by Kami Garcia
Cruz opens her textbook and slides it across the table between us. She taps on a subtitle toward the bottom: Manual Transmission. It’s the kind of thing a friend would do.
I’m not interested in sharing my secrets or baring my soul to anyone. But Cruz doesn’t strike me as the soul-baring type.
Scanning the text between us, I search for the answer to the question. “The bite point,” I call out.
Chief cracks a smile and nods. “That’s right, Frankie. Go on.”
Clearly, he expects me to explain the relationship between the bite point and stalling—something I couldn’t do if my life depended on it.
“I don’t really know what it means,” I admit.
“That’s all right. We’re here to learn,” Chief says. “Anyone who has ever raced a car should know what the bite point is. Cruz, why don’t you explain it to Frankie?”
The guys in class go crazy. “Damn, Cruz. Chief called you out.”
Cruz shakes her head. “The bite point is the sweet spot when you let up on the clutch and give the car some gas, and the clutch engages.”
The cute guy who sits at the table next to ours and has been staring at Cruz for most of the class drops down on one knee next to her, his hand over his heart. “It’s like falling in love. You know it when you feel it.”
She pushes him with her foot. “Shut it, Ortiz.”
“Mr. Ortiz is right about one thing.” Chief taps his dry-erase marker on the diagram. “You know it when you feel it. But it’s easy to miss the bite point when the car is on a slope and you’re worried about easing off the clutch into first without rolling backward or stalling.”
“Chief, are you trying to teach my boys how to get to first? ’Cause the ladies will tell you I’ve got that covered.” Ortiz grins, and the other guys start laughing again.
“You’d better keep it covered, Ortiz,” Cruz says. “Or you’ll end up being some girl’s baby daddy.”
Chief crosses his arms and tucks his hands under his armpits, shaking his head. The old guy is either embarrassed or trying not to laugh.
“Ortiz is a fool, but he throws a hell of a party.” Cruz keeps her voice low. “He’s having one tonight. You should come. Bring your friends. The one Turk hustled is cute. Unless he’s yours…”
“Abel? Definitely not mine. He’s like my brother, and he needs to get in a little less trouble.”
She scribbles an address in her notebook, tears off a corner of the page, and hands it to me. “Then come by yourself. We’ll hang out.”
Chief looks up, grinning. “Let me put it another way for those of you with cleaner imaginations than Mr. Ortiz. When you start to let up on the clutch, you’ll feel it engage. That’s your signal to move your other foot from the brake to the gas pedal.” Chief toys with his cap again. “If you know when to make that move, you won’t stall and you won’t crash. You’ll fly.”
Before Noah died, I never took risks. I was too afraid of disappointing someone or screwing up the Plan. Now I’ve disappointed everyone.
There’s no Plan and no Noah, and I’m still afraid.
Just once, I wish I knew what it felt like to fly.
CHAPTER 15
NIGHT TRAIN
I’m not brave enough to take public transit to the party, so I end up in a cab. It would have been cheaper to leave from the rec center instead of the gas station near Dad’s apartment. But that would’ve required calling Lex and explaining why I didn’t need a ride home, and I couldn’t come up with a decent excuse.
The driver turns into a run-down town house complex, and I get out a block away from the address Cruz gave me. It isn’t hard to find. Bass thumps from inside the town house, and the party spills onto the sidewalk out front. The last time I went to a real party, Noah was still alive.
Over the summer, I sat around drinking with lifeguards and caddies from the club. We even went to a so-called party on the golf course, but it was just a bunch of people standing around in the wet grass.
Three guys hang out on the steps, holding red plastic Solo cups and checking out girls as they walk by.
I’m up next.
“You need a drink, baby?” one asks.
I keep moving. “I’m good.”
He raises the plastic cup in a mock toast. “If you change your mind…”
Inside, music vibrates through the drywall. A deejay stands behind a table made out of a sheet of plywood and plastic milk crates, spinning the dials on a massive stereo system. Hips grind and hands wave to the beat.
