  “Miss Baird,” Principal Wallace said, opening his office door, a stern look on his face. He held the door for me. I sat down in silence.

  “I assume you know why you’re here.”

  “You aren’t pleased with my story.”

  “To say the least.” He pulled up the story on his computer screen. “You’ve placed me, and the school, in a very difficult position.”

  “Is the story accurate?” I asked.

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “For a journalist, that’s the only point.”

  He pressed his lips together and squeezed his eyes shut briefly. “Miss Baird, you are not at the Washington Post. You are at Chiswick Academy, under my jurisdiction.”

  “A free press doesn’t fall under anyone’s jurisdiction.” Okay, sometimes my mouth could run away with me.

  “You printed that story without my permission.”

  “Does the school paper need your permission for their stories?”

  “No, but it’s a courtesy.”

  “Courteous behavior is not required with a free press.” Mr. Peters had taught me that.

  “But it is if you want to get information, yes?”

  I sighed. He had a point. I wouldn’t have any stories without grooming contacts.

  I hadn’t planned on coming in here and being so contrary, but this wasn’t the pro–First Amendment atmosphere I was used to at my old school. I tried to tone it down. “I’m sorry if the truth was inconvenient for you.”

  “Inconvenient? I’ve had dozens of phone calls from parents asking if their daughter or son was the target of the stalker. Demanding to see details of the latest security upgrade. Threatening to withdraw students if the perpetrator isn’t caught, and we aren’t even sure there was a perpetrator in the first place!” His face was rather red by this point.

  “I understand, sir. I was just trying to earn my place on the staff. I really need that Bennington Scholarship.”

  “I’m afraid the stunt you pulled yesterday has set you back for that.”

  I got a pit in my stomach. “Why?”

  He leaned over his desk and intertwined his fingers. “Because I’m on the Bennington committee. Next time do your research.” He sighed. “You’re excused.”

  He started writing on a notepad on his desk and I let myself out. I was surprised I was able to walk so well, considering the tiny new dagger in my heart.

  At lunch, I saw Jesse sitting at another table with a couple of other students from the journalism department. I went over and put my tray down by him.

  “Hey, Pipe,” he said.

  “Hi. You could’ve told me Principal Wallace was on the Bennington committee. Is that why you were so quick to put my story at the top?”

  He put down his sandwich. “Look, you did a good job on the story. It deserved the spot it got. Putting you on the outs with the principal was just a bonus.”

  “Why?”

  “The Bennington is still a competition.” He took a big bite of his sandwich as if to say there was no point competing with him. Or maybe I was reading too much into a bite.

  “Okay. Good to know. So let me just say this: it is on, Jesse . . . whatever your last name is.” What was it again? “Monson.”

  “Right,” he said. “That might have had more of an impact if you’d remembered my last—”

  “I know,” I said. Infuriating nonphotographic memory.

  I spotted Mack sitting at her usual table, so I headed over toward her.

  “Looking forward to working with you,” Jesse said from behind me.

  I set my tray down next to Mack and Faroush a little harder than I’d meant to.

  “What’s up?” Mack said.

  “Just frustrated.” I scrunched up my face. “The principal wasn’t happy with my story, which is fine except he’s on the Bennington committee.”

  “Ah, man,” Faroush said. Those two words were about the most he’d ever said to me.

  I was about to continue lamenting, but before I could get any words out, loud guitar music echoed through the cafeteria.

  We turned toward the sound. A man in a dark tuxedo stood just outside the cafeteria doors, holding a guitar. He strummed a few more dramatic chords, then slowly stepped inside as he continued playing a song with a Spanish beat. A striking woman in a red dress followed him in. Her hair was tied back in a low, tight bun, with a huge red flower attached.

  She started dancing to the guitar music.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered to Mack.

  “Rafael Amador’s birthday, I would guess,” she said. “Last year, his parents hired a Spanish chef to take over the kitchen here. And let me say, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried Puchero Andaluz de Verduras.” She said it so dryly, I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic. “Looks like this year, we all get to celebrate Raf’s birth by watching the flamenco.”

  “His parents do this every year?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “More like they pay a servant to do this.”

  The woman stomped her feet and clapped and twirled, and pretty soon the entire cafeteria started clapping along, going faster and faster as the dance neared its dramatic finish.

  At the end, the woman took a rose from behind her ear, bowed, and handed it to Raf. Everyone clapped, and then Raf bowed as if he were the one who’d just finished the dancing.

  “Seriously?” I said to Mack. “I’m sitting here worried that I may have blown my chance for a scholarship, and thus my future, and that guy over there is chomping on a rose stem as if he’s never had to worry about anything a day in his life.”

  Mack nodded. “Same school. Different planets.”

  I turned toward the table where the other scholarship students were to see if they found it off-putting too, but Una was clapping and Julia was standing on tiptoes to get a better view.

  Jesse waved to me from a few tables away. I went over and he said, “Grab a quick interview with Raf and the dancer. It would make a good story for page six. Take Will with you to get some pictures.”

  A guy with black hair stood up and produced a camera from his bag.

