My dad shook his head. “I checked into that. For you to keep your scholarship, she’d have to legally adopt you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“We’re not using your money,” my mom said.
“Wait,” I said, holding up my hand. “Just wait.”
What were my options? Leave now and give up my chance for a prestigious scholarship, but keep the meager college fund, or stay and drain whatever was left in the fund, and put everything into the Bennington.
I thought about Raf and how when it came to his dad, he was ashamed of me. And also how he was with Giselle and how likely it was that, given everything I knew about him, he was probably playing me.
I stood. “Drain it.”
“Sweetie,” my mom said.
“Drain it. I’ll gamble on the chance of winning the Bennington. It’s my dream. Drain it.”
I walked out, and I think my parents didn’t know what else to say, because how could they refuse my offer? Especially when they knew what the Bennington meant to me.
When I got to my room, my phone displayed two texts.
Charlotte: How’s the story? Are you getting closer to Raf?
Jesse: How’s the story? Any corroborating evidence?
There was no way I was going to admit to either of them the position I’d gotten myself into with Raf, a person who thinks cheating on his girlfriend is no big deal. Besides, I was actually grateful it had happened, because there couldn’t be a better reminder of the type of person Raf was, the things he got away with, and the fact that he was just a story, and I would be just a fling. I couldn’t believe I’d almost become a girl he wooed and discarded while he carried on a relationship with his real girlfriend.
And now I had no backup. I had no more money. I needed the Bennington more than ever. My parents’ financial situation was the clincher. I had to go after the exposé.
There was no better time to finish the story than now, when the fire of retribution was hot, the sangria was getting the creative juices flowing, and the threat of poverty was a fire beneath my feet.
I pulled out my laptop and began adding everything I’d learned since my first draft. Illegal landing of planes. Cracking precious vases over the heads of boyfriends. Ins with the guards at national parks. Faking a 911 call to the son of the secretary of state. I included all the new stuff, complete with information I’d gotten from Mack about the fake IDs. (She’d decided she was ready to quit for good.) I used it all. It was beautiful. And this time I didn’t hold back on describing Rafael Amador.
I sent it to Charlotte before I went to bed. Maybe Raf had made me look like an idiot, but who would look like the bigger idiot when I was holding the Bennington trophy?
Okay, it was a scholarship, not a trophy, but the picture in my head was so much more poignant with me holding a golden trophy of a girl at a typewriter, and Raf wondering what had hit him.
This was all ethical, though. I was leaving out the part about Raf’s brother. I would never divulge those secrets. I had standards.
In the morning, I had an email from Charlotte, and a sinking feeling in my stomach that I wasn’t sure was from the sangria or the article.
But it must’ve been the sangria, because Charlotte’s email about the article was glowing, using words like “standout” and “fascinating” and “captivating,” and I knew I’d struck just the right balance between compelling and tabloid.
She texted me.
Charlotte: What are you going to do with it?
Me: Not sure how to handle it yet. Jesse (news director) thinks anonymous is the way to go. But I want to wait awhile.
Charlotte: I think it will work better in a magazine. You’ll get more space. More photos.
Me: Do you think it would work at People?
Charlotte: Definitely.
Me: Okay. I want to sit on it for a bit.
Charlotte: Pipe, are you scared?
Finally, something I could answer honestly.
Me: Yes.
Charlotte: Of what?
Me: People who have tried before have failed and failed hard.
Charlotte: Is that why you’re having a hard time pulling the trigger?
I couldn’t quite explain my hesitation, except that maybe now in the light of day something was holding me back. And that something was Raf.
Me: I’m having a hard time pulling the trigger because of what it would do to Rafael.
This time there was a long pause on Charlotte’s end. And then:
Charlotte: Herbert Matthews didn’t let any feelings for Fidel Castro get in the way of his story.
Me: Can’t argue with that.
Charlotte: This is your future, Pipe. Your dream. Pull it together.
Me: I’d never let anything stand between me and my dream.
Charlotte: Don’t pull a Dave Benoit.
Dave Benoit was a reporter who’d hidden information he’d gotten about a corrupt senator because he’d fallen in love with her. That wasn’t me. It couldn’t be me.
Me: Never.
Charlotte: Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. I’ll help you.
Me: Thank you.
I purposely arrived at school with only seconds to spare before the first bell, but Raf still found me.
“Can we talk?”
“No.”
I walked past him and to class. The truth was, I didn’t need him anymore. I had everything I needed: pictures, interviews, reasonable conclusions. This was another instance where journalism was different from a court of law, especially if it was a magazine exposé written from the viewpoint of the author. I didn’t need to prove something beyond a reasonable doubt. There was no such thing as evidence not being admitted because it was obtained in the wrong way.
The article had broad appeal. I thought about the audience. Students without astronomical trust funds would be interested in seeing how the other half lived. Parents in the middle class could read it and pat themselves on the back for not making more money. People who followed the tabloids would love the insider information. I didn’t need him anymore.
But Raf leaned over and said, “I’m not with Giselle,” just before class started.
