“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 grabs 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.