Free Diplomatic Immunity by Brodi Ashton Page B

is, who wipes your butt?”
    Mack took in a breath.
    Raf frowned. “You’re not the only person who gets to complain about their lot in life,” he said. “Maybe I’m sitting at the top of a marble staircase, but I’m staring straight across at someone who is on a very high horse.”
    With that he stood up and smiled, but the smile was lacking his usual swagger. “See you guys around.”
    When he was gone, Mack leaned over. “Okay, that was awesome.”
    â€œWhat, my shredding the school’s most popular guy?”
    â€œNo,” she said shaking her head. “His comeback.”
    She was right. His comeback about the high horse was really good. He’d probably planned it. And I’d just lost my first chance to embed because I’d let my resentment get in the way.

10
    At journalism after the rundown (I was assigned a story on the school’s “Street Art” unit, and whether it’s art or graffiti, which was a step up from the fluff, in my opinion), I sat next to Jesse and leaned in close.
    â€œWhat comes to your mind when I say ‘diplomatic immunity’?” I asked.
    â€œFree pass,” he said, not taking his eyes off his monitor. “Why?”
    â€œJust a story idea I was thinking of.”
    â€œIf you’re looking for controversy, Google ‘diplomatic immunity and human trafficking.’”
    â€œReally?”
    He looked at me and nodded. “Good luck.”
    I went to my computer and did as he suggested, and story after story popped up about diplomats taking advantage of the help in their houses, and prosecutors unable to do anything about it. The Washington Times ran a story about how Hillary Rodham Clinton was taking a stand against what she called “modern slavery.”
    School ended, and I wasn’t embedded. The week ended. I still wasn’t embedded.
    That Friday it was my rotation for Chiswick’s horseback riding program. The school provided several monthlong units for things like horseback riding, watercolor art, CPR and EMT training, and other subjects that fell outside the jurisdiction of a regular high school. The property had a large stable at its west end, where a forest and hills provided plenty of riding trails.
    I reported to the stables and looked around at the other students in my rotation.
    There was Raf, talking to Giselle. Since my attempts with other people had failed to get me embedded, maybe approaching the most notorious of the DIs was my best shot.
    â€œHey,” I said.
    â€œHi,” he said.
    â€œSo, I’m sorry about the other day. You wanted to talk to me, and I was mean. I shouldn’t have acted like that. What did you want to talk about?”
    He sighed and shook his head slightly.
    â€œCome on,” I said. “Don’t you ever speak without thinking?”
    â€œI try not to,” he said. “It tends to get me in trouble.”
    I snorted. “Like you’ve ever been in trouble.” He frowned, and I realized I was speaking without thinking. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”
    Raf gestured to Giselle. “Have you two met?”
    â€œNot officially,” I said.
    â€œThis is Giselle,” he said. “Her father is the French ambassador. She is France, I am Spain, so historically we should be at war, but instead we’re friends. Giselle, this is Pipper Baird.”
    â€œIt’s Piper,” I said, holding out my hand.
    â€œNew scholarship student,” he added.
    â€œIs that a necessary part of my introduction?” I asked.
    â€œI could already tell by the shoes,” Giselle said. The way she said it wasn’t totally mean, though, just matter-of-fact. She took my hand. “Nice to meet you, Pip.”
    â€œYou too,” I said.
    â€œPip talks to paintings,” Raf said, starting to loosen up again.
    I gave him a look. “Not painting s , plural. Just the one.”
    Giselle shrugged