by Kami Garcia
“Things have changed a lot since then.”
“You’re the one who said Monroe and the rec center are in the nicer parts of the Downs.” I throw his words back at him.
Dad paces. “Nicer than my district—where people get knifed in broad daylight and kids can’t play in the park because the ground is covered with dirty needles and burnt aluminum foil instead of grass.”
“I’m not naive.”
“More kids are getting into serious trouble.” Dad shakes his head, still pacing. “More than I realized. Some of the students at your school already have police records.”
“And some of the kids at Monroe are from the Heights,” I shoot back.
“Not the ones at the rec center.” He bangs his fist against the wall. “That’s the last place I wanted you doing community service.”
Is he serious?
“If it bothered you so much, why didn’t you do something about it? I don’t know … like ask them to move me? You’re a cop. I’m sure you know someone in the probation office.”
“The probation office doesn’t take requests, and I won’t ask anyone for special treatment.”
“Whatever.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head for the front door.
“Just be careful about who you hang out with. That’s all I’m saying. You don’t need any more problems.”
I stop walking and turn around to face him. “Wow. One stupid decision and I’m a total screwup? It’s good to know where I stand.”
He rubs his temples like I’m giving him a headache. “Drinking and driving is more than a stupid decision. Someone could’ve died.”
The words twist like a screwdriver inside me. “I know.”
“And you weren’t exactly on the straight and narrow before the DUI. Your mom told me that you quit playing piano and volunteering at the hospital and started sneaking out and drinking instead. By my count, that’s more than one bad decision.”
My extracurricular activities aren’t me. They’re things I do, not who I am.
Mom will never see it that way, but I hoped Dad might understand.
Guess not.
A car horn honks outside. “This was fun, Dad, but I’ve had enough bonding for one morning. I’m going to be late for school.”
“Frankie, wait,” Dad calls after me.
The apartment door bangs shut as I run down the steps to the parking lot.
I’m done waiting.
* * *
Lex doesn’t say much in the car on the way to school. The most I get out of her is that she gave in and talked to Abel last night, and they ended up fighting. After what my dad said this morning, I’m fine with silence.
At school, I take out my frustration on my locker when it won’t open. I bang the side of my fist against it the way Marco did yesterday.
Nothing.
Today officially sucks.
I spot Marco coming down the hall.
“Hey,” I call out. He looks up, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Want to show a rich girl how to open her locker? It seems like you’re the only person around here who knows how to get into it.”
Marco walks toward me. “I never called you that.”
But he probably thought it.
“Right. I should’ve said ‘a Royal’.”
He slouches a little. “I never called you that, either.” The scent of leather and citrus envelops me when he reaches my locker. “Just so I’m clear, you’re asking for my help, right?”
I cock my head to the side and throw him some attitude. “Weren’t you suspended?”
“Just for the day. The teachers miss me if I’m not around.” He leans his shoulder against the locker next to mine and stares down at me. “And you never answered my question. Are you asking for my help?”
“Are you going to show me or not? Otherwise, I’ll just go to the office and tell Mrs. Lane I need another one.”
It’s almost time for first period, and other students filter into the hallway. Marco’s presence at my locker doesn’t go unnoticed. Girls stare, and a couple of them give me dirty looks.
“He’d never be into her,” one of them whispers.
Because I’m not his type? Or because I’m from the Heights?
I fiddle with the latch on my locker, hoping Marco didn’t hear. I’m used to people talking about me. Watching your boyfriend get beaten to death outside the hottest new club in the Heights guarantees a certain amount of gossip. But it feels different with Marco standing next to me.
Marco touches my arm. His fingertips linger longer than necessary, and my skin tingles. “So there’s a trick to opening it.” He points at the number on top of the door: 231. “You have to hit the two.”
“That’s all?”
He steps aside. “Try it.”
Curling my hand, I hit the side of my fist against the number two. The locker springs open, and I break into a smile. I can’t help it.
“It worked.” I close it and try again. The rusty blue door swings open a second time.
Marco watches me.
My cheeks heat up, and I change the subject. “How did you figure out the trick?”
He gives me a sheepish smile. “This was my friend Deacon’s locker. The guy who was with me last night. He rigged it so no one could break in.”
None of Turk’s friends wanted to mess with the scarred blond any more than Miss Lorraine wanted him in the rec center. And Marco is his friend. Not a good sign.
“Did he graduate?” More people around us are beginning to stare.
“Not before he got expelled.” Either Marco doesn’t notice we’re attracting attention or he doesn’t care.
Why should he? Gossip never hurts guys like Marco.
The bell rings, and I slip past him. “Thanks for the help.” I force my legs to move, my skin still buzzing from his touch.
“Hey, Frankie?” he calls out.
I glance back at him, ignoring the eyes on us. “Yeah?”
“You should smile more often.”
A hint of one tugs at the corner of my mouth. “I’ll think about it.”
I turn around and start walking, careful to keep my head down so that no one sees the moment when the huge smile I was fighting finally breaks free. It takes every ounce of self-control not to look back and see if he’s watching.
