by Ally Carter
“On our left,” Noah starts slowly, speaking low into my ear, “we have the wealthy locals.” He points to a small group of kids speaking Adrian and Spanish and Arabic. They wear expensive watches and nice clothes and immediately stop talking when we pass, glare after us as if we aren’t supposed to be there.
“The gifted locals.” These kids nod at Noah, but don’t speak to me. They are in skinny jeans and T-shirts for bands that I don’t know. “Popular embassy kids.” We pass another small pocket of kids, who are sitting around the fire. It looks like a miniature, more beautiful version of the United Nations. There are probably half a dozen countries represented in that one small group alone. A girl asks a question in Spanish. A boy answers her in French. But the looks they give me are universal. I am the new girl in every possible language.
“And, finally, embassy kids who just really want to go home.” Noah points to the last group. Here, the kids stand on the outskirts of the party, shifting their weight from foot to foot, constantly checking their phones.
“So the unifying factor is … what?” I ask. “You all go to the international school?”
“Correction.” Noah raises a finger. “We all go to the international school. Or we will come fall. Tonight, we are the children of summer.”
He raises his hands dramatically, gesturing to the fire and the groups of talking teens, the cliffs and the crashing waves of the sea that sweeps out below us.
“The children of summer?” I try to tease.
“It sounded better in my head.”
“And where do you fit into all of this?” I glance back at the carefully sequestered cliques.
“I am a man without a country. Or I’m a man with too many countries — you pick. Ultimately, in both global politics and the high school power hierarchy, they amount to the same thing. Do you want some water or something? Wait here. I’m going to get you some water.”
I nod, and Noah wanders off into the night, leaving me alone with the wind and the sea and, finally, with a small voice that says, “Hi.”
For a second, I think I must have dreamed it. I turn, looking for whoever spoke, but it’s like the word came from the wind.
“Hi,” the voice says again. “I’m down here.”
And then I see her, on a ledge that sticks out from the cliff below me — not clinging, not frightened, just sitting there, staring up at where I’m standing. It’s the girl from the wall outside my window. Again, she is so pale and solitary that I think for a moment she might actually be a ghost. I can’t help but glance around, wondering if I’m the only one who can see her.
“You’re the new American,” she says.
“So I’ve been told.”
“Do you want to see a trick?”
“Sure,” I say.
She gets up, and no sooner is she on her feet than she begins to run straight for a tree that’s growing out of the side of the cliff, and I can do nothing but stand, dumbfounded, as the girl jumps straight into the air and grabs its lowest limb. The force of her momentum pushes her around the branch, swinging in a broad circle not once but twice before she lets loose of the limb and flies through the air, landing safely right in front of me as if it’s as easy as falling off a log.
“Wow,” I say. “That was … Wow.”
“I was going to be a gymnast. But now I’m not. Too big,” she explains, even though, to me, she looks positively tiny.
Then I feel the need to say what people are always saying to me: “That looked really dangerous. Maybe you shouldn’t do that anymore.”
The girl shrugs. “I’m Rosie. Germany. Twelve.”
The way she says it, I know these are the facts that matter here, the embassy-kid equivalent of name, rank, and serial number.
“Grace. United States. Sixteen,” I tell her. She nods as if we’ve bonded. And I guess perhaps we have.
“Do your parents know you’re here?” I ask.
Rosie crosses her arms. “Do yours?”
“Well, Mom is dead and Dad is getting shot at, so I don’t think they’re in a position to care. Now it’s your turn to answer the question.”
“Did you know there are five hundred kilometers of tunnels beneath the city?” Rosie asks as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “At least that much. There may be more. I bet there’s more. The Romans built them. People died down there all the time. There are bones and everything. I can show you if you want. I’m kind of an expert.”
Before I can respond to this, I see a beautiful girl coming toward us. She’s got olive-colored skin and striking black eyes. But there’s something else about her. She reminds me of someone, I think, but I can’t quite imagine who.
Before I can say a word, the pretty girl starts shouting.
