by Kami Garcia
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-slung 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.
I pick up my backpack and rush toward the counter. In a graceful move, I bump into Marco’s leg and almost trip.
“Sorry,” I mumble without turning around.
At the counter, I hand Mrs. Lane my schedule and watch as she writes each word. Anything to avoid looking at him. Marco’s eyes burn into my back, and warmth spreads through my cheeks. Another minute and I’m out of here.
Mrs. Lane hands me the blue slip, and I snatch it out of her hand.
I’m halfway out the door when Marco calls after me. “See you around, Angel.”
CHAPTER 6
PRACTICAL ARTS
After I leave the office, my morning gets progressively worse. My schedule sucks, a fact I didn’t fully absorb until now.
In addition to Mrs. Hellstrom’s English class, I have the first lunch period, which should be called breakfast based on how early it starts; chemistry, a subject my SAT scores proved I should avoid unless I want to fail a class; and no study hall.
I managed to dodge the music requirement thanks to the years I spent playing the piano—which seemed like a win. Until I realized that if an enthusiastic teacher reads my transcript and finds out that I have perfect pitch, I’ll end up in a stupid musical to fulfill some public school requirement I don’t know about.
But for reasons beyond explanation, my art history class from Woodley doesn’t fulfill the practical arts requirement here. So I end up in Monroe High’s version of the arts—Auto Shop.
The Shop classroom is in the basement. I trudge down the steps, prepared to spend the semester memorizing the parts of an engine—or is it called a motor?
Whatever. I memorized hundreds of Renaissance paintings. How hard can this be?
The hallway at the bottom of the steps leads to a stainless-steel door covered with names, phone numbers, and personal details that qualify as TMI. Above the doorframe, graffiti-style letters spell out: WHAT HAPPENS IN SHOP STAYS IN SHOP.
When I crack the door and slip inside, I realize just how badly I misjudged this class. The proof sits raised on black rubber blocks in the middle of the room—a bright green Camaro, at least according to the chrome emblem. With two tires and the passenger-side door missing, it resembles a huge model car that no one ever finished. Next to the rubber blocks, toolboxes overflow with screwdrivers, hammers, and power tools I can’t identify, confirming that I’m in over my head.
The girl with the ponytail who was outside with Marco this morning is the only other girl in class. Apparently, her name is Cruz, and she barely looks at me when our teacher—a weather-beaten old guy everyone calls Chief—seats me at the workstation next to hers. The lesson requires using a socket wrench. The tool turns out to be more complicated than the actual assignment, which I never start.
* * *
After Shop class, I hunt down my locker because my Automotive Basics textbook weighs more than an encyclopedia. Cars are way more complicated than I thought.
My locker is down the hall from the vending machine.
Noah would’ve loved this.
I find the number that matches the one on my schedule and try to open the dented metal door. It won’t budge.
Perfect.
I drop my backpack on the floor and fiddle with the rusty latch.
Come on. Open already.
The stupid thing isn’t even locked.
“Shit.” I slam my hand against the metal, and flecks of powder-blue paint flutter to the floor. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get lead poisoning.
“Rough day?” asks a familiar voice.
I spin around and Abel grins at me, his face framed by a short cloud of dark brown twists.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “Did you blow off class?”
“Nope.” Abel gives me the sexy smile that drives
other girls crazy—including the two staring at him from across the hallway. Abel and I have been friends since sixth grade, and he’s more like a brother to me, but I get it.
His lean build, boyish good looks, and the gorgeous contrast between his St. Lucian mother’s light green eyes and his Jamaican father’s deep brown skin never fails to send girls into a feeding frenzy. That’s not the only thing Abel inherited from his father. Dressed in skinny jeans, a vintage Alice in Chains T-shirt, and his dad’s beat-up Doc Martens, he bears a creepy resemblance to his dad, Tommy Ryder—the front man for the band Dirty Rotten Devils and a rock legend who overdosed when Abel was eleven.
He waves at the girls, and I roll my eyes. “Are you ever not flirting?”
Abel clutches his chest like he’s wounded. “You know my heart only belongs to one girl.”