CHAPTER 12
ROCK STARS, POETS, AND SINNERS
I make it to English class moments before the bell. Most of the seats are taken except the ones in the front. The firing zone.
No, thanks.
An empty desk in the back corner offers a glimmer of hope—and a familiar face. Cruz lounges in the next seat over. After last night, I’m not sure what to expect.
Mrs. Hellstrom taps a stack of papers against her desk. “Put away your cell phones, ladies and gentlemen. Today we are discussing the requirements for the long-term assignment that will account for forty percent of your English grade this semester. So if I were you, I would pay attention.”
Cruz gives me a nod. Coming from her, it feels like an invitation. I take the empty seat and dig through my backpack. Where’s my pen?
She reaches in front of me and puts a pencil on my desk.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
Cruz points at the front of the room with her pen. “Take notes. Mrs. Hellstrom is a hardass.”
In Shop class, Cruz barely acknowledged my existence. Then last night she tried to help me, and now she’s lending me a pencil and giving me advice?
The drama at the street races proved that I’m completely out of my element—and that one of my best friends has zero common sense. I’m sure that didn’t impress anyone.
So what did I miss?
Mrs. Hellstrom scrawls a series of names on the board in illegible serial killer handwriting. “Sylvia Plath. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Virginia Woolf. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Alice Walker.” She stretches her arm across the whiteboard and draws a line under the names. “What do these writers have in common?”
&n
bsp; The guy who looked like he was asleep in the back of the room yesterday raises his hand.
“Jamal?” Mrs. Hellstrom watches him expectantly.
“They’re all novelists or poets.”
“Jamal is correct, but they have something else in common.” When no one volunteers an answer, Mrs. Hellstrom perches on the front of her desk, half sitting and half standing in one of those I’m-a-cool-teacher poses. “All these authors kept journals.”
“So they wrote in diaries?” asks a girl in the second row.
Mrs. Hellstrom starts pacing, as if whatever she’s about to tell us is so exciting she can’t sit still any longer. “Their journals weren’t accounts of their day-to-day lives, like traditional diaries. They were far less structured.”
She retrieves a stack of handouts from her desk and gives some to the first person in each row to pass back. “These packets include samples from the journals of the authors whose names are on the board, in addition to some other artists you might recognize.”
I flip through the photocopied pages. Sylvia Plath. Henry David Thoreau. Anne Frank. Frida Kahlo. Kurt Cobain. Pages of poetry, song lyrics, doodles, lists, and anecdotes mixed in with longer entries.
Abel once told me that his dad used to make lists of words and phrases whenever he worked on a new song.
“These are kinda personal,” Cruz says.
“You’re right,” Mrs. Hellstrom says. “These excerpts contain everything from observations and ideas for stories, songs, and poems to the thoughts and dreams of the journal writers.” She’s borderline euphoric now. “Their hopes and fears … they’re all here in different forms. This semester, each of you will create a journal that reflects who you are as a writer.”
Is this woman insane? I don’t like discussing my fears with my friends. There’s no way I’m sharing them with her—in writing.
And my hopes?
I hope I can sleep for more than three hours a night. I hope the flashbacks of Noah’s head hitting the ground will stop and I’ll remember the faces of his attacker instead. I hope my dad gets off my back. I hope Mrs. Hellstrom quits tomorrow and takes this nightmarish assignment with her.
Mrs. Hellstrom flips through the packet, reading Kurt Cobain lyrics that never made it into his songs, and passages from what she calls a coming-of-age art journal.
I sigh and drop my head on my desk.
“She assigns crazy-ass stuff like this every year,” Cruz whispers. She stops talking every time Mrs. Hellstrom glances up from the packet.
“Okay,” I manage.
Cruz raises her hand.
“Isabella? Do you have a question?” our insane teacher asks.
“So you want us to tell you our secrets?”
“I’m not asking you to share anything you’re uncomfortable with, Isabella. The journals are a place to experiment, so you can find your voices as writers. They can be full of short stories or poetry if you don’t want to write about yourself directly. But I think you’ll find that even journals composed of narrative entries are a reflection of the writer.”
“Isabella?” I whisper when Mrs. Hellstrom turns to answer another question.
She rolls her eyes. “Isabella Vera Cruz. But nobody calls me that except annoying teachers like her.”
“Trust me, I get it.” I point at myself. “Francesca Devereux.”
She laughs, and Mrs. Hellstrom glares at us.
Eventually, we get paired up to answer boring questions about the entries from the dead and famous.
“So are you okay after everything that went down last night?” Cruz asks me.
“Yeah.” The realization hits me all at once. I’m not just saying it because she is the one asking.
For the first time in months, it’s true.
I am okay.
Last night I held it together when Sung grabbed me, and this morning I stood my ground with Dad—something the old Frankie never would’ve done. It feels like I’m finally waking up after being asleep for years.
“When I mentioned the street races to your friend Abel, I didn’t think he’d really come. Or that it would start such a shit storm.” Cruz shakes her head. At least that part of Abel’s story was true. “But I couldn’t believe you showed up.”
