Diplomatic Immunity by Brodi Ashton

was the target of the stalker. Demanding to see details of the latest security upgrade. Threatening to withdraw students if the perpetrator isn’t caught, and we aren’t even sure there was a perpetrator in the first place!” His face was rather red by this point.
    â€œI understand, sir. I was just trying to earn my place on the staff. I really need that Bennington Scholarship.”
    â€œI’m afraid the stunt you pulled yesterday has set you back for that.”
    I got a pit in my stomach. “Why?”
    He leaned over his desk and intertwined his fingers. “Because I’m on the Bennington committee. Next time do your research.” He sighed. “You’re excused.”
    He started writing on a notepad on his desk and I let myself out. I was surprised I was able to walk so well, considering the tiny new dagger in my heart.
    At lunch, I saw Jesse sitting at another table with a couple of other students from the journalism department. I went over and put my tray down by him.
    â€œHey, Pipe,” he said.
    â€œHi. You could’ve told me Principal Wallace was on the Bennington committee. Is that why you were so quick to put my story at the top?”
    He put down his sandwich. “Look, you did a good job on the story. It deserved the spot it got. Putting you on the outs with the principal was just a bonus.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThe Bennington is still a competition.” He took a big bite of his sandwich as if to say there was no point competing with him. Or maybe I was reading too much into a bite.
    â€œOkay. Good to know. So let me just say this: it is on , Jesse . . . whatever your last name is.” What was it again? “Monson.”
    â€œRight,” he said. “That might have had more of an impact if you’d remembered my last—”
    â€œI know,” I said. Infuriating nonphotographic memory.
    I spotted Mack sitting at her usual table, so I headed over toward her.
    â€œLooking forward to working with you,” Jesse said from behind me.
    I set my tray down next to Mack and Faroush a little harder than I’d meant to.
    â€œWhat’s up?” Mack said.
    â€œJust frustrated.” I scrunched up my face. “The principal wasn’t happy with my story, which is fine except he’s on the Bennington committee.”
    â€œAh, man,” Faroush said. Those two words were about the most he’d ever said to me.
    I was about to continue lamenting, but before I could get any words out, loud guitar music echoed through the cafeteria.
    We turned toward the sound. A man in a dark tuxedo stood just outside the cafeteria doors, holding a guitar. He strummed a few more dramatic chords, then slowly stepped inside as he continued playing a song with a Spanish beat. A striking woman in a red dress followed him in. Her hair was tied back in a low, tight bun, with a huge red flower attached.
    She started dancing to the guitar music.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I whispered to Mack.
    â€œRafael Amador’s birthday, I would guess,” she said. “Last year, his parents hired a Spanish chef to take over the kitchen here. And let me say, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried Puchero Andaluz de Verduras.” She said it so dryly, I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic. “Looks like this year, we all get to celebrate Raf’s birth by watching the flamenco.”
    â€œHis parents do this every year?” I asked.
    She shook her head. “More like they pay a servant to do this.”
    The woman stomped her feet and clapped and twirled, and pretty soon the entire cafeteria started clapping along, going faster and faster as the dance neared its dramatic finish.
    At the end, the woman took a rose from behind her ear, bowed, and handed it to Raf. Everyone clapped, and then Raf bowed as if he were the one who’d just finished the dancing.
    â€œSeriously?” I said to Mack. “I’m