The kitchen is crammed with people lined up at the keg. I scan the room for Cruz and squeeze through the wall of bodies. A kid who looks like he’s still in middle school hands me a cup.
“She nailed it again,” someone calls out.
“Drink up, boys, and cough up your money.” Cruz stands and holds out her hand. Her competitors hand over their cash. She spots me and waves me over to the table, where they’re playing quarters, and judging by how drunk the guys are compared with Cruz, she’s kicking their asses.
She shoves the guy sitting next to her. “Frankie needs a seat, and you look like you’re gonna puke. Move it.”
“Only if you promise to find me later,” he slurs, and stands.
“Not if the fate of mankind depended on it.” Cruz positions a shot glass in the center of the table and then pats the empty seat. “I wasn’t sure you’d show.”
I maneuver between the people watching and sit down. “Why not?”
Cruz flicks the quarter between her fingers. It hits the table once and bounces into the cup. “This neighborhood isn’t exactly the Heights.”
“I don’t live in the Heights anymore. I moved in with my dad, in Westridge.”
She nods her approval. Maybe I went up a notch. “Wanna play and help me prove to these boys that women are superior?”
I’ve played quarters before. Twice. My performance didn’t rank in the superior range. I pick up a quarter anyway. My days of playing it safe are over.
“I’m in.”
“Bring it.” A wasted guy sitting across from Cruz slams his cup down.
She puts one elbow on the table, holding her arm straight up, with the quarter between her forefinger and her thumb. She squints and lets the quarter roll off her thumb. It bounces on the table and lands in the shot glass.
“Aw.”
“Damn.”
A chorus of groans travels around the table, but approving nods show the guys are impressed. Cruz pours syrupy red liquor from the bottle in front of her. Night Train Express. It smells like cherry cough syrup.
The guys slam their shots, wincing or shaking their heads like wet puppies.
“You’re up, Frankie.” Cruz slides a quarter in front of me. “Show ’em what you’ve got.”
Nothing. That’s what I’ve got.
I focus on the shot glass. Don’t overthink it. I snap the quarter, and it bounces off the table and lands next to the cup.
“You know what that means.” A guy across from us pours a shot, and everyone points at me. “Drink.”
I chug the liquid, and it burns its way down my throat. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever tasted. I cough, and the burning sensation moves into my nasal passages. “What’s in that stuff?”
Cruz smiles. “You don’t wanna know.”
She nails her target, round after round, banking the quarter into the shot glass so many times I stop counting. I’m on a roll, too. The kind that ends with me drinking what I’m 99 percent sure is lighter fluid on every other turn.
“How are you holding up, Frankie?” Cruz nudges my shoulder, and it throws me off balance. She catches my arm and laughs. “I think you’ve had enough.”
“Yeah. I’m done.” I get up and squeeze past Cruz as gracefully as possible. Okay. I’m not exactly graceful, but I don’t trip.
“Where are you going?” Cruz asks.
“I’ll be in there.” I point toward the front room with the deejay.
She nods. “Give me twe
nty minutes, and I’ll catch up with you. These guys still have some money left in their pockets.”
“Come on, don’t go,” another guy says. “You were starting to get the hang of it.”
Cruz waves her hand over the table. “All right, all right. Settle down. She’ll be back. And I’m not going anywhere yet, losers.”
I squeeze past the crowd at the keg and the couples making out against the wall. The inside of my mouth tastes like cherry cough syrup. A wave of dizziness hits before I make it to the living room.
I need some air.
Outside, smokers gather in a pack on the sidewalk. Someone whistles at me, but I keep moving.
My head is fuzzy in a good way, but I can’t say the same about my stomach. The Night Train shots live up to their name. It feels like a train wreck in there.
A hunk of metal with no tires and a missing window is parked next to Cruz’s car. Judging by the white-and-blue primer covering the car and the missing parts, it looks like it’s either abandoned or getting an overhaul. When my head goes from fuzzy to woozy, the hood of the junker seems like the perfect place to sit.