“No. No. No. Get out. Get out now! Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. Get. Out. Now.”
For a second I just stand, stunned. Then I realize that she’s not talking to me. She’s talking … behind me.
I turn and see Rosie at my back, my white-blond shadow. She’s so small she must have been pretty unnoticeable there, but the girl with the perfect cheekbones isn’t fooled.
“You don’t belong here,” the pretty girl snaps.
“Excuse me?” I tell her.
“I’m not talking to you,” she says in a tone that makes it clear I’m too inconsequential to bother tossing aside. “I’m talking to that.” She points at Rosie, who stands defiant, not giving any ground.
The girl looks around me. “You’re not welcome here.”
“They aren’t your cliffs,” Rosie shoots back.
“But it’s my party,” the pretty girl corrects her.
“Funny,” Rosie quips, “I didn’t see your name on it.”
“Listen here, tiny blond person, I’ve warned you before, and you are testing my patience. Auf Wiedersehen.”
“Hey,” I say. “Leave her alone.”
When the dark-haired girl looks at me now it’s like she’s seeing me for the first time. She scans me from head to toe, taking in my sloppy ponytail and dirty old sneakers. I’m ready for whatever insult she might hurl my way, but instead she crosses her arms and says, “You’re new.”
“Did you figure that out all by yourself?” I reply.
“I guess I should introduce myself. I’m Lila. And I’m —”
“Oh, I know who you are,” I cut her off, and she smiles a little, pleased that her reputation has preceded her.
“You do?” When she tosses her hair it catches the moonlight, so pretty it’s almost fake. A joke. But she’s as serious as she can possibly be.
“Of course I know you,” I say, and her eyes soften. I can almost hear her thoughts, contemplating giving me a makeover, molding me in her image. I am the Before, I know. She is most certainly the After.
“I’ve attended seven schools in ten years,” I explain. “So you can rest assured I know you. You’re the girl who thinks being cruel is the same thing as being witty. You think being loud is the same thing as being right. And, most of all, you’re the girl who is very, very pretty. And also very, very … common. Trust me. There’s at least one of you in every school.” I watch her features shift. “Oh. Wait. Did you think you were unique?”
When her face hardens, I can tell she isn’t hurt; she’s offended. I snicker a little, unable to keep it in. “Oh my gosh, you did, didn’t you? You thought you were special. I’m so sorry.”
But I’m not sorry.
I am standing on ground where I have never stood before, looking at a stranger. But this moment is so familiar to me that I could script out every gasp, every insult, every cajoling sneer.
I even know what she is going to say before she opens her mouth to tell me, “I don’t like your attitude, new girl.”
And that turns my snicker into a laugh. It has to. It is the absolute best weapon I have in this situation.
So I laugh louder. “Oh my gosh — you’re serious. You really think I should be scared of you. Oh, that’s so sweet.” This confuses her. H
er dark eyes narrow. “And kind of pitiful.” I reach out to pat her hand. “I’m sorry. You just aren’t a very big deal to me. It’s okay.”
The girl pulls her hand away before I can touch her again.
“No one told me the new girl was a freak!” she spits out.
“There you go,” I say, my voice dripping with mock kindness. “Keep your chin up. Eventually, you will meet someone who cares about your opinion. I’m so sorry I’m not her.”
For a moment, there is silence on the cliffs. That must be why the voice carries to me so clearly, why there’s no mistaking it when I hear, “Lila, are you okay?”
I turn at the sound and see another girl behind us. And before I even realize what I’m saying, I blurt out, “Megan, is that you?”
Of course it’s her, I realize. But I can’t help myself. Megan looks different. In fact, she looks … like Lila. Well, not like Lila. Megan’s mother is Indian American, and she’s also shorter than Lila by a head. But they both wear silk scarves wrapped around their necks and bejeweled headbands in their hair. Short skirts and at least a dozen bracelets on their wrists. Megan is the same girl I used to know, just shinier. Much, much shinier. Embassy Row might not have changed, but Megan has, I realize as she steps closer.
