by Brodi Ashton
I clicked the screen dark and went to sleep.
27
Could I do it?
Would I do it?
Two little questions that began to weave their way into every mundane thing I did.
Washing the dishes. Can I do it? Will I do it?
Writing a story on the loss of cursive skills in schools. Can I do it?
Editing a piece on a local fishmonger and the art of gutting, boning, filleting, and displaying fresh seafood. Will I do it?
Singing for tips. Can I do it? (Actually, singing for tips made me think I could definitely do it.)
I went over to Gramma Weeza’s for coffee and sugar and more sugar. Will I do it?
She noticed the extra sugar. “What’s on your mind, Pipe?” Gramma said.
“School stuff,” I said.
“Want to talk about it?”
I wasn’t ready to put it all into words. “No.”
“Hmm. Did I ever tell you about the time I met Patrick Swayze?”
“Yes,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “But tell me again.”
“It was before he was really, really famous, when he was just semifamous. I went to a dance convention his mom was putting on, and on the last day, in walks Patrick Swayze. Everyone went a little crazy. And at one point, he came up to me and said, ‘Would you like an autograph?’ And I said, ‘No, but I’ll give you mine.’ And then that night, at the final dance, he was my partner for five songs.”
I stirred my coffee and took a sip. “So how is that supposed to help me?”
“Oh, it’s not, sweetie. I just like that story, and you said you didn’t want to talk about your problems.”
I sighed. “It’s a good story.”
A few days passed, and I avoided Raf. I still wanted more time. If I was going to turn in the article, I needed a little distance from him so I could get some perspective. Maybe I was hesitating because I was too close to it. One of the writers for the Huffington Post always said that she leaves a story alone for a while before running with it, so she can see it with fresh eyes. Maybe I needed to leave Raf alone for a bit so I could do the same with him. Maybe some space would help me remember that he was a hot, rich, privileged boy who got away with everything, while I was a struggling wannabe journalist who shopped at thrift stores and had to fight and claw her way to college.
Maybe avoiding Raf would be easier if I had a good excuse. Maybe a good excuse would be to accept a date from Samuel. After all, Samuel was tall and cute and . . . who knew what else? Maybe I should find out.
Me: I’d love to go to Luigi’s.
Samuel: Excellent. I was wondering how long you’d leave me hanging.
As I was reading his answer, I bumped into Raf.
“Pip.”
“Raf.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“You’ve been disavowing my very existence.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Look, your dad doesn’t approve of you hanging out with me. You have a girlfriend. You have . . .” . . . everything. “I’m fine. You’re fine. Alejandro’s fine. Let’s just . . . leave it at that.”
He frowned and looked as though he was about to say something else but my phone buzzed with another text. I automatically glanced at the screen. It was Samuel.
Samuel: See you at 7 on Friday.
“Who was that?” Raf said, although something about the look on his face made me think he’d seen exactly who it was.
“See you around, Raf.”
I turned and walked away.
When I got to the journalism room that afternoon, Jesse was standing over the monitor showing the layout for today’s release. He motioned me over. “You’ve been phoning in your stories the last couple of days.”
I gave it some thought and realized he was probably right. I had been ignoring the journalism staff. “I’m sorry, I’ve been preoccupied with this bigger story I’m working on.”
“Oh, yeah?” He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about it.”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to give him facts and details, but I did need some feedback. “I’m not sure how much I should tell you, because I don’t know if there’s anything there yet, but in a general sense, it’s an inside story about the students with diplomatic immunity.”
He tilted his head skeptically. “The DIs.”
“I’m not the only one who calls them that?”
He ignored me. “You want to do an inside story on the DIs?”
“Yes.”
“Do you value a future in journalism at all?”
“Yes. That’s why I’m doing it.”
He sighed. “Have you noticed that none of them are in the journalism department?”
I glanced around. “No. But yes, I guess.”
“And have you further noticed how nobody’s done stories on them?”
“I guess.”
“Do you think you’re the first person to come up with an inside story idea?”
I frowned. “I . . . guess I did. But now I think I’m not.”
He went back to his monitor and began typing and clicking his mouse, but he kept talking. “They distrust American media. Journalists, magazines, paparazzi . . . even the school paper. I doubt you’ll get anything, and you shouldn’t waste your senior year trying. Lots have tried. And they’re nowhere now.”
I sat down across from Jesse, and Raf’s words echoed in my head. I think I can trust you.
But then other words echoed in my head. Duct-taped cheerleaders, escaped detention, kisser of Giselle, yellow cups, fights, acting like he didn’t know me . . . and on and on.
The thing was, even if this article did see the light of day, Raf would probably never have to face any consequences.
“Maybe you’re right. But so far, I have a story involving drugs, fake IDs, binge drinking, adultery, pill popping . . .”
As I was speaking, Jesse slowly looked up from the monitor and stared at me. “You have . . . evidence?”
“Pictures. Recordings. Eyewitness accounts. It’s nothing ready to print yet, but it’s a start.”
