Broken Beautiful Hearts

by Kami Garcia

“Do you know elitist that sounds?”

  She flips opens the visor and checks her makeup in the mirror. “I’m a realist, and you sound like a Peace Corps volunteer. Let’s see how elitist you think I am by lunch.”

  I stare out the window, hoping to check out the other students … or the hot guy with the tattoos. Lot A doesn’t look much different from the parking lot at the country club. Aside from a few Acuras, Honda SUVs, and Jeeps, it’s packed with Audis, BMWs, Mercedes, and random sports cars like the Fiat. Judging from the jocks dressed like Abercrombie & Fitch models and the number of people holding Starbucks cups, no one from the Downs parks in this lot.

  The cups are the real giveaway.

  Dad’s partner, Tyson, complains that the Downs is the only place on earth without a Starbucks.

  “Is there assigned parking at Monroe?” I ask.

  Lex gets out and adjusts the black studded leather bag on her shoulder. “No. Why?”

  I look around. “It doesn’t seem like anyone from the Downs parks here.”

  She locks the car. “They don’t. By choice. They probably think we’ll ding their custom paint jobs. Who knows?” She heads for the main building on the opposite side of the street. “Most Monroe students hang out with people from their own neighborhood. And don’t give me that judgey look. I only transferred here last year. I’m not responsible for the social hierarchy.”

  “Social hierarchy? Wasn’t that a vocab term from our SAT prep class?” I’ve missed teasing Lex.

  “Whatever.”

  I follow her across the quad in front of a huge redbrick building, along with what seems like half the student body. Ahead of us, two girls dressed in Marc Jacobs drink Frappuccinos and text a few feet away from three guys wearing their jeans so low that I can read Tommy Hilfiger’s name on their boxer briefs. To their credit, the guys hike up their jeans whenever they slide down past the halfway point on their asses. Give them belts and they’re practically ready for cotillion.

  Ass-riding jeans aside, Monroe isn’t as bad as the private-school crowd thinks. I expected metal detectors and drug dealers handing out dime bags on the lawn.

  This I can handle.

  Before we make it to the sidewalk, the shouting starts.

  CHAPTER 4

  FIGHT CLUB

  “Marco! I heard you were trying to get with my girl.” A huge guy wearing a Baltimore Ravens jersey steps in front of a curvy redhead spilling out of her tank top—most likely the girlfriend in question. He stalks across the grass in our direction, looking big enough to be a linebacker for the Ravens.

  Lex throws her head back and sighs. “Now we’re going to be late for class. I don’t know why these losers can’t beat the crap out of each other off campus.”

  “Is it like this all the time?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Only on slow days.”

  I catch a glimpse of his target … the linebacker called him Marco.

  It’s him.

  It’s the guy with the tattoos who smiled at me in Lot B, and up close he’s jaw-droppingly gorgeous. I try not to stare at the black ink on his arm. I’ve seen tattoos before, but his are different—powerful and hypnotic.

  He doesn’t notice me.

  A girl with a thick mane of black waves pulled into a high ponytail stands beside Marco. The combination of her delicate features and the way she’s staring down the linebacker with her arms crossed gives her a pretty but tough vibe. Her white tank, dark jeans, and old-school gray-and-red Nike high-tops are borderline tomboy.

  It’s a look I wish I could pull off.

  “Leone!” The linebacker points at Marco. “I’m talking to you.”

  The pretty girl with the ponytail grabs Marco’s sleeve. “Walk away. He’s a little bitch.”

  Marco’s expression is calm and calculating, as if he knows something the rest of us don’t. He crosses the lawn and stops in front of the linebacker, only a few feet away from Lex and me. “You really want to do this, Coop?”

  The other guy’s jaw twitches. “Nobody tries to take what’s mine.”

  What’s his? He’s talking about the redhead like she’s a personal possession—a jacket or a textbook he can toss into his locker.

  Asshole.

  “It’s not my problem if you can’t keep your girl happy,” Marco says. “But don’t worry. She’s not my type.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” The linebacker’s hands curl into fists.

  Marco cracks a cocky smile. “I’m not into girls who only look good from the neck down.”