“Grace?” Megan sounds stunned. It’s like she’d never thought she’d see me again — like maybe she’d heard that I was dead or comatose or worse.
She no doubt heard I was worse.
And the awful part is that it was true. And Megan knows it. I liked this party a lot more when I was surrounded by strangers.
“I didn’t know you were back,” she says.
“Surprise.” I force a smile and feel whatever momentum I’d had against Lila seep away. The cliff’s edge feels closer than it should.
“You two know each other?” Lila asks, confused.
“Grace used to spend summers here. With her grandfather. The ambassador.” Megan emphasizes the final word, and I see its meaning land.
My grandfather is the ambassador for the United States. He’s also Megan’s mother’s boss. That makes me important on Embassy Row. This fact makes Lila shift, but it doesn’t make her like it.
“You were friends with her?” Lila asks Megan in a whisper that she totally wants me to hear.
I look at Megan, and Megan looks at me. Her mother is important at the embassy. Well liked. Every summer of my childhood I would arrive at Embassy Row and Megan’s mom would bring her over. Day after day.
Megan would ask if I had any dolls. I would ask if she knew where my mother had hidden my slingshot. She would invite me over for tea parties. I would ask her to keep lookout while I followed Jamie and Alexei over the wall.
We were not friends.
We were simply what becomes of kids who are thrust together so often that, eventually, they run out of reasons not to go play.
I keep looking at her now, realizing that neither one of us has a clue how to answer Lila’s question. And, if that is the case, then the answer is most certainly no.
“Listen,” Lila finally says, to me this time, “you’re new, so allow me to spell it out for you. This is an important place. Our parents are important people. Everyone here is significant in some way. I’m not in charge because I want to be. I’m in charge because somebody has to be.”
The scary thing isn’t what she’s saying — it’s that she means it. It’s that, on some level, she might even be right.
“Do you know what happens if someone gets hurt at our party?” Lila asks. “If your little German friend does a backflip and lands on the Japanese ambassador’s daughter? What if the Australians or the French bring alcohol and then the South Africans try to drive home and get into a car wreck with the Egyptians? That could happen, you know. And believe me when I say none of us are ready for the consequences.” She crosses her arms and steadies her nerves, quite certain that her place in the hierarchy has been restored. “There has to be order. There have to be rules. It’s not my fault everyone looks to me to make them.”
“Congratulations,” I tell her with a slight bow. “I hope you and your power trip will be very happy together. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to go.”
I turn, searching the crowd until I see Noah. “Grace,” he says, coming cautiously forward with two bottles of water in his hands. “Hey. Maybe you and I should —”
“Get out of here, loser,” Lila says, spinning on him.
“Okay.” I try taking a deep breath, but my blood has begun to boil. “Now you’ve done it.”
“Done what?” she asks with a snarl.
“Messed with my best friend.”
This time it’s Lila who laughs. “He’s not your friend.” She crosses her arms. “He’s my brother.”
I shoot a glance at Noah, who shrugs. “Twin brother, to be specific.”
And finally I know who Lila looks like.
Lila reaches for me — to do what, I do not know. It’s like she’s moving in slow motion. She is smaller than Dad, slower than Jamie. She is no contest for me, but her hand never reaches my shoulder.
Before I know what is happening, a small blond blur bolts between us. Rosie grabs at Lila, pulling the beautiful blue-and-white scarf from around her neck.
“You!” Lila snaps.
“Leave her alone!” Rosie yells, and I pull her back.
“Okay. Everybody leave everybody alone,” I say.
“Here, give me that,” Megan snaps at Rosie. She grabs at the scarf, pulling it from Rosie’s grasp. But the wind gusts at just that moment, and the scarf flutters, flying free. For a moment all we can do is watch as it floats over the cliff’s edge and down the hill. It is soaring over the trees and out to sea when the wind shifts and blows it toward the lone dark building on Embassy Row. There is nothing but a cumulative gasp as it catches on the roof, flapping in the breeze over what is technically still the country of Iran.