Lex. The two of them have been crazy about each other forever, a fact that hasn’t brought them any closer to dating. For years, Lex wouldn’t even admit she had feelings for him.
Noah was the one who finally coaxed the truth out of her. He had a way of making people feel comfortable enough to tell him anything. Thinking about Noah triggers the hollow ache in my chest.
“So did you come to check up on me?” I force a smile.
Abel holds up a thick white form that looks suspiciously similar to my class schedule. “Technically, I transferred yesterday, but I had to pick up a copy of my immunization records this morning.”
My mouth falls open. “You left Woodley?”
“Yep. I’m officially a member of the masses.” He slings his arm over my shoulder. “Like I’d let you spend senior year without me. You’d never survive the withdrawal.”
More like he can’t survive being away from Lex, and now he has an excuse to transfer.
“Your mom is okay with this?”
He laughs. “Now, let’s not get crazy. But there’s nothing she can do about it. I’m eighteen.”
“Look who finally showed.” Lex strolls up behind him. “It took you long enough.”
“You knew?” Of course she did.
Lex hands Abel her books. “I know everything before it happens, kind of like the pope.”
“I think you mean God,” Abel says.
She leans closer to him. “I’m flattered, but you can call me Lex.”
A fresh wave of students floods the hallway, and Abel starts attracting serious attention. Some girls stop walking altogether, while others backtrack and cluster near the lockers, whispering and trying to make eye contact. Half of them are staring because he’s gorgeous, and the other half probably recognize him from the random tabloid photos of Abel and his mom doing boring things like grocery shopping.
Lex glares at his groupies. “You’ve only been here five minutes, and your fan club is already forming.”
Abel winks at her. “It’s a gift.”
“Move along.” Lex shoos away the girls with a flick of her wrist. A curvy brunette bats her over-mascaraed lashes at Abel and blows him a kiss as she leaves.
He tugs on the sleeve of my shirt. “Forget to do your laundry?”
“I’m flying under the radar.”
He peels opens a pack of SweeTarts and pops a few into his mouth. “How’s that working for you?”
“Shitty. But if I can open my locker—which, by the way, isn’t even locked—I’ll upgrade it to ‘slightly shitty.’”
“Step aside. I’ve got this.” Abel bends down and inspects the handle, rattling the latch. “It’s probably rusted shut.”
“Perfect.”
“Let me see your schedule, Romeo.” Lex plucks it out of his back pocket and unfolds it, running her finger down the page. “Someone forgot to turn on the charm in the office. Your schedule sucks almost as much as Frankie’s. At least you have second lunch.”
“With study hall right after,” Abel says. “It doesn’t get better than that.”
“Lex has the same lunch period,” I offer. “You can sit together in the cafeteria.”
“Not with me.” Lex tucks Abel’s schedule in his shirt pocket. “I don’t eat in District 12.”
I lean against the locker next to mine and listen while the two of them argue about whether Abel can talk Mrs. Lane into changing his schedule by the end of the day. It turns into a challenge, like everything else between the two of them. The stakes are just getting interesting when a tattooed arm reaches over my shoulder.
Marco bangs the side of his fist against my locker, and it springs open.
Mr. Santiago is right behind him. “Keep moving, Leone. You’re out of here.”
“It’s your world, Mr. S. I’m just living in it.” Marco pushes his way through the double doors that lead outside. Before I have a chance to thank him, he’s gone.
“Who was that?” Abel asks, examining the lock to see what he missed.
Lex waits until the doors slam behind them. “You don’t want to know.”
CHAPTER 7
DREAMS DIE IN THE DOWNS
Lex parks in front of the rec center between a shiny black Cadillac and a Volkswagen Jetta with a zoo of stuffed animals lined up in the rear window.
“Have I mentioned that I think this is a terrible idea?” she asks.
“Only about twenty times.” I hate relying on Lex for rides. Hanging out with her makes it harder to forget about my old life and start a new one at Monroe. So many of my memories with Lex and Abel include Noah.
But I feel like a bitch for not wanting her around.