He closed his eyes and sighed. “You could go somewhere with this. Or you could disappear.”
“I know. But it’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
He nodded. “Okay. But don’t tell Ferguson about it yet. It will be easier to spring it on him so he can have the defense that he didn’t know about it in time to do anything. If he needs it.”
“Why do I feel like we’re dealing with the mafia?”
He smiled. “Because we are dealing with the mafia. But if I were in your position, and I had the chance to try what you’re trying, I’d go for it.”
I paused. “Is this another way for you to knock me down a notch? Like with the internal comm story?”
He shook his head. “I like healthy competition. When I win the Bennington, I want to know I’m the best.”
I smiled. “Okay.”
“But I’d also consider doing your story anonymously.”
Clearly, Jesse was scared of the DIs too.
My talk with Jesse helped give me the perspective I needed. After this year, I would never have to deal with Raf and the DIs again, but the Bennington was my future. I just couldn’t let myself drown in the story again. I had to come at it from different angles, safer ones, with slightly less sexy eyes and less persuasive biceps.
I had to find other sources besides the DIs. I texted Mack to meet me after school at the flagpole.
Mack: Did you really just ask me to meet you at the flagpole at three? Are you going to beat me up?
Me: Oops. No. No fighting. It was only for convenience.
Mack: Good. Because in a fight, you’d lose.
Me: I have no doubt.
After school, I headed to the flagpole, where Mack was waiting.
“What’s up, Piper?” she said, her hands shoved deep into her pockets.
“How much longer are you going to be running your fake ID racket?”
She shrugged. “The first two months of the school year are the busiest for me. By spring I usually have most of my business taken care of.”
“And next year, you’ll be at MIT, right?”
“Yeah, if everything goes as planned.” She narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?”
“I need a fake ID, and I don’t have any money to cover it. And you probably won’t be able to keep going with your business afterward. But would you make me one?”
She snort-laughed. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you are on my planet, and you have the chance to even things out a bit with all those pesky rich kids and their privileges.”
She looked around as if there were someone watching. “Although I object to anyone our age using the word ‘pesky’ . . . tell me more.”
28
I spent the rest of the week avoiding Raf, which was difficult because we had so many classes together, but my path was getting clearer by the second. My future was on the line. I didn’t want to look back ten years from now and regret passing up an opportunity—after all, ten years from now, Raf would be long gone, living in some marble house with his own servants, and what would I have? A mountain of debt that would crush me, and crush any drive I had.
So I avoided him. I didn’t share my notes. I ignored his little comments in chemistry. I sat with Mack and Faroush at lunch and didn’t once look over.
“He’s looking again,” Mack would say.
I would shrug.
“Way to stay strong,” she said.
When Friday came around, I had put enough space between Raf and me that I finally got some perspective. I realized I had been letting his looks and charm and interest in me affect me. A reporter was supposed to remain unaffected. And I’d been affected.
That stopped here and now.
Besides, I didn’t need him.
He passed me in the hallway.
“I don’t need you,” I muttered to myself. Or so I thought.
“Noted,” he answered.
Of course on top of everything else, Raf would excel at superhuman hearing.
It didn’t matter, though. Tonight, I had a date. Samuel was picking me up at seven. Samuel was cute too. And Samuel would beat Raf every day of the week in a height contest.
That evening, as I was getting ready, my dad knocked on my door.
“Come in!” I said.
He opened the door. “Hey, Pip.”
“Oh, no. You too?”
“Michael told me that’s what they call you. Who’s the special guy tonight?”
I glanced his way as I finished braiding my hair. “I’ll make you a hundred chocolate milk shakes if you never call any date of mine my ‘special guy’ again. But, since you asked, it’s Samuel Morrison.”
“Morrison?”
“His dad’s the secretary of state.”
He blinked a few times. “Well, just make sure he’s not after you for the wrong reasons.”
I rolled my eyes. “What are those?”
“Money,” he said, without a trace of a smile. “Fame.”
I smiled. “I’ll make sure.”
Right then, my mom came to the door. “There’s a limo for you?”
“A limo?” I got butterflies in my stomach. I’d never been in a limo before.
“Have fun,” my mom said. “And don’t drink anything from the minibar because they overcharge for those things.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s his family’s limo. Not a rental.”
She nodded. “Okay. Right.”
“It’s the son of the secretary of state, honey,” my dad said.
“Hmm,” my mom said.
Samuel was waiting in the limo, and I had to admit he looked great. Perfectly tousled hair, dark jeans, brown leather shoes, a purposefully rumpled button-down shirt and a brown jacket.
“Maybe I should change?” I said, although I had no idea what I would change into.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
I smiled. “Thank you.”
We drove to this tiny Italian restaurant in the middle of this funky neighborhood, with a colorful array of restaurants, clubs, apartment buildings. Adams Morgan is a multicultural landmark in DC. It was named after two elementary schools that used to be segregated. Adams was the all-white school; Morgan was the all-black school. And when segregation ended, the school boundaries blended, and the neighborhood became known as Adams Morgan.
