All Fall Down Read online

  “Good night, dear,” Ms. Chancellor tells me, the lecture over.

  I don’t say anything back. I just shuffle, dirty and cold, toward the doors.

  I can sleep anywhere. Planes. Trains. Sofas. Lawn chairs. Call it the upside to life as an army brat. Never having a home means, I guess, that everywhere is your home. There is absolutely no place I’m anxious to return to. But this is different.

  I’m not trying to fall asleep in someplace new; I’m in a place that’s old. And that’s why I find myself lying in my mother’s bed, staring up at the pink canopy overhead and studying the shadows that dance across the walls as the wind blows through the limbs of the tree outside my window. When at last I fall asleep, I dream I’m trapped, my wrists bound. I toss and turn. Even my subconscious wants to figure out a way to break free.

  “Hey.”

  The voice is soft in my head. I think for a moment that Alexei has invaded my dream, so I turn over, mumble some insult.

  “Hey,” the voice says louder.

  And then a hand lands on my bare shoulder. I don’t even bother waking, not really. My brother goes to West Point. My father is an Army Ranger. Asleep Me can handle this.

  Still groggy, I roll over and grab the hand. And before I’m even off the bed, the boy is on the floor. When I finally find myself fully awake, I’m standing over him.

  “Grace!” he half yells, half whispers.

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

  My hair is falling into my eyes. The old T-shirt I’m wearing is about three sizes too big and hangs off of me weirdly, leaving one shoulder bare. I probably look as freaky as I feel. And I’m glad for it.

  I wrench the boy’s hand farther back, holding his thumb with my other hand.

  “I can break it.”

  But the boy doesn’t scream. He doesn’t cry out. He just looks up at me. And smiles.

  “Hi, Grace. I’m Noah,” he says. “I’m here to be your best friend.”

  I’ve never lived anywhere long enough to have a best friend before. Maybe that’s why I let him off the floor and don’t protest while he fumbles around my room in the dark.

  “Come on. Get dressed,” he tells me. “We have to go.”

  “Go where?” I ask. “Who are you? Am I going to regret not breaking your hand? Because it’s not too late. I can still totally break your hand.”

  “I know you can.” He looks at the piles of clothes, grabs whatever is lying on top, and throws it at me. “Here. Put this on.”

  “That’s a duffle bag.”

  “Okay. Then put on something else. But that’s a really nice bag. It would really bring out your” — he gestures to me oddly with his hands — “personality.”

  It’s kind of funny. He’s kind of funny. But I don’t laugh. Instead, I ease closer and ask again, “Who. Are. You?”

  I know better than to shout. There are always guards on patrol in the courtyard and by the gates. My grandfather’s suite is on this floor. And I’m fairly certain Ms. Chancellor probably has my room bugged, wired, and booby-trapped. Yelling is a bad idea.

  “Sorry.” The boy holds out a hand. He has spiky black hair and dark eyes that catch the moonlight as he tells me again, “I’m Noah,” sounding only slightly annoyed. “Noah Miguel Estaban.”

  “Noah Estaban?”

  He shrugs. “Mom’s Israeli. Dad’s Brazilian. What can I say? I am Embassy Row personified. You really lucked out in the best friend department.”

  “I didn’t realize one had been assigned to me.”

  “Sure. My mom and Ms. Chancellor are sorority sisters or something. Anyway, I’m supposed to mold you in my diplomatic image. Now hurry up. We’ve got to go.”

  “Ms. Chancellor asked you to break into my room in the middle of the night, then drag me out of the embassy and onto the dark streets of a foreign city?”

  “Well, technically she asked me to show you around. Exactly when and how she left up to me. And I say there’s no time like the present. So come on. We’re late.” He looks at me impatiently. “Get dressed.”

  I stare back and then something occurs to him.

  “Oh, you need me to turn around? Here. I’ll turn around.”