“Okay. This is bad,” Noah says. His eyes are wide and filled with terror. “This is very, very bad.”
I feel the mood shift around me. Lila is pointing to the night sky as if in disbelief. Rosie shakes and says, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” over and over so silently it is like she’s locked in a very bad dream.
And then Noah grabs hold of me and Rosie and starts trying to pull us toward the path.
“Noah?” Rosie looks at him.
“Go home, Ro,” he says calmly. “You were never here. We were never here. Everybody!” he shouts. “Party’s over!”
“She was here!” Lila shouts, pointing at Rosie. “That little terror was here and it’s her fault.”
Megan steps toward her. “Lila, it’s —”
“Do not talk to me!” Lila snaps.
“Okay, Lila, let’s go.” Noah takes his sister’s arm. “Go home, Rosie, Megan. Everybody just go —”
I have this habit. It’s not a good one. It’s not like I’m proud of it or anything, but sometimes I find things funny when they really, really aren’t.
It’s a scarf on a pole on an abandoned building, I think as I look at the panicking people around me, and I don’t even try to hold my laughter in.
“Grace, come on,” Noah says, reaching for me.
“It’s a scarf,” I say. “A scarf.”
I’ve been awake for almost forty-eight hours. I’m jet-lagged and exhausted, tired of these people and their drama.
“It’s not like it’s an international incident.” I look from Lila to Megan to Rosie, and then finally I let my gaze linger on Noah, who eases closer, lowers his voice.
“Actually, Grace, it kind of is. We’re Israeli. And that is Iran.”
When I look back at the blue-and-white scarf, I realize that, from a distance, it bears a striking resemblance to the flag of Lila and Noah’s home nation.
“The Israeli ambassador gave that scarf to our mom. In fact, he gave scarves like it to all of the women on his senior staff,” Noah says. “If anyone sees that up there …”
Lila grab
s Megan and the two of them move toward the trees. Most of the others have already started the climb down the overgrown path.
“So don’t let anyone see.” I shrug. “Go get it.”
“We can’t!” Noah snaps. He’s not mad. He’s scared. And I know that being friends with me is already far more trouble than he bargained for. “We can’t just traipse into Iran anytime we feel like it.”
“I can get it,” I say.
“Really, Grace?” Noah asks. I can hear his impatience, his nerves. “What can you do?”
“This,” I say.
I don’t stop for anything. Not for protests, not for logic. I don’t care about the height of the cliffs or the rocks that line the shore.
I run as hard and as fast as I can toward the ledge and then I reach out my arms, swan-diving into the sea.
Adria has the deepest shoreline on the Mediterranean, and that’s how I know the fall won’t kill me. Still, my stomach stays on the cliffs even as my body hurtles through the salty air. I feel free and just a little bit aware that I might be wrong. I know, deep down, that I should be terrified. But I’m not. So I close my eyes and breathe out as I hit the water. Cold swallows me. My lungs burn. And that is how I know I’m still alive.
By the time I crawl out of the water and onto the sandy beach, they’ve turned off the music. Or maybe I just can’t hear it from here. There is nothing but the sound of the waves crashing onto the beach and then receding slowly back to sea — like an infantry trying to take the shore, pushing against it wave upon wave, going nowhere.
The wind is cold, and it hits me, chills me through my jeans and wet shirt. I push my hair out of my face, and realize that I survived the fall, but pneumonia might totally get me. And I decide that that’s okay.
Noah was right. The Iranian embassy’s property actually stretches right out to the beach. I stumble along soft, wet sand fit for a five-star resort. When the clouds shift I see a crumbling fence failing to keep the world at bay.
The boards are rotting. A weather-beaten sign announces Keep Out in five different languages as it dangles by a single nail over a place where the sand has been washed away. This is where I cross, crawling slowly, carefully, on my stomach like all new recruits are taught to do during basic training. I used to run that obstacle course just for fun every chance I got. It feels strangely just like coming home as I slowly slither, inching into the sovereign nation of Iran.