I hardly ever came here, because it was overpriced.
The waiter came and took our order, and after twenty minutes of conversation, I’d learned that Samuel was a straight-A student, he was going to come into his trust fund when he turned eighteen, he regularly saw the president’s kids at his school, and his horse’s name was Kibble. He wanted to be a surgeon.
“Why?” I asked.
“You’re the first person who’s ever asked me why I want to be a surgeon.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “I guess most people wouldn’t bother asking.”
“Well, I do.”
He drank some of his soda while he thought about it. “I guess I like to take things apart and put them back together.”
I scrunched my nose. “Please don’t ever describe it like that to your patients.”
He laughed. I glanced at the dessert menu and noticed the prices, which were in the astronomical range, and that made me think of expenses. Which made me think of my lack thereof. Which made me think of how Samuel might be another source for my story.
“So, I met you at a Chiswick party,” I said, in a poor attempt at a segue. “Do our schools intermingle often?”
His glass froze on the way to his mouth. “Uh, yes. But I think we’d intermingle a lot less if everyone called it ‘intermingling.’”
I smiled.
“I’ve known Giselle and Raf and the rest of them for a while. Those two are like brother and sister.”
He bit off a chunk of hard roll.
“Except they’re together,” I said.
“Well, some of the best love stories start that way,” he said. “Raf would do anything for Giselle.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, she can do no wrong with him, no matter her history.”
I opened my mouth to ask him more, but he put a hand up. “Look, I don’t know the details. And really it’s none of my business. I only know that last part through my ex-girlfriend, Tasha. She was always jealous of Raf’s relationship with Giselle.”
“Oh.” As I registered the name, my breath caught in my throat. Tasha. Raf had said a public school girl got “obssessive” over him, and that her dad had been the paparazzo who had tried to publish the incriminating photos of Raf.
“Is this Tasha Stevens?”
Samuel raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. She was with Raf for a bit, and he sort of broke her heart. I was the shoulder she cried on. We had fun for a while. And then I realized that on the hot/crazy scale, she was about an eight-slash-ten. You know what I mean?”
“As a ten-slash-ten, I think I understand.”
“Ha!” he said. “How are you possibly a ten on the crazy scale?”
I shrugged. “On the first day of school, Raf caught me talking to a painting.”
“I’ve seen those paintings,” Samuel said. “They’re creepy. I wouldn’t be concerned about you talking to one, but did it talk back?”
I smiled. “No.”
“See? Not a ten crazy.”
“How would you rate yourself?” I said.
He looked down and dipped the last of a roll in some vinegar and oil. “Oh, I don’t know. Nine-point-eight-slash-four.”
“Nine hot and four crazy?”
“I don’t know, yeah.” He smiled mischievously.
“I think that zone is so rare, they call it the unicorn zone.”
He leaned forward. “Well, Piper Baird, maybe you’ve met a unicorn. Wait. I think I got the numbers wrong . . .” He pretended to do some math in his head
. “Okay, it’s a four-hot-nine-point-eight-crazy. Sorry. Math was never my subject.” He smiled and held my gaze for a long moment. He definitely wasn’t hard to look at. And he was funny. And self-deprecating. And he hadn’t tried to do anything like swing from the chandeliers or punch a waiter.
I blushed.
“And now, prepare yourself, Piper Baird, for the most amazing mini-zeppoles you will ever eat.”
We kept talking in easy conversation, and where being with Raf was the sizzle of a drop of oil on a skillet, Samuel was a slow burn. Raf wore his confidence on his sleeve, but Samuel kept it in his pocket.
I definitely wanted to see him again. And not for a story.
When I had about three bites left of the not-so-mini-zeppoles, Samuel’s phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen and frowned. “It’s nine-one-one.”
“What?” I said, worried.
“Don’t worry, that doesn’t mean a terrorist attack or anything, but it might be more of a personal threat to my family, which means I have to go.” Security guys filed into the restaurant, faces grim, and I started to panic. “They’re supposed to take me straight home. Um . . .”
“It’s okay,” I said, putting my hand on his arm to reassure him. “I can take the metro home.”
He shook his head and pulled out his wallet. “No. Here. Have some cash for a cab. Oh my God, this is so embarrassing. This never happens.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
“I’d really like to do this again,” Samuel said. “Say you will.”
“I’d love to,” I said.
And with that, the security detail whisked him away via the kitchen and probably a back door.
And then I was sitting there alone. Several other diners stared at me. I reached for the bread, but it was all gone. The waiter had taken away the mini-zeppoles.
I hoped Samuel had paid the check on his way out. I know I shouldn’t have expected it, given the circumstances, but I really couldn’t afford to cover it.
Maybe I could just walk out.
Before I could muster the courage, out of nowhere, Raf appeared in the chair across from me.
29