  Three minutes later, the embassy is dark and Noah and I are making our way down the halls. There are mosaics on the ceilings and gold-embossed angels by the stairs. I know that most modern embassies are more like fortresses — barbed wire and cement blocks, born out of the war on terror. But not in Adria. This country is like the land that time forgot, and even here, on what is technically US soil, it shows. The building was originally built by a spice baron in 1772. It became the US embassy at the end of World War I. And it was the only real home my mother ever knew.

  As I follow the boy with the spiky black hair and dark brown eyes, I feel like a thief. A trespasser. And I’m a little afraid to admit that I like it. I even like Noah. But when we reach the side door, I stop.

  He looks back at me. “What’s wrong?”

  I can still hear my grandfather’s words rattling around in my head. I can feel the scathing glare of a few very ticked-off Russians. And I know that I have two options:

  I can be the person everyone wants me to be.

  Or I can be the person they all expect me to be.

  “I can’t go,” I say. “I just got here. I can’t …”

  “It’s okay,” Noah tells me. “Consider it part of your training. Besides, you’re with me.”

  Then, as if to prove his point, Noah pushes out the door and marches toward the gates.

  “Hey, Martin,” he says to the marine stationed there. The marine takes his hand and shakes it like Noah is his oldest, dearest friend.

  “Be good, buddy,” the marine tells him.

  “I always am,” Noah says. “Oh, this is Grace. She’s with me.”

  “I’m the one who lives here,” I protest, but the marine just takes me in.

  “Welcome back, ma’am,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  And then we are off, free … or so I think, right up until the point when Noah stops by the gate and holds up a finger.

  “Okay,” he says. “First lesson.”

  Noah broadens his stance, taking his place firmly on the embassy side of the threshold. “In the United States,” he says. Then, with both feet, he leaps onto the sidewalk. “Out of the United States.” Quickly, he jumps back toward me. “In the United States.” Another jump across the threshold. “Out of the United States. In. Out. In —”

  “Is this the part where I hit you?”

  Noah raises one finger. “You could. But you might want to do it while you are” — he leaps back to stand beside me — “in the United States.”

  I put both hands on his chest and shove gently, pushing him out into the dark and empty street. Noah only laughs and catches his balance, then glances back at me.

  “Diplomatic immunity, Grace. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  I join him on the other side of the fence and let the embassy gate slam behind me. Martin the Marine’s laughter is the only sound as we disappear into the shadows, walking uphill on a narrow street lined with mansions.

  Noah is taller than me, with long, lanky legs that wobble like he’s a puppy that’s still growing. He practically bounces down the street, arms thrown out wide as he says, “This is Embassy Row!”

  “I know,” I tell him, but it’s like he doesn’t even hear.

  “Named for the rows of embassies that line the street.” He makes a gesture like a flight attendant pointing out emergency exits. “Newcomers to the city are often fascinated to learn that Valancia is actually laid out like a gigantic circle, ringed by the ancient wall that has protected our fair city from intruders for more than seven centuries.”

  “I’m not a newcomer,” I say, but Noah talks on like the world’s most overenthusiastic tour guide.

  “Embassy Row actually lies on the outer perimeter of the city circle, with many of the properties backing
up against the wall itself. The land here was originally farmland that was supposed to help feed the city in the event of a siege, but eventually the wealthiest citizens of Valancia chose to build their estates here. At the end of the First World War, the homes were gradually bought up by the various nations with whom diplomatic relations in Adria are oh so important. Forty-seven in all — and that’s just on the row. There are a lot of other, smaller embassies and consulates within the city.”

  One of the mansions is as white as the sand on the beach that stretches from the sea. It has high walls and reinforced gates. Noah points to the blue-and-white flag that flies from the highest tower as we pass.

  “I live in that one.”

  “Israel,” I say. “Not Brazil?”

  “Only on the weekends.” Noah shoves his hands into his pockets. “Mom and Dad weren’t exactly suited to matrimonial harmony.”

  Noah walks on. If there’s more to the story, then he isn’t in the mood to share it. At least we have that much in common.

  “Each embassy is the sovereign ground of the country it represents. Each country is sacred.”