  The guy in the Ravens jersey throws the first punch, and it catches Marco above the eye. Marco staggers, his feet crisscrossing.

  Lex tries to yank me back, but there’s a wall of people behind us now.

  Marco regains his balance and charges. He jabs an uppercut into the linebacker’s stomach, and the guy keels over, groaning and clutching his gut. Marco stands over him. “If you come at me like that again, you’ll end up with more than a couple of scratches on your face.”

  As he turns to walk away, the linebacker pushes himself onto his knees. “I’d still look better than your sister.”

  The girl with Marco gasps and covers her mouth. I have no idea what the linebacker means, but everyone else seems to know. Whispers ripple through the crowd, and a few people call out.

  “Aww, shit!”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Beat his ass, Marco.”

  Marco’s cocky grin instantly vanishes. He charges and grabs the linebacker by the shoulders of his jersey. Marco jerks the linebacker down and simultaneously brings up his knee to meet the guy’s nose. The linebacker’s head snaps back violently on impact, and blood sprays across the grass.

  I suck in a sharp breath, and the sky tilts.

  Deep breath. Don’t freak out.

  A wave of dizziness crashes over me. My mind spins. I hear the crowd urging Marco on, the crack of bone against bone, as my vision blurs.…

  I’m in the parking lot next to the club.

  Noah gives me the look—the signal that means, don’t come over here. I drop to my knees and duck between two cars. The wet asphalt smells like beer and stale cigarettes, but I don’t care. I have a clear view of Noah, and that’s what matters.

  The guy closes in on him. Why can’t I see his face? He’s talking to Noah.

  No … yelling at him.

  Heavy boots hit the asphalt. Cars speed by on the street behind me.

  An arm swings. A fist hits Noah’s jaw, and he staggers.

  I can’t see him anymore. Where is he now?

  Something moves under the streetlights, and I see it—his baby-blue shirt. But it’s not blue anymore. It’s red.

  Another fist rockets toward Noah’s face. I don’t hear the crack, but I swear I feel it.

  One thought runs through my mind over and over.…

  I can’t let him hurt Noah again. I have to do something.

  The guy has his back to me, and I lunge at him from behind, pulling and clawing his shirt.

  “Frankie!” Lex yells.

  The guy pivots in my direction without looking, and his elbow catches me in the stomach.

  A jolt of pain hits, forcing the air out of my lungs, and I gasp.

  Flashes of color, faces, the sky—it all spins by me in a split second—and I’m falling.

  My back hits the grass. I hear Dad’s voice in my head: If someone gets you on the ground, roll into a ball and keep your face covered.

  I shield my face, but my stomach cramps, and I can’t pull up my knees.

  Voices bombard me from every side.

  “Someone help her!”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “I didn’t see her.” A guy’s voice. “I swear.”

  I open my eyes, expecting to see cars, streetlights, and the side of the club’s marquee with The Sugar Factory lit up in neon pink. Instead, sunlight blinds me. It’s not dark outside. A guy leans over me, blocking the sun … a gu
y I recognize. A redbrick building looms behind him. I’m not in the club parking lot.

  Think. I try to clear my head. I’m at Monroe. With Lex. Lot A. The fight. A hot guy with tattoos …

  “I thought you were one of his boys.” His chest heaves like he’s still out of breath from the fight. The hot guy … Marco.

  My heart pounds, echoing in my ears.

  “Are you okay?” Marco reaches for me, then pulls his hand back.

  “Yeah.” I nod in case he didn’t hear me.

  A trickle of blood runs down his cheek from a cut above his eye, but he doesn’t wipe it off. The girl who was hanging out with Marco before the fight stands behind him, watching me. “Did she hit her head? She might have a concussion.”

  “Move!” Lex yells, shoving people aside. She puts herself between me and Marco. “Get away from her!”

  Marco sits back on his heels, arms hanging at his sides as if he’s waiting for her to punch him. He looks younger and less dangerous. “I didn’t see her,” he repeats.

  “It was an accident.” The girl with Marco rests her hand on his shoulder.