“You broke up with her?” I asked. I couldn’t resist.
“We were never together.”
I stared at him, and he nodded, but there was no time to ask follow-ups because class began. The rest of the morning, he stuck close by and seemed to be waiting for me to ask a question, any question, but for the first time in my life, I wasn’t really ready to ask anything.
If they weren’t together, why were they kissing at Raf’s party? Was this just another thing Raf was saying so he could smooch me? And what teenager used the word “smooch”?
One who had never been to third base, and had been tagged out at second.
I sat at my usual table at lunch with Mack and Faroush (they were back together, although you’d never guess it from the silence at the table). Suddenly Raf plopped his tray down and joined us. He didn’t say anything for a long time. He just waited.
Mack and Faroush looked at each other, and after a few moments, they both grabbed their trays. “We’re done here,” she said. “Because this is weird.”
As they walked away, Mack raised her eyebrows, asking if I was okay. I nodded.
“Okay,” I said, looking back at Raf. “What do you mean you’re not together?”
“I mean we’re only together for show.” His voice was low and soft. “I’m doing it as a favor, and I couldn’t tell you about it because it was Giselle’s story to tell. I kept trying to get her permission, but she wouldn’t give it. She doesn’t trust you. I didn’t know if it was just because she didn’t like you or because she was scared. Turns out it was mostly because she didn’t like you.”
I shrugged. “Not surprising.”
“But then, last night, she finally gave me permission. Because you walked out on me.”
“Why would that make a difference to her?”
&nb
sp; “Because she knows how I feel about you.” He blurted it out, then winced and smiled. “It was supposed to go smoother than that. But I told her the truth was the only way to get you back.”
I tried to ignore the thrill that went through my heart. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
Raf nodded. “I’m only telling you this now because Giselle said it was okay. And because I trust you.”
I didn’t stop him.
“Giselle’s had it rough. Her mom died a long time ago, and her stepmom is batshit but has her father wrapped around her little finger. Now Giselle is seeing this older guy, and while it’s not unusual for her to see an older guy, this guy is the son of one of her father’s biggest rivals. The diplomatic community is a very small world. Word gets around, so to hide the relationship, I told her I would pretend to be her boyfriend.” He stared hard at his sandwich and ran his hand through his hair.
“Did it work?” I asked.
“So far, yes.”
We were quiet for another few moments. By this point, my heart was beating outside my chest.
“When I agreed to the plan, that was when I didn’t have an interest in anyone. But that’s not how it is now.”
My heart leaped to the ceiling and swung around a chandelier.
“So, Pip, I like you. Can we start over?”
“What about your dad?”
“I’ll deal with that when we come to it. I won’t deny you again.” His eyes looked dark and intense. “So, can we start over?”
I had a choice to make, right then and there. I didn’t know how I’d gotten into this position, the one where I had let it all get personal, but here I was, and the truth was, I wasn’t a bad person.
But this was the Bennington. This was my ticket.
Maybe I could win the Bennington without the exposé and maybe I couldn’t, but one thing I knew for sure: in this moment, staring into two big brown eyes . . . I couldn’t . . . I wouldn’t publish my story now. I couldn’t live with hurting him. The end.
I turned my thoughts to living on tips from the Yogurt Shop for a month, and turning that into a story. It could be good. And I wouldn’t be destroying anybody.
“Can we?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said sort of breathlessly.
Charlotte would be so disappointed in me. I had broken a basic rule of journalim. It was a rookie mistake. That’s all I was. A rookie. Charlotte had made me promise not to pull a David Benoit, and here I was, doing just that.
No, I couldn’t tell her just yet. I would break the news to her when I found another Bennington-worthy story. And they were out there. I just had to look, and it would be easier to do that if I wasn’t preoccupied with the DIs. I couldn’t stand to dash her hopes without something bigger to get excited about.
I took Raf’s hand in mine, and his face went instantly soft. “Let’s start over,” I said. And then I did what I always did when starting a new project. “First we need a few rules.”
He looked wary. “Okay.”
“Number one. I don’t care how bad you’re feeling about yourself. I know I metaphorically punch you in the gut, but no provoking me to actually punch you in the gut. Maybe we should make a list.” I pulled out a pencil and piece of paper, and started to write. “One, no punching each other in the gut.”
His lips twitched. “You really think that needs to be written down?”
“Yes. Feel free to add things.”
“Okay, number two, no talking to paintings about the other person.”
I glanced up.
“Let me clarify,” he said. “You can talk to paintings. You just can’t complain about the other person to them.”
“Okay,” I said. I added the rule. “Number three, no scaling monuments.”
“Wow. You’re demanding.”
I snorted and wrote the rule.
“Number four,” he said. “You said you have a habit of lying. So no lying.”
I paused only for a tiny second before writing it down. I would need to come clean about what I’d been up to and why I’d gotten near him in the first place. But not today.
“Number five,” I said, “we go on a date in my world. In my crappy Toyota, which I’m probably going to have to sell.”
“Why would you sell it?”