  We walk through the glow of antique streetlights that are still — even in the twenty-first century — fueled by gaslight. And, suddenly, I realize that the city hasn’t changed in three years; in fact, it hasn’t changed in three hundred. So I walk down cobblestones that are slick with the damp night air. I wish I’d brought a sweater.

  “Thanks, Noah.” I stop beneath a streetlight. “This has been the most enjoyable-yet-totally-redundant tour I’ve ever been on. Truly. It was swell. But it’s late and I’m jet-lagged, and now you can tell Ms. Chancellor that you have done your duty, and go back to doing whatever it is you do when you aren’t busy kidnapping the new girl.”

  I slowly back away, toward the embassy and my mother’s bed and whatever bad dreams await me.

  Noah looks slightly hurt as he calls, “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the good ol’ U. S. of A.”

  “You can’t leave,” he tells me. “We’re almost there.”

  “Almost where?” I ask.

  Noah points to the end of the row, to a dark, winding path that leads straight up a steep incline and then disappears into blackness. In the stillness of the night, I hear music, a pounding bass keeping beat like the crashing of the waves. It’s a sound that knows no language. It is the same in every place in the world. And I know what awaits us long before Noah tells me.

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “Come on. You’ve got to come.”

  “No, thank you,” I try again in my most diplomatic tone.

  “Hear me out,” he says as I start to turn. “Grace, wait.”

  “No.” I move out of the glare of the streetlight, going back down the long, sloping street.

  “Come on. You’ve got to meet people eventually. Everyone is there and —”

  “You don’t have to tell me about the party, Noah. I know that party. I’ve been to that party. In Fort Sill and Fort Benning. You should have seen the bonfire they did at Fort Dix. I got second-degree burns from that one.”

  “Come on, Grace,” he says, but I walk on. I’m almost to Italy when he calls, “Are you chicken?”

  Noah has been my best friend for twenty minutes. Already he knows me too well.

  The path is overgrown and winding and steep. Thorny bushes scrape my legs. Low-hanging branches catch in my hair. Noah tries to be chivalrous and hold the branches and vines out of my way, but the poor guy just ends up half eaten by a bush, and I have to rescue him. I wish I’d brought a flashlight. In the dense overgrowth there is no moonlight. We stumble, practically blind.

  “So what’s the occasion?” I ask him. Despite the rough terrain and steep incline, I’m not even a little out of breath. “I hope it’s something special to be worth all this trouble.”

  “It’s the last day of school, first day of summer; full moon; you’re here — take your pick.”

  “Me?”

  The brush is a little thinner overhead, and the moon slices across his face. It’s the first good look I’ve gotten at him. I can see his freckles.

  “New blood, Grace,” Noah explains, his voice soft beneath the ever-stronger pulse of the music. “The sharks can smell it. Now come on. It’s time for the real tour.”

  When Noah takes my hand it’s all I can do not to pull away. Not to run down the hill, back to the embassy and the canopy bed, not to lash out again for reasons he can’t possibly understand. But he’s looking at me like I’m a normal girl, and that stops me. No one has looked at me that way in a long, long time.

  He leads me up the winding path. It grows wilder with every step, and I know the smart thing would be to turn around and go back to the safety of the embassy. But the sense of déjà vu that has been haunting me for hours is slowly fading. I realize Noah might be leading me to the only place on Embassy Row where my mother’s memory will not follow.

  “What is this place?” I ask when I realize just how high we’ve climbed.

  “Technically? It’s nowhere. I mean, once upon a time it was the grounds of one of the embassies, but then the country sold the land back to Adria and this happened.”

  Noah gestures to the overgrown path that surrounds us.

  “Oh, it’s lovely,” I say in my best Ms. Chancellor voice.

  Noah laughs. “Just you wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Until you see this.”