“Why?” Now that I asked, I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
“Girls from the Heights don’t usually come to the street races.”
“Abel is one of my best friends, and he was in trouble. It’s not like I had a choice.” A second too late, I realize the way it sounds. “Not that there’s anything wrong with where you race.”
“You had a choice. Most people won’t have your back if it means putting their own ass on the line. Trust me.”
“I don’t have many real friends.” The words tumble out. Perfect. She probably thinks I sit alone at a huge table in the cafeteria every day.
“Me neither.”
The bell rings, and Mrs. Hellstrom issues last-minute instructions as chair legs scrape and students bolt out the door. I close the photocopied packet of other people’s private thoughts and stuff it in my backpack.
Cruz tucks her pen in the pocket of the painted-on jeans that manage to look cool on her, instead of like she’s trying too hard.
I follow her out of the classroom, expecting her to ditch me. Instead, she falls into step beside me. “So what’s the deal between you and Marco?”
Is it that obvious?
“There’s no deal.”
“He doesn’t stick his neck out for just anyone.”
“His sister is in my group at the rec center. He probably wanted to make sure her tutor didn’t get kidnapped.” It’s pretty much the same answer I gave Lex, and from the look on Cruz’s face, she isn’t buying it, either.
Cruz owns the hallway. Guys stare and girls move aside. A jock wearing a Monroe Soccer T-shirt and a Tag Heuer watch that’s worth at least nine hundred dollars checks out Cruz instead of paying attention to the cheerleader batting her lashes at him.
The jock grins at Cruz, and she gives him the finger. “Guys from the Heights are assholes.”
All of a sudden, it feels like I’m standing on the wrong side of enemy lines. But the truth is, lots of guys from the Heights are arrogant, selfish, and entitled. Noah was an exception. “You’re right. Most of them are.”
“You don’t have to agree with me to avoid an awkward moment. I can deal with awkward. It’s bullshit I can’t handle.”
“I’m not that nice anymore.”
She sizes me up and watches the activity in the hallway at the same time. She would make a good cop. “Now that we’ve established this is a bullshit-free zone, there’s really nothing going on with you and Marco?”
“He’s not my type, and I’m probably not his, either.” I sound like my six-year-old cousin when he can’t have something and he says, Then I don’t want it anyway. “I’m not going to jump in bed with him just because he’s hot.”
“Most girls do.” It sounds like she’s stating a fact. “But you think he’s hot?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Especially now that I know Lex wasn’t exaggerating about his reputation.
“It’s what you said.”
“I’m not going to be Marco Leone’s flavor of the week, and I don’t want a relationship with anyone.”
She flashes a smug smile when I say the word relationship.
“Not that I think Marco is relationship material.”
Cruz’s smile fades. “You would be surprised.”
CHAPTER 13
ONE-EYED CAT
When Lex drops me off at the rec center after school, the three shirtless basketball players are already standing against the wall. They’re wearing different nylon basketball shorts and leather high-tops, but otherwise they look exactly the same.
“Hey, princess. You’re back.”
“Come on over here and say hi.”
One of them flicks his tongue at me. “We missed you.”
Gross.
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They blow me kisses and I ignore them, taking the steps two at a time.
Inside, Sofia sits perched on Miss Lorraine’s chair behind the counter. Miss Lorraine is busy lecturing a boy about how low his jeans are riding.
Sofia notices me watching Miss Lorraine. “She’s really nice when you get to know her. I stay at her house when Marco works late. She’s just sad. Her daughter, Kira, died five years ago, and they were really close.”
I think of Miss Lorraine as the tough woman in charge of the rec center and my unofficial probation officer (aside from my actual probation officer, who I have to meet with every six weeks)—someone watching and waiting for me to screw up. I never imagined the kind of life she had when she left the rec center.
“How did her daughter die?” I whisper.
Sofia twists, and the seat moves from side to side. “A drive-by. The guy who lived next door to them sold meth. He cheated some bad guys. They were trying to kill him, but they got the address wrong.”
“I remember the story. It was all over the news when I was in middle school.”
“Miss Lorraine says we’re all her kids now.” Sofia hops down from the chair, and we walk toward the room where my group meets. “So how did you do in Shop?”
“Better. I actually know the difference between the engine block and the cylinders, I think. Now Chief has moved on to five-speed transmissions.”
She sits next to Daniel, and he kicks his backpack under the chair to make space for hers on the floor between them. He runs his hands over the curls sticking up around his face, like he’s worried about impressing her. I don’t blame him.
Sofia is beautiful, inside and out. Two clips hold back her curly hair, exposing the brutal scars on her face and neck. The fearless way Sofia allows the world to see what most people would hide makes me uncomfortable. I’d never willingly reveal the scars from my past to anyone. My own mind won’t even let me remember them.
Today everyone settles down easily, but there’s less chatter and more whispering.
When most of the kids in my after-school group filter out around six thirty, the whispers increase. Kumiko moves her book closer to my table—and Sofia, Daniel, and Carlos.
