The Lovely Reckless

by Kami Garcia

  The last time we talked, I was in flashback freak-out mode. He probably thinks I’m crazy.

  “Unless you’re suddenly perfect and I missed the memo, you don’t get to judge me,” I yell, even though anger isn’t what I’m feeling. I’m scared—of Marco and how easily he sees the truth about me. Of myself and how much I can’t see.

  “Say whatever you want about me, Frankie. Odds are if it’s bad, it’s probably true.” Marco rubs the back of his neck, dark clouds churning in his eyes. “I’m a screwup. But you aren’t. Promise me you won’t do anything that stupid again.”

  Why does he care?

  My eyes burn, but I won’t cry in front of him. “I just want everyone to leave me alone.”

  Marco reaches out and touches my cheek. “You sure about that?”

  I stare at my sneakers.

  His expression softens. “Every once in a while, the universe gives us what we ask for, so just make sure you’re asking for the right things.”

  “What do you ask for?”

  Marco looks stunned, as if no one has ever bothered to ask him a question like that before. We aren’t as different as he thinks. Part of me wants to tell him that—to take some of the sadness out of those brown eyes—but I’ve already let myself get too close.

  “I want Sofia to graduate,” he says finally. “To go to college and get out of the Downs. I want Cruz’s dad to stop beating the crap out of her.”

  “None of that is for you.”

  He keeps his gaze focused on me. “There’s no room in my life for what I want.”

  “But if there was?”

  “I still couldn’t have it.” Marco stares at the ground between us, hands shoved in his pockets. “Some things aren’t meant for guys like me.”

  CHAPTER 23

  UNSOLVABLE EQUATIONS

  The ride back from V Street consisted of lots of apologies from me and icy stares from Lex. I avoided the subject of my risky, ledge-walking behavior, and she didn’t bring it up, either. Instead, Lex tortured me with the street-racing statistics she looked up online while I was racing—fun stuff like the number of annual deaths and arrests.

  Lex is still angry with me the next day, and she barely talks to me on the way to school in the morning. We’re halfway to the rec center in the afternoon when I try to break the ice.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the race.”

  “Why would you?” She shrugs. “You don’t tell me anything.”

  “That’s not true.”

  She looks over at me. “Are you serious right now? Before you started at Monroe, we hardly talked at all. When Noah died, you shut me out. I called and texted you all summer, and you almost never responded. And if I tried to make plans or come over, you gave me a bullshit excuse. I thought things would change when you transferred to Monroe, but now instead of ignoring everyone, you only ignore me. If you didn’t need me to drive you to school and the rec center, I’d probably never hear from you.”

  She’s right, and it kills me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Lex pulls into the parking lot and cuts the engine. “Don’t be. You have new friends, and if you don’t want to hang out anymore, just say so. Because I’m tired of being the only person in this friendship.”

  The thought of not talking to Lex at all makes me realize how important she is to me. “I screwed up, Lex. It’s just…”

  I’m the shittiest best friend in the history of shitty best friends.

  “What?”

  “It was you and me and Abel and Noah for such a long time. And it’s hard to think about him.”

  Her expression softens. “That’s what this is about? I thought you were trying to replace me.”

  “I just wanted to forget.”

  Lex throws her arms around me. “As long as you don’t forget about me, too.”

  I hug her back, and my eyes flicker to the front of the building.

  The three shirtless basketball players are watching us. Two of them flick their tongues at us, and the third guy has added a new crude gesture to his repertoire.

  “Look.”

  Lex glances at them. “They really are assholes.”

  “Agreed.”

  She gestures at the door. “Now get out of here before you end up with more community service. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  I watch her drive away as I walk up the hill.

  Dirt clings to my sneakers, and I realize it’s everywhere. I never paid much attention before, but there’s almost no grass around the rec center—not even under the abandoned playground structures behind the building.

  Dad said there is no grass on the playgrounds in 1-D. At least the ground here isn’t littered with dirty needles and burnt aluminum foil. In a strange way the rec center feels like an island all its own—a place safe from the world around it.

  It’s not the Heights. The air here smells like rubber and damp soil, salt ’n’ vinegar potato chips, and the perfume aisle in a department store, but that’s okay.

  The air smells like something else, too.

  Asphalt.

  The scent gets stronger, and I hear Noah laughing.…

  “You’re such a liar.” I’m barefoot, in cutoffs and a tank top.

  “I’m not lying.” Noah shrugs, wearing board shorts and his X Games T-shirt. “It’s my favorite smell after cotton candy.”

  I roll my eyes. “Then you’re the only person in the universe whose second-favorite smell is asphalt.”

  He circles around me on his Mongoose and does a crazy trick. “Want to know why?”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Not even a little bit.”

  Noah flips a 360 on the back wheel. “It reminds me of riding my bike in the summer. That’s when they fill the potholes and my wheels get the best spin.”

  “Whatever. I hate bikes.”

  Noah grins at me. “That’s because you don’t know how to ride one.”

  “I never should’ve told you!” I storm down the sidewalk, my long hair swishing behind me.

  The real world starts to seep in from the corners, the way a sheet of paper burns if you hold a match at the bottom.

