by Kami Garcia
“You’ll be working with the middle school group. Thirteen-year-olds.” Miss Lorraine spots a boy nuzzling a girl’s neck near the weight room. She steps between them and pushes the boy out of her way, giving him an icy stare—all without breaking stride.
I like this lady already.
“Help the kids with their homework and keep an eye on them until they get picked up,” she says. “And don’t let any of the boys go to the bathroom at the same time as the girls.”
“Why not?”
She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Because when they go at the same time, they’re probably not using the bathroom.”
“Oh.” The idea of thirteen-year-old middle school students making out in a public restroom reminds me how different things are in the Downs. Not that middle school kids from the Heights don’t make out. They just do it behind the pro shop at the country club or at the parties they throw when their parents are out of town.
Miss Lorraine leads me to the back of the building. At the end of the hall, a muscular guy wearing dark jeans and a baseball cap under the hood of his sweatshirt stands in the doorway of the emergency exit. He’s probably close to my age, and he’s whispering in the ear of a girl who looks way too young for him.
“Deacon Kelley!” Miss Lorraine yells.
The guy looks up and twirls the toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth, studying Miss Lorraine with ice-blue eyes. A web of raised pink-and-white scars creates a jagged path down the side of his neck and disappears under his shirt. “How’s it going, Miss Lorraine?”
She points at the exit door held open by a cinder block. “You’ve got one minute to get out of my rec center before I call the police.”
Deacon Kelley whispers something to the girl, and she rushes past Miss Lorraine with her head down. After she’s gone, he flashes Miss Lorraine the kind of smile that says Don’t push me. “You’re forgetting something.”
“What would that be, Deacon?”
He backs through the door and kicks away the cinder block. “It was my rec center first.”
The metal door slams, and Miss Lorraine’s shoulders relax. She walks toward the room closest to the exit. “Your group meets in there.”
Seven middle school kids hang out on the other side of a long window next to the door—gossiping, listening to music, and dancing. Only one girl has a book open, but it’s not clear if she’s actually reading or just using it to hide behind while she checks out the boy sitting across from her.
When Miss Lorraine opens the door, the kids scramble, rushing to their seats and digging through their backpacks for the homework they should’ve been doing.
“It’s nice to see how hard everyone works when I’m not in here.” She walks over to the girl’s desk and flips her book around so it’s right side up.
“We were just taking a break.” A boy with long eyelashes and a mop of dark brown curls grins at Miss Lorraine. In soccer shorts, an Italian World Cup jersey, and black sweatbands around both wrists, he looks like a thirteen-year-old professional soccer player.
“Your break is over. This is Frankie.” She waves a hand in my direction. The kids’ expressions range from completely bored and mildly curious to Lord of the Flies territory. “She’ll be in charge in the afternoons.”
Several kids groan.
A girl wearing bright red lipstick and a gold nameplate necklace that reads DIVA rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
Miss Lorraine walks over to her desk. “I don’t remember asking your opinion, Kumiko.”
Kumiko stares me down from behind her shiny black bangs. “Need some community service for your college applications? That’s the only reason girls like you come around.”
Everyone waits for me to respond. This is a test, and I can’t afford to fail. Not if I’m stuck with these kids for the next four months.
I smile at Kumiko. “Nope. It was this or jail.”
She raises an eyebrow, and the corner of Miss Lorraine’s mouth twitches as if she’s fighting a smile.
“All right, then.” Miss Lorraine raps on the desk closest to the door. “Homework before house parties. And Frankie’s rules are my rules, so don’t try selling her any sob stories or you’ll end up with the elementary school kids. Do we understand each other?”
“Yep.”
“Got it.”
The moment Miss Lorraine disappears down the hall, the kids start talking again. At least now they have their books out. Maybe I should do that teacher thing and go around the room and make them tell me their names. Kumiko gives me the once-over and whispers to the girl next to her. Maybe not.
As the minutes tick by, it’s clear no one wants my help with homework. It gives me a chance to catch up on mine.
I’m studying an engine diagram in my gigantic Shop textbook when the future World Cup soccer player notices. He points at the page in front of me. “You’re taking Shop?”
“Unfortunately.” I pause. “Sorry … I don’t know your name.”
“Daniel Pontafonesco.”
“Why do you tell everyone your last name all the time?” asks a lanky boy with a black buzz cut and ear gauges who is lounging in the seat next to him. “You want people to think you’re related to one of those famous mob guys like Tony Soprano, don’t you?”
I dig my nails into my palms, praying I won’t have to break up a fight.
Daniel wads up a piece of paper and chucks it at the other boy. “I keep telling people because none of you can pronounce it. And not all Italians are in the mob, Carlos.”
The paper hits Carlos, and he falls back in his chair like he’s wounded. They’re just joking around. Instantly, I relax.
Kumiko yawns. “Tony Soprano isn’t a real person. He’s from a TV show, genius.”
Carlos turns around in his chair and glares at her. “I’m not the one failing government after only a week of school.”
“It was one quiz,” she snaps.
Time to change the subject. “So do you know a lot about cars, Daniel?”
He laughs, along with some of the other kids.