“It’s a long story. But I will show you how the peasants party on a dime.”
He nodded. “Deal. You can show me tonight, on our date in your world.”
“Okay. I’ll pick you up at your house after my shift at the Yogurt Shop.”
I floated about two feet above the ground for the rest of the day. Everything felt exciting and new and hopeful.
32
That night, I drove to the Spanish embassy. Raf was waiting on the curb, with Fritz in tow.
He opened the passenger door. “Fritz, you get in the back.”
And we were off. Me driving, Raf at my side, and Fritz sitting awkwardly in the cramped quarters of my backseat.
“No funny business back there, Fritz,” I said.
“Like what, Miss Baird?”
My mouth dropped open. “He speaks!”
Raf smiled. “Can we have some music?”
I gestured to the knobs on the console. “It’s called a radio. It plays all sorts of stuff.”
“What a novel concept,” Raf said, stroking his chin.
It took him a while to figure out the difference between AM and FM.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“I figured we’d start with dinner,” I said.
I drove all the way out to Falls Church and wound my way through the streets until I found what I was looking for.
“It’s . . . a car dealership,” Raf said.
“I know. Follow my lead.”
We walked in, Fritz tailing us, and I led Raf to the service repair department and then to the waiting area, where there was a fridge full of soda and a basket with muffins, candy bars, and granola, and another basket full of fruit.
“Fill your pockets,” I said out of the side of my mouth.
Raf did as instructed, and Fritz actually turned his back to us and acted as lookout. We were out of there after two minutes, pockets bulging with dinner.
Raf was laughing. “I feel like I just robbed a bank.”
“I discovered this trick while I had my car in the shop. And if you liked that, you’re going to love where we go next.”
I steered the car back toward Arlington and then turned south along the Potomac. As we got closer to the destination, I made Raf close his eyes and I put earbuds in his ears and turned the music up.
“Is this necessary?” he said.
“Yes,” I said loudly so he could hear me.
I saw the lights of Reagan National Airport in the distance, and I waved my hand in front of Raf’s face to make sure he couldn’t see.
I followed the Potomac to a park in Alexandria and pulled my car into one of the spaces.
“Now can I open my eyes?” he asked.
“No!”
I watched overhead at the planes taking off from the airport, and I planned our car exit just perfectly after one plane had left and before the next one had taken off. I led him across the grass of the park and helped him lie down on his back, and only then did I remove the earbuds and let him open his eyes.
We were staring up at the stars.
“Stars?” he said. “That was the big . . .”
His voice drifted off as the engines of a 747 rumbled from behind us. He started to sit up, but I put my hand on his chest.
“You showed me the back side of water. I’m going to show you the bottom of an airplane.”
And right then, the departing plane flew above us, so close that it vibrated through my whole body, starting from my chest and radiating outward to my fingertips and toes.
Raf grabbed my hand or I grabbed his and we felt plane after plane from our insides out.
When I dropped them back at the embassy, Raf said, “Best date of m
y life.”
The rest of the week, it was like we were getting to know each other all over again, except we already knew so much. He seemed to sense my feelings like a piano tuner would pluck a string and close his eyes and listen for the vibration and know from the sound just what to do.
When I saw him the morning after the planes, I had a hard time looking at him. The scrutiny of the crowded hallways felt heavy and dense, and I literally didn’t know how to be near him.
I didn’t know how to grab his hand.
While I was having this slight mental breakdown, Raf simply came up beside me, put his hand on my elbow, and said, “We’ve got this, Pip. No worries.”
He seemed hyperaware of the nuances of my actions, to the point where it was almost like it was a superpower. During lunch with his regular group of friends, and the addition of Mack and Faroush, we didn’t touch an inordinate amount, and we sure as hell didn’t kiss or anything like that, but at one point during one of Giselle’s stories about the foreign help at her house, meaning the Americans, I was looking around for a napkin, and without even looking at me, Raf handed me his.
Things like that.
After school on Wednesday, we met out at the stables. Raf’s horse was already saddled, and so while the others were saddling up, Raf held his hand down to me. “Come on up, Pip.”
“I’m pretty sure that saddle was built for one.”
Raf grabbed my hand and hoisted me up. He put his hands on my waist and finagled it so I was on the front half of the saddle, facing him, with my legs both falling to one side of the horse.
He gave me a goofy smile. Then his eyebrows started to wrinkle.
“Not as comfortable as the movies make you believe, right?” I said.
“Nope,” he said with a grunt. “Is that a pen in your pocket, or do you just really like this position?”
“Oh! Sorry. It is a pen.” I wriggled so that I could access the pen, but that only made Raf wince more. “How about I get down now?”
He nodded.
Thursday night, I had off work, so we went to the Alliance Française de Washington for a five-dollar showing of the French movie Amélie. The frenetic pace and its themes of anonymous love reminded me of the confessions on Post-Anon. I loved it.
Raf walked me to journalism on Friday, and when he walked away, I saw that Jesse had been watching us. “How’s the story coming?” he asked with a frown.