  The rec center’s glass doors …

  Dirt on the ground where there should be grass …

  The images fade, taking young Frankie and young Noah with them.

  “Hey, Frankie?” Noah calls out. “If you want to learn how to ride, I’ll teach you.”

  I put my hands on my knees and take a deep breath. But I’m not shaking or dizzy, and my heart isn’t racing. The flashbacks are changing. This one wasn’t even about the night Noah died.

  Why now?

  Why this memory instead of the one I need?

  I don’t want to remember random moments from our childhoods. I want to remember a specific moment from the night at the Sugar Factory.

  I’m still trying to make sense of it when I walk into the room where my group meets. The kids are hanging out. I tell them it’s time to start working, and I take out my chemistry book.

  Daniel points at my book. “Need any help?”

  I flip it around so he can see the cover. “Are you any good at chemistry?”

  Carlos laughs. “Daniel can’t even add.”

  Daniel punches him in the arm, clearly embarrassed. “Shut your mouth, or I’ll do it for you.”

  “All right. Let’s get to work,” I say. “Or Miss Lorraine will kick your butts, and mine.”

  While the kids pretend they’re doing homework, I tackle my own. Without my overpriced science tutor to interpret the foreign language in my textbook, just copying the equations correctly feels like a win. Unfortunately, I doubt my chemistry teacher will agree.

  Mom would hire me a tutor if I asked. But I’m not calling her. She’s still texting and leaving messages about the Stanford interview.

  Three hours later, Sofia and I are alone, as usual. She pulls her chair next to mine, and we wrestle with our homework side by side. What I remember from eighth-grade algebra
would fit on an index card, but I do my best to help her.

  I’m not as lucky. After four failed attempts at solving the same chemistry equation, I shove the textbook over the edge of the desk, and it smacks against the floor. “I officially give up.”

  “Shouldn’t you give an impressionable young mind a more positive example?” Marco stands in the doorway grinning, his muscular arms crossed over a chest I’ve imagined shirtless more than once. He’s the perfect combination of strong and cut without being overdeveloped—the kind of body most guys spend all day in the weight room to achieve. Marco probably doesn’t even work out.

  But I’m still not happy about the way he acted after the race, even if he did say something that might mean he has feelings for me.

  “Don’t give Frankie a hard time,” Sofia says as she puts away her homework. “Her science class seems really awful.”

  Marco strolls over and picks up the book. “Chemistry, huh? Want some help?”

  Is he joking?

  Sofia slings her backpack over her shoulder. “He’s good at science.” She turns to Marco. “Can I hang out in the gym until you’re done? There’s a basketball game.”

  He nods. “Don’t go anywhere else.”

  “Got it,” she says and takes off down the hall.

  Marco holds up my chemistry textbook. “Want me to take a look?”

  “You’re serious?”

  He puts the book on my desk and places a hand over his heart. “You doubt me? There’s a lot more to this package than a killer smile.”

  Marco comes around to my side and glances at the top of my paper. Then he flips to the page that has been taunting me all afternoon. He skims it quickly, his brows furrowed in concentration. “This isn’t that bad.” He sits in the empty seat next to me and reaches for my pencil. He holds out his hand. “Paper?”

  Handing him the paper, I rack my brain for a smart-ass comment—until he starts writing.

  “It’s not as complicated as it looks. You’re just balancing equations.” He points at the directions at the top of the page. “You need to end up with the same number of atoms on both sides.”

  I stare at him, my mouth hanging open. “How do you know all that?”

  Marco copies the first problem, which I had solved incorrectly. “I took AP Chemistry last year.” He stops writing and studies me. “Let me guess—you assumed I was stupid because I’m from the Downs?”

  “I didn’t expect you to be in AP classes because you got suspended the first day we met.” I don’t want him to know that Chief mentioned anything to me.

  Marco seems satisfied with my response and works through the first three problems with me. Sofia is right; he’s a good teacher. He frowns a little when he concentrates, and I’m having a hard time keeping my mind on chemistry.

  “Are you in any other AP classes?” I want him to tell me why he dropped them.

  Marco clenches his jaw and draws triangles in the margin of the scratch paper we’re using. “Not since last year.”

  “Why not?” It’s none of my business, but the more I learn about Marco, the more I want to know.

  He pushes his chair back and leans forward, hands clasped between his knees. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor. “My life got screwed up, and last year it all caught up to me.”

  The raw emotion in his voice makes it seems like the wounds are still fresh.

  Without thinking, I touch his shoulder. Marco’s pain feels familiar, like we’re haunted by similar ghosts. He flinches beneath my fingers, and I start to pull my hand away. He catches my wrist and lets his thumb drift to my palm, tracing tiny circles on my skin.

  “If I asked what happened, would you tell me?”

  Marco pulls my hand in front of him along with his and slides his fingers between mine. My skin tingles.

  I’m afraid to move. We’re holding hands. What if it was an accident? But he closes his other hand on top like he’s worried I’ll let go.

  I won’t.

  He takes a deep breath. “My mom died of cancer when I was thirteen.”