  He pushes aside one last branch and steps from the moss-and-leaf-covered ground onto solid stone. Overhead, the canopy of the trees disappears, and I look out onto a plateau that stretches for thirty yards in front of us. Beyond that, there is nothing but the deep-blue sea and the largest moon that I have ever seen. It’s as bright as any of the streetlights, there at the top of the city.

  “Welcome to the secret side of Embassy Row,” Noah tells me as I ease forward to take in the scene. The music is louder, but so is the crashing of the waves against the rocky shore. I inch forward and look straight down over a cliff that is at least a hundred feet high. Probably higher.

  “Easy, there,” Noah says, taking my arm and pulling me gently back.

  I feel the mist in the wind coming off the water. The air is damp and salty. My hair clings to my forehead, and even though I haven’t slept in two days, I am wide awake in the middle of the night, standing on a cliff with a boy who, technically, broke into the US embassy and absconded with the ambassador’s granddaughter.

  “Bet you didn’t see that when you were a little girl,” Noah says with a smirk. He seems entirely too pleased with himself. He doesn’t know the half of it. I look back to the overgrown path, waiting for my mother to follow, but, for once, she’s not there.

  I scan the cliffs and the sea and then let my gaze fall onto the land beneath us, the massive wall that encircles the city, the flags that rise above the mansions on the row, waving through the spotlights that streak through the night sky. And then a cold chill seeps into my bones.

  “Wait, if that is the US” — I point toward the familiar flag that flies in the distance — “then that’s Russia, Japan, Italy, and” — I look down at the embassy closest to the cliffs — “that makes this …”

  I shift my gaze onto Noah, who shoves his hands deep into his pockets. He rocks back on his heels. “Iran.”

  “We’re in Iran!” I don’t even try to hide the terror in my voice, but Noah pushes my fear aside.

  “Technically, Iran sold this land back to the city at the same time they gave up diplomatic relations with Adria. Iran still owns the building, of course. But the land is fair game.” He points down to the base of the cliffs, the small stretch of beach that reaches from the sea to the back of the abandoned building.

  “It’s a shame. It’s the only embassy with private beach access. I tried to talk our ambassador into buying it, but for some reason the Israelis didn’t think the Iranians would be up for a real estate swap.”

  “Fancy that,�
� I tell him.

  Noah gasps in mock surprise. “I know!”

  “So the local teenagers come up here to party … in what used to be Iran?”

  “What can I say? We’re resourceful. But, Grace —” He steps closer to me. “We do not go past the fence. I mean, we could. But we don’t. Because none of us are superexcited about starting World War Three. So we do not go past the fence.” He stares at me, as if waiting for a protest that never comes. “Say it with me, Grace. We do not go past the fence.”

  “Noah.”

  “Say it.”

  “We do not go past the fence,” I tell him.

  “Because we do not want to start World War Three.”

  “We do not want to start World War Three,” I add.

  “Good girl.”

  Noah smiles and takes a few steps closer to the party. For a second, he can’t quite meet my gaze. It’s a look (or, rather, a non-look) that I know well.

  “So what did Ms. Chancellor tell you about me?” I ask.

  Noah shrugs a little. “Not much.”

  “You flare your nostrils when you lie.”

  “I knew that,” he says, nostrils flaring again.

  The clouds are gathering over the moon, and for a moment we are shrouded in shadow, there atop the rocky cliffs. Someone changes the music and it’s quiet for a split second. But that is all it takes for me to see it — the look that fills people’s eyes when they think they know the truth about me and what happened. About my mom’s death and what I did — or didn’t — see. It isn’t fear; it’s pity. And I hate that even more.

  “I’m not crazy,” I tell him.

  “I know that, too,” he says. This time it’s obvious he’s telling the truth. Or at least he thinks he is.

  “Do you want to ask me about it?” I ask as the music comes back on.

  Noah takes my hand. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  He leads me toward the party. It isn’t much, as big, rowdy shows of adolescent rebellion go. As we walk closer, I feel the gazes of three dozen strangers land upon me. Noah drops my hand. This isn’t a date. We aren’t a couple. Only then do I register that people aren’t staring just at me.