The Lovely Reckless (10 page)

“I'm not sure. I didn't figure it out right away. At least I don't think I did.” Lex talks fast, the way she always does when she's nervous or upset. “I found sixty or seventy scratch-off lotto tickets crammed in the pockets of his jeans one night when I stayed over. Who buys sixty scratch-off tickets in one day?”

“Back up. Why were you sleeping over? And where did you find his jeans?”

“Hold on.” She turns into Dad's complex. “Which one is it again? They all look the same at night.”

From the outside, the garden apartments are identical—two-story brown buildings, with balconies that offer sweeping views of the parking lot. “Last building on the right. If he's home from work, I'm dead.”

I forget about Lex, Abel, and Marco and hold my breath.

Dad's Chevy Tahoe isn't in the parking lot. Am I really this lucky?

“He's still at work.”

Lex doesn't bother to park. “Go. Before he gets home.”

“We'll finish talking about Abel later.” I jump out of the Fiat, praying Dad doesn't show up before I make it inside.

Cujo barks when I open the door and follows me to my room. “You won't tell him what time I came home, will you, buddy?”

I change into sweats and curl up on my bed so Dad will think I've been in here studying. It's quiet now, and I finally have time to think. I replay the last few hours in my mind, but it feels surreal.

Marco's swoop-in-and-save-the-girl rescue mission annoyed the hell out of me, but he didn't have to help us. So why did he do it? His reaction when he saw Sung holding my arm was even stranger.

Was it really about me?

I can't stop picturing the way Marco stared into my eyes without a hint of self-consciousness.

Fearless and unapologetic.

Who did he see?

The rich girl with a perfect life … or the broken girl who replaced her?

 

CHAPTER 11

RICH GIRL

When I finally haul myself out of bed in the morning, the apartment smells like burnt toast and cheap instant coffee. I'm halfway down the hall when I hear Dad talking on his cell phone. “We're not dealing with a couple of kids stealing cars with dent pullers and screwdrivers, Tyson. They're driving these cars straight into shipping containers.”

Great. Undercover-cop talk at seven o'clock, the only thing worse than Dad's coffee.

“Already ran him through the system,” Dad says. “He lives with his father, and he has a record.”

Boring.

In the kitchen, Dad stands in front of the toaster oven with his back to me. He finishes the call and drops his cell on the counter. “I wasn't sure how you like your eggs these days, so I scrambled them,” he says without turning around. Sneaking up on a cop is impossible.

“I don't eat eggs. Or breakfast.”

“Why not?” He sounds offended, as if he invented the concept of breakfast.

“Why? Is this a quiz?” It feels weird explaining basic stuff about myself to my father. When I only visited for a few days at a time, I never bothered.

“Listen, I know you've been through a lot. You experienced the kind of trauma most people only see on TV, and you don't have any closure. But the police are still investigating Noah's death. No one is giving up.”

Now he's a shrink?

I laugh, without caring how bitter it sounds. “The police have no leads. They won't be able to find Noah's killer until I remember what he looks like.”

“The guys in homicide are good. They'll find the bastard.” Dad opens the toaster oven and jabs at a charred slice of bread with his finger. He winces and yanks his hand back.

“You okay?”

“It's nothing.” He shakes his wrist a few times, then scoops a pile of eggs onto a plate. “The toaster is new. I haven't figured out the timing yet.” He puts the plate on the counter in front of me.

What part of “I don't eat breakfast” is he confused about?

I push it aside, and he pours himself a cup of sludge. “So how did things go at the rec center?”

“Fine. I'm working with middle school kids, helping them with their homework and keeping an eye on them. Miss Lorraine, the woman in charge, is hard-core. I'm surprised she didn't have my mug shot hanging on the wall.”

Dad's back goes rigid. “That's not funny, Frankie. You're in serious trouble. I thought you understood that.”

Is he starting this again?

“I know
exactly
how much trouble I'm in, but thanks for reminding me. Getting kicked out of school and doing community service every day
never
would've tipped me off.”

“Did anyone there give you a hard time?”

“The kids are thirteen.” I don't mention the basketball players hanging around out front.

“I meant in general. There's a lot of crime in the Downs—and the criminals and junkies who go along with it.”

“Not everyone in the Downs is a criminal or a drug addict. Lex's father grew up there, and now he's a senator. All it took was hard work and a bigger bank account.” It's a fact people forget all the time. Nobody around here cares where you came from once you have money.

“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?”

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.”