  Lex drops down beside me. “Did that psycho hurt you?”

  “I’m fine.” A dull pain throbs in the pit of my stomach.

  The guy in the Ravens jersey groans and rolls onto his side. Blood spatters cover the front of his shirt, and one of his eyes has swollen shut. Two of his friends drag him to the nearest tree and prop him up.

  Without the bleeding linebacker next to us, I’m the main attraction. Just what I need on my first day at a new school. On the upside, getting knocked on my ass distracted the crowd. Hopefully, no one noticed me zoning out.

  I stand up too fast and my legs turn into Jell-O. The ground slips out from under me, and Marco springs to his feet. He reaches for my elbow, but Lex beats him to it.

  She slaps his hand away. “Don’t touch her.”

  The pretty tomboy raises her eyebrows.

  Marco steps back, his eyes locked on mine. The intensity of his gaze—the way he’s staring directly at me—isn’t helping my Jell-O legs situation.

  “You okay, Angel?” Another question lingers in his eyes, but I don’t know what he’s asking.

  “I’m—”

  “Clear this area now!” a deep voice thunders across the quad. Within seconds, a man about Dad’s age, with strong features and salt-and-pepper hair, crosses the lawn. Judging by his turtleneck and pressed jeans, he’s a teacher.

  He points at Marco. “Not you, Leone. Stay right where you are.”

  Marco raises his hands and clasps them behind his head like he’s under arrest. “Whatever you say, Mr. S.”

  Mr. S takes one look at Lex shielding me from Marco and shoves him toward the sidewalk. Then he turns to me. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” How many times do I have to say it?

  “Are you sure?” He has kind eyes and a soothing voice, now that he’s not shouting.

  “She’s okay, really, Mr. Santiago.” Lex hooks her arm through mine.

  Mr. Santiago notices the guy in the bloody Ravens jersey near the sidewalk. “Why aren’t I surprised to see you here, Mr. Cooper?” He snaps his fingers at the linebacker’s friends. “Take him to the nurse. I want him out of my sight.” Mr. Santiago zeroes in on Marco and points at the main building. “Start walking, Leone. You know the way.”

  With Marco safely on the sidewalk, Lex grabs my shoulders. “What were you thinking, Frankie?” She closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them again, I see it in her eyes. Pity. “Don’t answer that. Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

  Lex thinks I’m too fragile to hold it together, but she’s wrong. I’m like a broken bone that wasn’t set correctly. I might not heal perfectly, but I will heal.

  I brush off my shirt and pick up my purse and backpack. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Do you always have to be so stubborn?”

  I respond by crossing my arms.

  Lex sighs. “I should’ve asked Mr. Santiago to write us a note. We’re late for class.”

  “Is he the principal?”

  “Security guard.” Lex leads me across the quad, her arm looped through mine. “Welcome to Monroe.”

  CHAPTER 5

  BEAUTIFUL BAD BOY

  “Blue slip.” My English teacher—Mrs. Hellstrom, according to my schedule—extends her hand without so much as a glance in my direction. Lex insisted on walking me to my first class, and now I’m standing in the front of the room while everyone stares.

  “I don’t have one. Just my schedule.” I hold it out to her.

  Mrs. Hellstrom doesn’t look up from the book in front of her. She’s a serious-looking woman with pasty skin and thin, penciled-in eyebrows. “You need to go to the office. I can’t add you to the roster without a blue slip.”

  A few students take advantage of the distraction and whip out their cell phones. A guy in the back is asleep, with his head on his desk. The girl sitting next to him has violet-and-brown ombré hair, and she’s painting her nails a matching shade of purple. None of the girls at my old school would’ve had the guts to dye their hair like hers.

  At Woodley, standing out wasn’t a good thing, unless it involved scoring the “it” bag of the season or putting a unique spin on the currently accepted style. I always played it safe, choosing skinny jeans—from the dozens of almost identical pairs stacked in my closet—a simple top or tee under a fitted leather jacket, and cute flats or boots. I never cut my hair too short or grew it too long.

  Pretty enough without stressing about it—that was my look.