Cool air settles my stomach enough to keep me from throwing up.
Even if I do, I’m glad I came tonight. I wasn’t calculating my every move or feeling guilty about the choices I made—or didn’t make. Maybe I can start over.
My stomach rumbles, and I take a deep breath.
Don’t puke in the street at your first Monroe party. Definitely not cool.
The stars are out tonight. I close my eyes and pretend the last three months never happened.
Where would I be right now?
Who would I be?
A stressed-out senior at Woodley, playing a piano I don’t miss and torturing myself over college essays to get into a school I can’t even remember if I liked? Instead of a sleep-deprived senior at Monroe, hanging out with a girl who street races and drinking shots of Night Train?
If Noah were still alive, I can’t think of a single scenario that would end with me at a party in the Downs.
“Frankie?”
I know that voice.…
Marco.
My eyes fly open. He’s standing on the sidewalk in front of the fender, less than two feet away from me. His black shirt clings to his arms and chest, outlining his muscles. He really is gorgeous.
“What are you doing here?” He asks the question as if I don’t belong at the party, which immediately annoys me.
“I was invited.” I press my hands against the hood of the car to brace myself.
“Are you alone?” He looks around. “Where are your friends?”
“Cruz is inside.” I point at the house and realize too late that my aim is way off, and I’m pointing at the street. So much for acting cool.
A smile tugs at the corners of my lips, and I burst out laughing. I can’t help it. Trying to act cool in front of a hot guy while I’m wearing ratty jeans and my eighth-grade soccer sneakers is ridiculous.
“You came with Cruz?” Marco cusses under his breath.
“I met up with her at the party.” Now he’s pissing me off. “What’s your problem?”
“You’re drunk and she let you come outside alone.” His jaw twitches.
“Ugh…” I fall back against the hood for a second. “She doesn’t even know I’m out here.” I push myself back up, my legs dangling over the front bumper. “And I’m not drunk. I only had a few shots.” I hold up two fingers in the shape of a V. “Girl Scout promise, or two-thirds of it, anyway.”
Marco steps closer, and we’re practically nose-to-nose. “Can you be more specific? Because you look pretty wasted, Angel.” He closes his hand over my fingers and lowers my arm. My skin burns beneath his touch, and when my palm grazes the hood of the car, the nerve endings tingle.
How many shots did I drink? I lost count. “Five or six. And stop calling me that.”
“Why?”
I push the hair out of my face and tuck it roughly behind my ear. He knows what happened. Everyone does. “I’m sure you heard that I got kicked out of my old school. I’m about as far away from being an angel as you can get.”
“So you made some mistakes.” Marco jams his hands in the pockets of his low-riding jeans, his eyes trained on the ground. “Compared to the crap I’ve done, you’re a saint.”
The pain and regret in his voice tug at my heart. He’s hurting, and I want to make the pain go away.
For both of us.
“I don’t believe that,” I say softly.
Marco’s eyes widen, and I stare back at him. Big mistake. Heat radiates from his body—a body insanely close to mine—and suddenly I feel exposed. I cover my face with my hands and take a deep breath.
Why did I drink so much?
“What’s wrong? Did something happen in there?” He sounds worried.
“No,” I say from behind my hands.
“If nothing happened, why won’t you look at me?”
Because you’ll know exactly what I’m feeling.
He touches my wrists and curls his fingers around them, moving my hands away from my face. Marco’s eyes drill into me, and my heart crashes against my ribs.
“I’m just … uncomfortable.” I motion between us. “I’m not used to this.”
Marco looks confused for a second and steps back. “You mean me. I make you uncomfortable. Is that it? I’m a thug from the Downs. We’re all alone and it’s dark. I get it.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“Yeah, I can tell.” He sounds hurt.
“I’m not.” I start to slide off the hood, but Marco leans over and boxes me in with his arms. Our lips are inches apart.