Unfortunately, my transportation options are severely limited without a car (repo’d by Mom), a driver’s license (currently suspended), or a bus route to the Downs that doesn’t include drunks, perverts, and pickpockets (according to Dad).
A group of shirtless guys wearing basketball shorts lean against the wall of the building and watch us. One of them grabs his crotch and blows Lex a kiss. She throws the car into reverse. “We are out of here.”
I grab the wheel. “I can’t leave. I’m on probation.”
Lex puts the Fiat back into park and studies the gray building. Something catches her attention, and she leans over the steering wheel, squinting. “What does it say above the door?”
Graffiti covers the original inscription, and now it reads DREAMS DIE IN THE DOWNS.
It takes Lex a minute to decipher the letters. “You actually expect me to leave you here?” Her gaze darts between the graffiti and the basketball players, who have moved on to more creative gestures.
“You’re overreacting.” Hopefully. I dig through my purse, shove a credit card and a twenty in the pocket of my jeans, and sling my green canvas backpack over my shoulder. “I’m leaving my purse.”
“I’ll be back at seven to pick you up. If anything happens, text me.”
“Nothing is going to happen.” I get out and walk up the steps to the building where I’ll spend my afternoons for the next four months.
“Hey, princess! Get tired of those bitch-ass rich boys in the Heights?” One of the guys leaning against the wall calls out and grabs his crotch again. “Looking for some of this?”
Nice.
“Think I’ll pass.” I fake a confident smile.
A mangy cat prowls across the sidewalk in front of them. It hears me and turns, its spine arched and the hair on its back standing on end. It’s missing an eye—the empty cavity covered in a layer of gnarled skin. Bald patches all over the cat’s body reveal more battle scars.
The mutant cat hisses, ears flattened against its skull.
Shit.
I skid to a stop, hoping it will take off. But this animal is a fighter, and right now I’m the enemy. Images of rabid animals from a video we watched in seventh-grade science flicker through my mind, and I back away slowly. The cat matches me step for step, lowering its head and advancing like a tiger ready to spring.
A dog barks, and the one-eyed cat’s head jerks toward the parking lot. Some kind of husky mix darts between the cars and up the hill beside the steps where I’m standing.
<
br /> The cat has no chance.
The husky reaches the sidewalk, and the one-eyed cat lunges, hissing and clawing. The dog trips over its paws as it changes direction and retreats down the hill, with the cat tearing across the asphalt behind it.
I suck in a sharp breath, and the basketball players laugh. They haven’t moved from the wall. I hope they get rabies.
The glass door swings open, and a woman about my mom’s age with an Afro of soft spirals strolls out of the rec center. “I see you met Cyclops.”
“Is that your cat?” I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans.
“He’s nobody’s cat. The kids here gave him that name. Not that he lets any of them get within ten feet of him. He doesn’t like people.”
“I picked up on that, thanks.”
She raises an eyebrow, a warning to watch my attitude. “Is there something I can help you with?” It’s clear from her tone that helping me is the last thing she wants to do.
“My name is Frankie Devereux. I’m supposed to check in with Mrs. Johnson.”
She sizes me up from beneath expertly shaped eyebrows. “Francesca Devereux?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Follow me.” She opens the heavy glass door and heads for the check-in desk. She scribbles something on a clipboard, and her expression hardens. “I don’t know how they do things in the Heights, and I don’t care. But the kids in my after-school program come here to stay out of trouble.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She points the clipboard at me. “I expect you to use better judgment than you did when you decided to get behind the wheel of a car drunk.”
For some reason, I want to tell her that it happened after my dead boyfriend’s tree-planting ceremony and that it was the only time I’ve ever driven with a drop of alcohol in my system. But I have a feeling it wouldn’t matter to Mrs. Johnson.
“I will.”
Mrs. Johnson gives me a slow nod. “Then we understand each other.”
“Yes, m—”
“Stop calling me ma’am. Everyone here calls me Miss Lorraine.”
I follow Miss Lorraine past a mural of a sunny garden that doesn’t resemble anything I’ve seen in the Downs. The happy-faced flowers cover the whole wall, but the cinder blocks are still visible underneath.