  And there I was. Relegated to fluff again, covering the birthday parties of the rich and infamous.

  7

  I worked my way through the crowd of well-wishers around Raf. It was like his birthday was an international affair.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Pardon me. Raf?”

  I guess I said it a little loud, because the group went quiet as Raf turned from Giselle to face me. Then everyone else’s gaze followed his. And my pulse started racing.

  “Yes, Pip?”

  “It’s not—never mind.” I focused on the amount of blinking I was doing. “Can I ask you a few questions for the paper?” Suddenly this felt so demeaning. As if I were the paparazzo to his celebrity. And why was everyone so quiet?

  “Like what?”

  Then just as I’d feared, my mind went blank. “Um . . . birthdays,” I stammered. “Am I right?”

  Raf frowned. “Right about what?”

  Geez, pull it together, Pipe. “They’re yearly.” Damn.

  Raf squinted his eyes. “Yes. In that case, you’re right.”

  I shook my head and pictured everyone around me naked and when my imagination got to Raf, I blushed. So then I pictured myself naked, and that didn’t work either.

  I felt a hand on mine. It was Raf’s. He led me away from the crowd to a corner of the cafeteria. “Is this better?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you want to ask some questions now?”

  I nodded again, my heartbeat finally slowing down. “Okay, was that dance something from your country?”

  “Yes. It’s the flamenco. From the Andalusian region in southern Spain. Ahi donde mi fa
milia es de.”

  “Huh?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s the music and the dance. Makes me speak en español.”

  “Happens to me all the time,” I said, making a few notes on my notepad. “I go see The Nutcracker, suddenly I’m talking in Russian.”

  Raf chuckled.

  “So what was the Spanish stuff you just said?”

  “I said my family is from the Andalusian region of Spain.”

  “Ah.” I made a note. “One last question. Don’t you think having a flamenco performance in the lunchroom was a little over-the-top?”

  Oops. Filter fail.

  Raf raised an eyebrow. “Well, I tried to restage the running of the bulls, but it got too complicated.”

  “There’s always next year,” I said.

  “Except we’ll be in college.”

  “Right. Well, I think we’re good. Thank you for your time. Will? Can you get a picture of Raf with the dancer?” My cheeks were warm. I felt like Oliver Twist, asking for more, please, sir?

  Raf waved the dancer over. She sidled up next to him, draped her arm around his neck, and struck a dramatic pose. I left because, seriously—same school, different planets.

  When I walked into journalism class, Professor Ferguson said, “Nice scoop on the security update, Piper.”

  “Thank you,” I said, for a moment forgetting the humiliation of covering Rafael Amador’s birthday.

  Then the professor called the class to attention, and Jesse pulled up the rundown on the monitor. “We’re starting off with the system breach. Josh, give me a two-minute package and some B-roll for a voice-over—”

  “Wait, what?” I interrupted.

  “What’s the problem?” Jesse asked.

  “It’s my story. I got the scoop.”

  “Yes, but it’s Josh’s beat. He has the contacts.”

  I glanced at the professor, but he didn’t say anything. “But—”

  “Let’s finish the rundown,” Jesse said.

  He continued, and I ended up with a story about new security protocols for the national parks. I walked over to Jesse’s desk. “I know we’re both going for the Bennington—”

  “Everyone here is going for the Bennington,” he said.

  “Okay, but that’s no reason to give me the dreck.”

  He sighed. “The principal requested that you be taken off the story. I’m sorry.”

  I sank into a chair. “Is this paper going to kowtow to every demand from higher up?”

  “When it’s from the principal, yes. We don’t have much of a choice.”

  Mack caught my eye from across the room and shrugged. I suspected that was her way of showing sympathy.

  I sat down at my desk and wrote up a quick summary of the lunchroom flamenco incident. Then I researched the new protocols at the national parks. Maybe there would be a story to crack wide open.

  There wasn’t.

  I went over to Professor Ferguson’s desk and plopped down in the chair opposite him.

  “Yes, Miss Baird?”

  “I need help.”

  He put down the book he’d been reading, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and produced a folder. He spread the contents on his desk. I recognized the papers inside.

  “Those are my stories,” I said.

  He nodded. “I never got the chance to tell you how impressive your portfolio was. But I’m assuming you’re here to talk about your latest work.”

  “Please don’t judge me by that. I’m not used to covering small stuff.”

  He waved a hand. “Your work is solid. So what do you need?”

  I took in a deep breath. “I need some insight. This school, and the potential for a scholarship to a journalism program, is very important to me. And I feel like I’m not grasping what it is you’re looking for.”

  He closed the folder and put his finger on it. “You have a good feel for writing like a journalist, Piper. I would even go so far as to say it’s textbook.”

  I smiled, feeling proud of myself for the first time since I’d gotten here.

  “But every student in this class could’ve written the same articles.”

  I frowned. Back home, Mr. Peters had made me editor in chief after I’d been on staff for three months. I was the youngest editor in chief the school had ever had. And now Professor Ferguson was basically saying I was ordinary.