“Everyone in the Downs knows about cars,” Carlos says.
“Except you.” Daniel smirks at Carlos, who responds by throwing a fake jab.
He grins. “But I know how to box.”
The cute girl with the book takes a break from staring at Daniel and moves two seats closer to me. She has long brown hair that’s so dark it almost looks black and thick lashes fluttering against her light brown skin.
She gestures at my textbook. “It’s easier to remember the parts if you know how they work. There’s a cool app that lets you take the engine apart and put it back together again. Want me to find it for you?”
I key the passcode into my cell phone and hand it to her. “Thanks…?”
“Sofia.” She scrolls through the list of apps. “Got it.” She turns in her chair so I can see the screen, too. Raised pink-and-white slash marks—scars from some kind of cuts—cover the left side of the beautiful thirteen-year-old’s face, as if she survived an animal attack.
I try not to stare.
“Car accident,” Sofia says, as if she’s used to explaining.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
She shrugs. “No big deal. It could’ve been worse.”
I point at the diagram, ashamed of myself for staring at this brave girl’s scars. “So tell me how it works.”
“The rectangular thing in the middle is called the block.…”
Thirty minutes later, I can identify the block, pistons, camshaft, and flywheel, thanks to Sofia.
“Tomorrow, we’ll go over the pistons, piston rings, connecting rods and bearings,” she says proudly.
It’s like listening to someone speaking a foreign language. “Thanks. I need the help, and you’re a great teacher.”
“My brother taught me. He knows everything about cars, and he’s really patient.”
Daniel leans over his desk and checks out my book again. “Are you gonna s
tart racing now, Frankie?”
“I’m not exactly Danica Patrick. I just want to pass Shop.” I laugh, hoping to impress them by mentioning the female NASCAR driver. I’m not about to tell them that I read about her in a fashion magazine.
The other kids smirk and trade glances. I’m definitely missing something.
“He’s talking about street racing,” Sofia whispers, filling in the blanks.
Ugh … how did I miss that? I’ve heard about the illegal street races in the Downs, but I’ve never given them much thought. Nobody I know has ever been to one. My friends from the Heights avoid the Downs like it’s a nuclear waste site. “Is that a big thing around here?”
Sofia leans toward me, and her dark waves fall over one shoulder, covering her scars. “For lots of people, it’s the only thing.”
* * *
By seven o’clock, Sofia is the only kid left in the room.
“My brother should be here any minute. He comes straight from work.” She watches the door. “I’m not allowed to walk home alone. He’s super strict.”
“I don’t mind waiting. Does he keep an eye on you after you leave the rec center?”
She shoves her books inside her backpack. “And the rest of the time. My mom died of cancer when I was nine, and my dad’s not around…” She pauses. “Much.”
“I’m sorry.”
Sofia smiles, and it lights up her whole face. “At least I have my brother.”
Someone knocks on the window, and the door opens.
Marco Leone walks in and my heart slams against my chest.
What’s he doing here?
“Hey, Sopaipilla, how was school?” His gentle tone sounds unrecognizable—it’s not the one that belonged to the fierce fighter in the quad or the cocky guy in the school office. He lifts Sofia’s backpack off her shoulder.
“It was good,” she says. “And this afternoon, I taught Frankie about engine blocks.”
The side of his mouth tips up. “Who’s Frankie? A boy at school?”
I bite my lip, and my throat turns to sandpaper.
Sofia laughs and wheels her brother around. “No, silly.”
Our eyes meet, and his go wide. It’s the third time I’ve seen Marco up close—at least when I wasn’t terrified—and he gets better-looking every time.
I give him a tiny wave. “Hi.”
Sofia seems to sense the awkwardness between us. “Do you know each other?” She frowns and puts a hand on her hip. “Marco, you didn’t…”
“No, it’s nothing like that.” He rubs his hands over his face.
My cheeks heat up when I realize she thinks we hooked up … or something.
Sofia turns to me. “But you guys do know each other, right?”
“No,” I say at the same time Marco says, “Yes.”
I shrug. “Sort of.”
“Are you positive you didn’t mess around with her?” Sofia whispers to her brother a little too loudly.
Now my cheeks are on fire.
Marco flashes me a dangerous smile. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember.”
CHAPTER 8
HIGHWAY RUNNERS
When I get home, there’s a note from Dad and a pizza box on the kitchen counter. He’s investigating a “big case” with his partner, Tyson. He’s really sorry.
Whatever.
I have no idea what makes a case big or small, unless it’s related to the value of the stolen car. What I do know is that the investigation requires him to work lots of nights, a fact that makes me so happy I almost feel guilty.
Almost.
Cujo sits next to the table staring at the pizza box. I’m actually hungry, so I flip it open. Spinach and mushrooms. This has to be a joke. I hold up a slice. Vegetables do not belong on pizza. Dad knows this. Cujo tracks the slice as I drop it back into the box.
The dog follows me around the apartment like a furry bodyguard. He’s probably the only reason Dad didn’t hire a babysitter to stay with me at night. If Cujo wants spinach-and-mushroom pizza, I’ll give it to him. I put a slice in his food bowl, and he scarfs it down.