If I lean forward the tiniest bit …
His eyes drift down to my lips and then my neck. “So this doesn’t bother you?”
It does. But not for the reason he thinks.
I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone as much I want to kiss Marco right now. I want to know what it feels like to have his arms wrapped around me.
Forcing myself to look into his dark eyes, I call his bluff. “Nope.”
Marco doesn’t move. He’s sizing me up, deciding whether or not he believes my lie. If my heart beats any louder, he’ll know.
“Prove it.” A slow smile spreads across his lips. “Kiss me.”
I wait for him to laugh. When he doesn’t, I lay on the sarcasm. “After all the girls you’ve hooked up with, I wouldn’t want to be a disappointment.”
He doesn’t break eye contact, and with just inches between us, the intensity is nerve-racking. “There’s nothing disappointing about you, Frankie.”
Marco’s voice is full of need and desire—the same things I’m feeling. I try to memorize the way each word sounded so I can remember them later when I’m alone, when he isn’t staring at me like kissing me is more important than breathing.
The possibility hangs between us.
I want to know what his lips feel like against mine.
Just once.
Would the kiss be fast and hungry or slow and deliberate?
The old Frankie never acted on her feelings. She never kissed a guy first. Instead, she waited for him to make the first move.
But I’m not the old Frankie, and I’m tired of waiting.
I lean forward and press my mouth against Marco’s. The moment our lips touch, heat sears through my veins. He hooks his arm around my back and pulls me toward him.
My hands find his chest, fists clutching at his shirt. I can’t get close enough.
Marco slides his tongue in my mouth, and there’s nothing but hunger right now. Him and me. I swear, nothing has ever felt this good. He trails his fingers up my neck and into my hair.
My breath hitches, and his iron grip tightens around my back. I tug on his bottom lip, and he moans. “Frankie.”
The moment my name leaves his lips, I come apart.
This is more than a kiss—too much more. I need to stop.
I break away first, and Marco stares at
me glassy-eyed, his fingers still tangled in my hair.
This can’t happen. Not with a guy who takes me apart with a kiss. I don’t want to get attached to anybody now that I know how quickly someone can be taken away. I haven’t even recovered my memories from the night Noah died. I need to be stronger, not more vulnerable. But I’m not admitting that to Marco.
I catch my breath and erase any hint of emotion from my voice, as if the kiss had no effect on me. “Was that enough proof?”
Marco smiles like he thinks I’m teasing him. It takes every ounce of strength I have not to smile back. When he realizes I’m serious, confusion flickers in his eyes. His shoulders tense, and he becomes all hard edges and sharp corners again. “So did I measure up?” he asks.
“What are you talking about?”
“Rich girls like you only kiss guys like me because you’re curious. You want to see how a tattooed thug compares to a rich boy from Heights. I’m the guy you hook up with when you’re pissed off at Daddy or you want to make your rich private-school boyfriend jealous.” The second he says it, Marco cringes.
But the words punch holes in me like bullets. I put both hands on his chest and shove him away. “Then you have nothing to worry about, because my rich boyfriend is dead.”
Marco drags his hands over his face and stares at the ground. “I wasn’t thinking, Frankie. I’m an asshole.”
“You’re right.” I slide off the hood and walk away without looking back.
CHAPTER 16
CRITICAL LIFE SKILLS
After the party and my conversation with Marco, I can’t sleep.
I shouldn’t want him, but I do.
Worse … I want him to want me.
I need to stop thinking about him—and the kiss. And his expression when I pretended it didn’t mean anything. He looked hurt, but it was probably shock. I injured his pride, that’s all.
Marco wouldn’t let a girl from the Heights have the upper hand.
By now everyone in the Downs probably knows I kissed him. That will make afternoons at the rec center fun. Listening to thirteen-year-olds gossip about me ranks right below attending another tree-planting ceremony.
If I know the kiss didn’t mean anything, and I’ll probably pay for every second of it at school on Monday, why am I still thinking about it?