  “As you approach your writing assignments, I want you to keep something in mind. Three questions.”

  “What are those?” I said.

  “Why am I the right person to write about this? What’s the story that I can get that no one else can? Why am I not only a good person for the job, but the only person? That’s what’s going to set you apart here at Chiswick.”

  I nodded. “I understand, Professor Ferguson. It’s just hard to ask myself why I am the only person who can write about the new rules for flushing the toilets in the third-floor bathrooms. I mean, maybe I could’ve done what you say if I’d been allowed to stay on the security system update story.”

  “But that’s exactly my point,” he said. “Josh was able to take over seamlessly. I want you to find a story that would be impossible for Jesse to give away. So that if the principal comes to him, he has to say, ‘I’m sorry. There’s no one else who can write that story but Piper.’”

  I nodded. “I guess I understand. But that’s not how the national networks do it.”

  “I’m teaching students to be better than what’s out there now.”

  I forced a smile. “Okay.”

  “Okay. Keep up the good work.”

  I left the newsroom to get the afternoon edition of the Washington Post at the front office. As I walked back to class, I looked at the stories from the first few pages. All of them could’ve been written by numerous reporters. How was someone like me—a scholarship student who had only just started at Chiswick—supposed to find a story only I could write here?

  For a moment, I had the fleeting thought that maybe I should just go back to Clarendon High, where I could stick out. Where I had a real shot at being the best.

  That’s where my head was at when I ran into Raf in the hallway.

  I guess I was wearing my frustration on my face, because when he saw me, he said, “Hey, Pip. What’s the matter?”

  I sighed. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you duct-tape cheerleaders to walls and dance the flamenco in lunchrooms, and you’ve never had to worry about paying for a thing.” I shook my head. “You do not know what real life is.”

  “Sure I do,” he said with a smile.

  “No. You sit on the top of your marble staircase, with your maids and your chauffeurs and your dad who gets you out of every bind you’ve been in, and your diplomatic immunity, and you look at the commoners like me, and my used car, and my money worries . . . you look at us with an unaffected curiosity.”

  He rocked back on his heels a bit. “Wow, Pip. Don’t stop there. Tell me more.”

  I knew I should stop, but I couldn’t. I was too frustrated. And I was high up on my soapbox. “If you keep going like this, you won’t be able to face any struggles in life, and . . . without struggle, you won’t know the feeling of . . . overcoming struggle.” This was all sounding better in my head. I wasn’t yelling, but I sounded a bit manic, even to my ears. “And overcoming struggle is a really good feeling. Believe me. Also, if you limit your circle of friends to only those with trust funds, you’ll miss out on life. Because real life happens with the peasants.” Did I just use the word “peasants”?

  “I know peasants,” he said with a smug grin.

  I frowned. “You don’t even know where they sit in the lunchroom.”

  He went quiet.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I had a bad day . . . week . . . month, and I took it out on you.”

  “No one’s ever spoken to me like that,” he said. His lips curved upward.

  “Because you’re
surrounded by yes-men who are too scared to tell you no.”

  He stared at me for a few moments, silent again.

  “Okay, well, I have to go. I have a job.” It wasn’t my paying job at the Yogurt Shop. It was in the newsroom, but I didn’t tell him that.

  He grabbed my arm. “Tell me more. I can take it.”

  “Get someone else to tell you.”

  “But it will mean more coming from a peasant.”

  I shook my head. “No. You don’t want to hear more.” I shook my arm free and walked away, irked.

  Irked. Rafael Amador irked me. No peasant wanted to hear they were a peasant. Even if I had used the term first. It was bad form.

  I went back to the newsroom, where Mack was working on the layout of the paper. I peeked over her shoulder and saw the picture of Raf and the dancer on page one. One!

  Normally, I loved being above the fold, but a spoiled boy’s birthday bash did not warrant above-the-fold treatment.

  Suddenly, Raf and his richness and his entitlement and his no-need-for-scholarship money and his quick comebacks didn’t feel like a random problem. It felt like a personal attack. Like he embodied the complete injustice of my situation.

  I turned to my computer and impulsively tried out a headline.

  THE PRIVILEGED ELITE: AN UNDERCOVER EXPOSÉ OF THE WORLD’S RICHEST TEENAGERS

  The injustice needed to be documented. The table of scholarship students needed to realize the inequity, not applaud it. I wasn’t going to get better stories from Jesse anytime soon. My next assigned story would probably be an investigation into the most effective locker organization techniques, if you have the money. The headline would be: “Don’t Just Wing It . . . Bling It!” Or something equally stupid. Professor Ferguson told me to write something only I could write. Who better to expose the rich and privileged than someone on the flip side of the coin? A peasant. No one else in this newsroom could do it like me. The only other scholarship student on the journalism staff was Jesse, from what I could tell.

  Maybe the principal would never allow such a story, but undercover exposés were hot-ticket items for most magazines. There’s a reason the Hiltons and the Kardashians make millions off exposing their lives. If the school didn’t want it, I’d take it wide. And if I did it right, I’d get the Bennington. They’d have to give it to me. Even if they didn’t want to.