My cell rings and Mom’s face pops up on the screen. I haven’t spoken to her since she dropped me off at Dad’s, and today isn’t going to be the day I do. I let the phone ring, and seconds after it stops, I get a text.
Are you ignoring my calls? I have
something important to tell you.
Maybe she wants to apologize.
what?
I would prefer to tell you on the
phone.
Mom can text her apology. I’m still hurt—about the way she dumped me here like she didn’t care, the disappointed looks she has given me for months now, and the fact that she cares more about the girl I was than the one I am now. But I’m not ready to tell her any of that.
i’m studying. u want me to do
well right?
Richard has a meeting with one of
the deans at Stanford.
Can you believe it?!
no.
The words sting. She’s not sorry.
I wonder how much that cost King Richard.
He explained your condition and the
extenuating circumstances.
My condition? Is that what they’re calling my PTSD now?
dog is barking. have 2 go.
I pocket my phone without waiting for a response. I’m not wasting money on a school I don’t care about anymore, even if the money happens to be my mother’s.
At least my first afternoon at the rec center wasn’t a complete disaster. The kids liked me for the most part, and with Sofia’s help, I might have a shot at passing Shop. Thinking about Sofia leads directly to Marco.
Who is this guy?
During the fight, he went from cocky to out of control in seconds, and it scared the crap out of me. But the look on his face after he plowed into me was pure panic. Not exactly how he acted in the office. I’ll take panicked and real over smart-ass bad boy any day, unless Option C is affectionate brother who carries his little sister’s backpack.
Everyone in high school fakes it on some level—in the Heights and in the Downs. Offering a bunch of strangers a window into your soul guarantees four years of total misery. Maybe Marco just fakes it better than the rest of us do.
Remembering the way he stared at me in the parking lot makes my stomach flutter.
What’s wrong with me?
Marco is not my problem, and after witnessing his cage match on the quad this morning and the personal escort from Mr. Santiago, I probably won’t see much of him.
Except when he picks up his sister every day.
After trashing the rest of the pizza, I find a lone box of mac and cheese behind the cereal. I’m shaking orange powder onto the noodles when my cell phone rings. It’s Lex.
“Is your dad home?” she asks the second I pick up.
“No. Why?”
“Abel is in some serious shit. I’m on my way to pick you up.”
“What happened?” This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten a call like this from Lex.
“He’s in the Downs. He bet on a street race, and now he owes some lowlife asshole money. The guy won’t let Abel leave until he pays him.”
“How did he end up at a street race?”
Lex falls silent. “A lot of stuff happened over the summer with Abel. He’s been doing crazy things.”
“Can you be more specific?” I jam my feet into my sneakers and grab my house key.
“Acting secretive, checking his phone every ten seconds, gambling, disappearing for days. But he never mentioned street races before.”
I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
I didn’t know.
One of my best friends was disappearing for days, and I had no clue.
Lex’s car horn blares at the other end of the line. “Move your ass or get out of the fast lane!” she shouts at another driver.
“How long until you get here?” I ask.
“Two minutes.”<
br />
I rush to my room and open the top drawer of my ugly dresser. I unfold a pair of fuzzy pink socks shoved in the corner and pocket the bills hidden inside. Two hundred dollars. It’s all I have now that Mom isn’t transferring money into my checking account every week.
Cujo barks as I head out the front door. “I wish I could bring you with us.” I would feel a lot safer.
Jogging down the steps outside, I try not to think about what Dad will do if he finds out I left the house. Odds are he’ll never know. Working undercover keeps him out of the precinct and on the street. He won’t risk someone overhearing a personal conversation, so he never calls. Instead, he relies on cryptic and excessive texts.
A flash of red tears around the corner, tires squealing.
I hop into the Fiat, hoping that no one sees me. “Next time, why don’t you take out an ad and let everyone in the neighborhood know I’m sneaking out?”
She peels away from the curb. “Please. It’s not like your dad is a social butterfly. He probably doesn’t even know his neighbors.” True.
“What else did Abel say?”
Lex weaves between lanes and swallows hard. “Just that he bet on a race and lost, and he needs us to bring him five hundred bucks, or they’re going to beat the shit out of him.”
“We can’t take that much out of an ATM, but I’ve got two hundred on me.”
“Relax. I’ve got it covered.” She flips over her purse and dumps the contents onto the console between us. Makeup and loose change fall into my lap and onto the floor—along with a wad of bills. “The ATM machine in the Senator’s sock drawer doesn’t have a daily limit.”
I collect the bills and count them—five hundred dollars. I roll up the money and clench it in my fist. “I still don’t understand why Abel went to a street race. Usually, he screws up closer to home, and there are plenty of places to gamble in the Heights.”
Rich guys from Woodley and the other private schools in the Heights will bet on anything.
“We’re talking about Abel, and he’s been even more unpredictable than usual.” Lex flies across three lanes of traffic to catch the V Street exit.
“What set him off? His mom?”
Lex doesn’t respond. Instead, she stares down the dark street. There’s something she’s not telling me, but pressing her for answers never works.