  “I’m sorry.” I squeeze his hand.

  “It happened fast, which is good, I guess, because she didn’t suffer long. But my old man was already screwed up, and her death threw him over the edge.”

  “What do you mean by ‘screwed up’?” I’m praying he doesn’t tell me his father is a drug addict or an alcoholic who beat his kids.

  “My dad used to street race in high school. Someone on the NASCAR circuit heard about him, and my dad ended up racing for real. But his career didn’t last long, and he came back here and married my mom. He always drank, but when she died, he started racing again—on the street, at the track. Anywhere he could lose money.”

  “Is that who taught you to race?”

  Marco clings to my hand. “Yeah. But only because it’s easier to con people into racing a fourteen-year-old.”

  What kind of father pimps his son out to race for him? My mom always chose Richard over me, Lex’s parents have no idea where she is 90 percent of the time, and Abel’s mom drinks her way through life one glass of wine after another. But none of them have ever used us to make money.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Marco’s frown deepens, and he runs his fingers over our joined hands. He raises his eyes and looks at me for the first time since he started talking about his father. “You know what sucks? That’s the happiest part of the story.”

  I know how it feels to carry a story inside you—one that you want to share with someone, but you can’t find the words. “If you don’t want to talk about this anymore, I understand.”

  “This might not make any sense, but I want to say it out loud. Deacon, Cruz, people in my neighborhood—they know what happened. But I’ve never told anyone else.”

  And he chose me.

  Marco clears his throat. “Racing didn’t satisfy my dad for long. He wanted more money and the respect he lost when his NASCAR career ended, so he upped his game. He stopped racing cars and started stealing them.”

  His father is a car thief—the kind of criminal my dad spends every day trying to catch.

  “That’s what he was doing the night of Sofia’s accident. The asshole was delivering a stolen car. It was Sofia’s birthday. He promised to take her out for ice cream after they dropped it off. But the cops caught up with him first.” Marco lets my hand slip out of his and folds his arms over his head, shielding himself. “He crashed the car. All those NASCAR races he won … and he crashed the car. Maybe if the cops weren’t chasing him, he wouldn’t have crashed.” His breathing grows heavy, and he shoves the desk in front of him. The metal legs screech across the floor.

  “Is that how she got the scars?” I ask softly.

  He nods. “It was a vintage car, so the windows weren’t made of safety glass. The windshield sliced Sofia up when it shattered, and she was trapped inside.” Marco jumps out of the chair and paces, as if it’s physically painful for him to stay still.

  “What about your dad? Was he all right?”

  He slumps against the whiteboard behind him. “The asshole walked away with a few bruises. Actually, he ran away.” Marco takes a deep breath. “He left her, Frankie. And the cops didn’t know Sofia was in the car. Her head didn’t reach the top of the seat, and by the time the cops caught up to the car, my dad was already running.”

  Without thinking, I’m out of my chair and across the room. I pull him against me and wrap my arms around him. His heart pounds against my cheek.

  “The car flipped, and it was crushed. She couldn’t get out.” Marco buries his face in my neck and leans against me, his breathing ragged. The weight he’s carrying bears down on me, heavier than my own.

  “Did the police figure out she was in the car?”

  “No. Deacon lived up the street from where they crashed. His dad used to beat the crap out of him, and they got into it that night. Deacon was walking it off, and he saw the accident. He had to climb through what was left of the windshield t
o get her out.”

  The scars on Deacon’s neck and arms—the ones that look like someone slashed him with a knife.

  “I wasn’t there,” he says softly. “I should’ve been there.”

  “It’s not your fault. Sofia is okay. More than okay. She’s smart and funny and beautiful. She’s fine.”

  Marco pulls back and looks at me. “You think she’s beautiful?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. But not everyone sees past her scars. What happens when some guy won’t go out with her because of them?”

  “Sofia can handle it. Sometimes scars make people stronger.”

  Before I realize what he’s doing, Marco presses his lips against mine.

  My mouth tingles, and the sensation travels all the way down to my toes. The Night Train must have dulled my senses the first time we kissed, because as incredible as that kiss was—this one sets every nerve in my body on fire. My hands move to his chest, and his heart pounds beneath them.

  Marco responds by drawing me closer. His tongue finds mine, exploring and teasing. He tugs on my lip with his teeth, and I fall apart.

  Our bodies melt like they belong together.

  Like we belong together.

  But I can’t belong to anyone again.

  I pull back and turn to lean against the whiteboard next to him, breathless. “This isn’t a good idea … whatever we’re doing.” Making out?

  Kissing Marco feels like more.

  He pivots in front of me and cages me against the whiteboard with his arms. “Why does it feel like you’re always running away from me?”

  Because I am.

  If I was braver, I’d tell him the truth—that I’m scared to feel anything or need anyone.

  He runs his hand along my cheek, and I close my eyes. I’m feeling too much again, and all I want to feel is nothing. “I can’t do this.”

  “Why not?”

  Because if I let myself feel one thing, I’ll feel everything. Because if my walls come down, the dam inside me will break, and I’ll drown. Because I can’t risk losing someone else I care about.