  At Monroe, the old sneakers and ratty button-down I’m wearing would fall into the category of not trying at all.

  Mrs. Hellstrom notices everyone messing around and smacks her book shut. “People, this is not study hall. You can complete the questions on the required summer reading book in class now or in detention later. The choice is yours.”

  A chorus of groans travels through the room, followed by the sound of papers rustling. Two girls in the front row stare at my tiny purse and laugh.

  Mrs. Hellstrom turns to me. “Front office. Blue slip.”

  I close the door and consider going back to Dad’s apartment, but I don’t have a car anymore, and I’m not busing it. I shove my stupid purse that probably screams the Heights into my backpack.

  Finding the office isn’t easy. Monroe is four times the size of my old school, and the hallways look identical—rows of powder-blue lockers, white cinder-block walls, and bulletin boards decorated with a tiny bearded leprechaun in a tailcoat, holding up his fists. Yeah, that’s the mascot every high school wants.

  I spot the office. A banner with the leprechaun in the corner hangs over the door: JAMES MONROE HIGH SCHOOL, HOME OF THE FIGHTING BARONS.

  Behind a long counter inside, a lady with teased blond hair and an armload of brassy charm bracelets reads a magazine. Dad wasn’t kidding. She looks exactly like Dolly Parton.

  Dolly Parton notices me and tears herself away from the magazine that she pretends she’s not reading. “Shouldn’t you be in class? If you need the nurse, she’s down the hall.”

  “It’s my first day, and my English teacher, Mrs. Hellstrom, sent me here to get a blue slip.”

  She pushes her hot-pink reading glasses higher on the bridge of her nose and lets out a long breath. I’m clearly cutting into her reading time. “Take a seat. I’ll be with you as soon as I finish this paperwork.” I’m assuming that’s code for magazine.

  “Thanks.” Hopefully, she won’t finish until English class is over.

  I choose a chair in the corner and close my eyes. This day feels like it will never end, and it’s only first period.

  Door hinges creak, and my eyes fly open.

  A woman stuffed into a gray suit that’s at least one size too small steps aside to let someone leave her office. “Don’t go anywhere, Mr. Leone. We are not finished here.”

  Marco saunters out, hands in the pockets of his low-slun
g jeans, his black high-tops untied. My eyes are instantly drawn to the tribal lines inked on his arm, the intricate details beckoning me to come closer.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He flashes her a lopsided grin. There’s no sign of the angry fighter I saw in the quad earlier. He taps on the counter as he passes Dolly Parton. “What’s up, Mrs. Lane?”

  Mrs. Lane scowls. “I’m tired of seeing you in here. Why don’t you try behaving yourself for a week and see what happens?”

  “I’d miss you too much.” Marco grins at her, and turns away from the counter. He sees me and the dimple vanishes. His gaze darts between the empty chairs.

  If there is a god, please don’t let this guy sit next to me.

  My mouth goes dry as he approaches. Marco drops into the vinyl chair across from mine, which is worse than if he sat next me, because now I have nowhere to look except at him.

  Apparently, God is alive and well, and he has a sense of humor.

  Marco rubs the back of his head, where the hair is cut closer to his scalp. It’s longer in the front, and I like the way it sticks up all over the place. He seems nervous and clears his throat. “Are you—?”

  Not again. “I’m fine.”

  “Yeah?”

  I hold up three fingers in the shape of a W. “Girl Scout promise.” I cringe. Those words did not just come out of my mouth.

  He raises an eyebrow, and his cocky attitude returns. “Are you here to give your testimony?”

  “What?”

  “The fight. Did you get called in to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, Angel?”

  Why does he keep calling me that? It must be an insult.

  “No one called me in. I need a blue slip.” Why am I explaining myself to him? Or talking to him in the first place?

  Marco leans forward and props his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands between his long legs. “So are all the schools in the Heights full?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just wondering how you ended up at Monroe. Nobody from the Heights wants to transfer here.”

  How am I supposed to respond? Say something funny and risk offending him?

  “I needed to start over,” I blurt out.

  “I can get you that blue slip now,” Mrs. Lane waves me over, her brass bangles jingling.