them away from the door. “Grace, you are officially the lady of this house. It is your duty to be by your grandfather’s side at events like this. Like it or not, your country needs you.”
She knows how to play me — I’ll give Ms. Chancellor that much. Honor. Country. Code. These are the things that have been drilled into me all of my life.
“Grace” — she grips my shaking hands harder — “it has been a very long time since your grandfather has had someone by his side. The other ambassadors, they bring their spouses. Their children. But your grandfather … Please do this. For him. For your mother. Or, better yet, do it for yourself.”
She’s looking at me now — not at my stained yoga pants and messy hair. She’s looking at me , as if maybe a part of me actually does resemble the girl with the pink canopy bed. Like maybe I might belong here after all.
But she’s wrong. And I don’t have the heart to say so.
“I …” I start slowly. My voice is more of a whisper than a scream. It’s harder than it should be to admit, “I don’t know what to do.”
Ms. Chancellor smiles. The doors pick that moment to slide open, and I see Noah standing there. He must have been holding them closed all this time.
“That is why I’m here,” he says.
Before I can do anything, Ms. Chancellor is embracing Noah in a hug. He wears a polo shirt with a navy blazer and khaki slacks. His hair is slicked back and his posture is perfect. He looks like diplomacy personified, and I can’t help thinking that this is a boy who knows his way around the gold-ware.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Ms. Chancellor says, then turns to me. “Grace, this is Noah Estaban. He’s offered to help us. Plus, I thought you two should know each other.”
“I —” I start, but Noah quickly holds out a hand, cutting me off.
“Hello, Grace. It’s so nice to finally meet you,” he says. When Ms. Chancellor looks away, he winks.
“Oh. Yes. It’s nice to meet you, too,” I say.
“Noah’s mother is one of my dearest friends and one of the most cultured women I know,” Ms. Chancellor says.
“But she wasn’t available, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me,” Noah quips and flashes the kind of grin that grown-ups love. “Don’t worry, Grace. I’ve been doing this stuff for years. A bow here. A curtsy there. You’ll do fine.”
“Yes. Because you know me. I live to curtsy.”
Ms. Chancellor ignores my sarcasm, and Noah offers me his arm.
“Stick with me, kid.”
I know I don’t really know Noah. One moonlit excursion doesn’t count for much in the grand scheme of things. But I look at the boy beside me, so confident and comfortable. He’s different from the boy on the cliffs. He’s not in either of his countries, but I can’t shake the feeling that Noah is back on his home turf.
“Shall we begin with a waltz?” Ms. Chancellor asks.
“What do you say, Grace?” Noah eyes me. “Shall we?”
There’s no furniture in the room next door. I know why as soon as Ms. Chancellor leads us inside, walks to an old-fashioned record player, and drops the needle on a vinyl album. It scratches to life, and soon we aren’t two twenty-first-century teens being drawn into an archaic tradition. No. We are two young people transported back in time. The grand room makes sense. My messy hair is all but forgotten as Noah places his hand at the small of my back.
“Yes. Very nice. Very nice,” Ms. Chancellor says. “Now, Grace. Chin up. Shoulders back. And follow Noah’s lead.”
“Hear that, Grace?” Noah asks. “Follow my lead.”
When we start to dance, I don’t protest. Noah is pretty good at this. At least, I do more stepping on his feet than he does stepping on mine.
There is a parquet floor beneath my feet and antique sconces on the walls. The record is decades old, and for a moment I feel timeless, weightless, and unafraid.
When we make it to the other side of the room, Noah leans a little closer and
She knows how to play me — I’ll give Ms. Chancellor that much. Honor. Country. Code. These are the things that have been drilled into me all of my life.
“Grace” — she grips my shaking hands harder — “it has been a very long time since your grandfather has had someone by his side. The other ambassadors, they bring their spouses. Their children. But your grandfather … Please do this. For him. For your mother. Or, better yet, do it for yourself.”
She’s looking at me now — not at my stained yoga pants and messy hair. She’s looking at me , as if maybe a part of me actually does resemble the girl with the pink canopy bed. Like maybe I might belong here after all.
But she’s wrong. And I don’t have the heart to say so.
“I …” I start slowly. My voice is more of a whisper than a scream. It’s harder than it should be to admit, “I don’t know what to do.”
Ms. Chancellor smiles. The doors pick that moment to slide open, and I see Noah standing there. He must have been holding them closed all this time.
“That is why I’m here,” he says.
Before I can do anything, Ms. Chancellor is embracing Noah in a hug. He wears a polo shirt with a navy blazer and khaki slacks. His hair is slicked back and his posture is perfect. He looks like diplomacy personified, and I can’t help thinking that this is a boy who knows his way around the gold-ware.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Ms. Chancellor says, then turns to me. “Grace, this is Noah Estaban. He’s offered to help us. Plus, I thought you two should know each other.”
“I —” I start, but Noah quickly holds out a hand, cutting me off.
“Hello, Grace. It’s so nice to finally meet you,” he says. When Ms. Chancellor looks away, he winks.
“Oh. Yes. It’s nice to meet you, too,” I say.
“Noah’s mother is one of my dearest friends and one of the most cultured women I know,” Ms. Chancellor says.
“But she wasn’t available, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me,” Noah quips and flashes the kind of grin that grown-ups love. “Don’t worry, Grace. I’ve been doing this stuff for years. A bow here. A curtsy there. You’ll do fine.”
“Yes. Because you know me. I live to curtsy.”
Ms. Chancellor ignores my sarcasm, and Noah offers me his arm.
“Stick with me, kid.”
I know I don’t really know Noah. One moonlit excursion doesn’t count for much in the grand scheme of things. But I look at the boy beside me, so confident and comfortable. He’s different from the boy on the cliffs. He’s not in either of his countries, but I can’t shake the feeling that Noah is back on his home turf.
“Shall we begin with a waltz?” Ms. Chancellor asks.
“What do you say, Grace?” Noah eyes me. “Shall we?”
There’s no furniture in the room next door. I know why as soon as Ms. Chancellor leads us inside, walks to an old-fashioned record player, and drops the needle on a vinyl album. It scratches to life, and soon we aren’t two twenty-first-century teens being drawn into an archaic tradition. No. We are two young people transported back in time. The grand room makes sense. My messy hair is all but forgotten as Noah places his hand at the small of my back.
“Yes. Very nice. Very nice,” Ms. Chancellor says. “Now, Grace. Chin up. Shoulders back. And follow Noah’s lead.”
“Hear that, Grace?” Noah asks. “Follow my lead.”
When we start to dance, I don’t protest. Noah is pretty good at this. At least, I do more stepping on his feet than he does stepping on mine.
There is a parquet floor beneath my feet and antique sconces on the walls. The record is decades old, and for a moment I feel timeless, weightless, and unafraid.
When we make it to the other side of the room, Noah leans a little closer and
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