Then I feel the need to say what people are always saying to me: “That looked really dangerous. Maybe you shouldn’t do that anymore.”

The girl shrugs. “I’m Rosie. Germany. Twelve.”

The way she says it, I know these are the facts that matter here, the embassy-kid equivalent of name, rank, and serial number.

“Grace. United States. Sixteen,” I tell her. She nods as if we’ve bonded. And I guess perhaps we have.

“Do your parents know you’re here?” I ask.

Rosie crosses her arms. “Do yours?”

“Well, Mom is dead and Dad is getting shot at, so I don’t think they’re in a position to care. Now it’s your turn to answer the question.”

“Did you know there are five hundred kilometers of tunnels beneath the city?” Rosie asks as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “At least that much. There may be more. I bet there’s more. The Romans built them. People died down there all the time. There are bones and everything. I can show you if you want. I’m kind of an expert.”

Before I can respond to this, I see a beautiful girl coming toward us. She’s got olive-colored skin and striking black eyes. But there’s something else about her. She reminds me of someone, I think, but I can’t quite imagine who.

Before I can say a word, the pretty girl starts shouting.

“No. No. No. Get out. Get out now! Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. Get. Out. Now.”

For a second I just stand, stunned. Then I realize that she’s not talking to me. She’s talking … behind me.

I turn and see Rosie at my back, my white-blond shadow. She’s so small she must have been pretty unnoticeable there, but the girl with the perfect cheekbones isn’t fooled.

“You don’t belong here,” the pretty girl snaps.

“Excuse me?” I tell her.

“I’m not talking to you,” she says in a tone that makes it clear I’m too inconsequential to bother tossing aside. “I’m talking to that.” She points at Rosie, who stands defiant, not giving any ground.

The girl looks around me. “You’re not welcome here.”

“They aren’t your cliffs,” Rosie shoots back.

“But it’s my party,” the pretty girl corrects her.

“Funny,” Rosie quips, “I didn’t see your name on it.”

“Listen here, tiny blond person, I’ve warned you before, and you are testing my patience. Auf Wiedersehen.”

“Hey,” I say. “Leave her alone.”

When the dark-haired girl looks at me now it’s like she’s seeing me for the first time. She scans me from head to toe, taking in my sloppy ponytail and dirty old sneakers. I’m ready for whatever insult she might hurl my way, but instead she crosses her arms and says, “You’re new.”

“Did you figure that out all by yourself?” I reply.

“I guess I should introduce myself. I’m Lila. And I’m —”

“Oh, I know who you are,” I cut her off, and she smiles a little, pleased that her reputation has preceded her.

“You do?” When she tosses her hair it catches the moonlight, so pretty it’s almost fake. A joke. But she’s as serious as she can possibly be.

“Of course I know you,” I say, and her eyes soften. I can almost hear her thoughts, contemplating giving me a makeover, molding me in her image. I am the Before, I know. She is most certainly the After.

“I’ve attended seven schools in ten years,” I explain. “So you can rest assured I know you. You’re the girl who thinks being cruel is the same thing as being witty. You think being loud is the same thing as being right. And, most of all, you’re the girl who is very, very pretty. And also very, very … common. Trust me. There’s at least one of you in every school.” I watch her features shift. “Oh. Wait. Did you think you were unique?”

When her face hardens, I can tell she isn’t hurt; she’s offended. I snicker a little, unable to keep it in. “Oh my gosh, you did, didn’t you? You thought you were special. I’m so sorry.”

But I’m not sorry.

I am standing on ground where I have never stood before, looking at a stranger. But this moment is so familiar to me that I could script out every gasp, every insult, every cajoling sneer.

I even know what she is going to say before she opens her mouth to tell me, “I don’t like your attitude, new girl.”

And that turns my snicker into a laugh. It has to. It is the absolute best weapon I have in this situation.

So I laugh louder. “Oh my gosh — you’re serious. You really think I should be scared of you. Oh, that’s so sweet.” This confuses her. Her dark eyes narrow. “And kind of pitiful.” I reach out to pat her hand. “I’m sorry. You just aren’t a very big deal to me. It’s okay.”

The girl pulls her hand away before I can touch her again.

“No one told me the new girl was a freak!” she spits out.

“There you go,” I say, my voice dripping with mock kindness. “Keep your chin up. Eventually, you will meet someone who cares about your opinion. I’m so sorry I’m not her.”

For a moment, there is silence on the cliffs. That must be why the voice carries to me so clearly, why there’s no mistaking it when I hear, “Lila, are you okay?”

I turn at the sound and see another girl behind us. And before I even realize what I’m saying, I blurt out, “Megan, is that you?”

Of course it’s her, I realize. But I can’t help myself. Megan looks different. In fact, she looks … like Lila. Well, not like Lila. Megan’s mother is Indian American, and she’s also shorter than Lila by a head. But they both wear silk scarves wrapped around their necks and bejeweled headbands in their hair. Short skirts and at least a dozen bracelets on their wrists. Megan is the same girl I used to know, just shinier. Much, much shinier. Embassy Row might not have changed, but Megan has, I realize as she steps closer.

“Grace?” Megan sounds stunned. It’s like she’d never thought she’d see me again — like maybe she’d heard that I was dead or comatose or worse.

She no doubt heard I was worse.

And the awful part is that it was true. And Megan knows it. I liked this party a lot more when I was surrounded by strangers.