The Lovely Reckless (6 page)

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.

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.

“You'll be working with the middle school group. Thirteen-year-olds.” Miss Lorraine spots a boy nuzzling a girl's neck near the weight room. She steps between them and pushes the boy out of her way, giving him an icy stare—all without breaking stride.

I like this lady already.

“Help the kids with their homework and keep an eye on them until they get picked up,” she says. “And don't let any of the boys go to the bathroom at the same time as the girls.”

“Why not?”

She looks at me like I'm an idiot. “Because when they go at the same time, they're probably not using the bathroom.”

“Oh.” The idea of thirteen-year-old middle school students making out in a public restroom reminds me how different things are in the Downs. Not that middle school kids from the Heights don't make out. They just do it behind the pro shop at the country club or at the parties they throw when their parents are out of town.

Miss Lorraine leads me to the back of the building. At the end of the hall, a muscular guy wearing dark jeans and a baseball cap under the hood of his sweatshirt stands in the doorway of the emergency exit. He's probably close to my age, and he's whispering in the ear of a girl who looks way too young for him.

“Deacon Kelley!” Miss Lorraine yells.

The guy looks up and twirls the toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth, studying Miss Lorraine with ice-blue eyes. A web of raised pink-and-white scars creates a jagged path down the side of his neck and disappears under his shirt. “How's it going, Miss Lorraine?”

She points at the exit door held open by a cinder block. “You've got one minute to get out of my rec center before I call the police.”

Deacon Kelley whispers something to the girl, and she rushes past Miss Lorraine with her head down. After she's gone, he flashes Miss Lorraine the kind of smile that says
Don't push me
. “You're forgetting something.”

“What would that be, Deacon?”

He backs through the door and kicks away the cinder block. “It was
my
rec center first.”

The metal door slams, and Miss Lorraine's shoulders relax. She walks toward the room closest to the exit. “Your group meets in there.”

Seven middle school kids hang out on the other side of a long window next to the door—gossiping, listening to music, and dancing. Only one girl has a book open, but it's not clear if she's actually reading or just using it to hide behind while she checks out the boy sitting across from her.

When Miss Lorraine opens the door, the kids scramble, rushing to their seats and digging through their backpacks for the homework they should've been doing.

“It's nice to see how hard everyone works when I'm not in here.” She walks over to the girl's desk and flips her book around so it's right side up.

“We were just taking a break.” A boy with long eyelashes and a mop of dark brown curls grins at Miss Lorraine. In soccer shorts, an Italian World Cup jersey, and black sweatbands around both wrists, he looks like a thirteen-year-old professional soccer player.

“Your break is over. This is Frankie.” She waves a hand in my direction. The kids' expressions range from completely bored and mildly curious to
Lord of the Flies
territory. “She'll be in charge in the afternoons.”

Several kids groan.

A girl wearing bright red lipstick and a gold nameplate necklace that reads
DIVA
rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

Miss Lorraine walks over to her desk. “I don't remember asking your opinion, Kumiko.”

Kumiko stares me down from behind her shiny black bangs. “Need some community service for your college applications? That's the only reason girls like you come around.”

Everyone waits for me to respond. This is a test, and I can't afford to fail. Not if I'm stuck with these kids for the next four months.

I smile at Kumiko. “Nope. It was this or jail.”

She raises an eyebrow, and the corner of Miss Lorraine's mouth twitches as if she's fighting a smile.

“All right, then.” Miss Lorraine raps on the desk closest to the door. “Homework before house parties. And Frankie's rules are my rules, so don't try selling her any sob stories or you'll end up with the elementary school kids. Do we understand each other?”

“Yep.”

“Got it.”

The moment Miss Lorraine disappears down the hall, the kids start talking again. At least now they have their books out. Maybe I should do that teacher thing and go around the room and make them tell me their names. Kumiko gives me the once-over and whispers to the girl next to her. Maybe not.

As the minutes tick by, it's clear no one wants my help with homework. It gives me a chance to catch up on mine.

I'm studying an engine diagram in my gigantic Shop textbook when the future World Cup soccer player notices. He points at the page in front of me. “You're taking Shop?”

“Unfortunately.” I pause. “Sorry … I don't know your name.”

“Daniel Pontafonesco.”

“Why do you tell everyone your last name all the time?” asks a lanky boy with a black buzz cut and ear gauges who is lounging in the seat next to him. “You want people to think you're related to one of those famous mob guys like Tony Soprano, don't you?”

I dig my nails into my palms, praying I won't have to break up a fight.

Daniel wads up a piece of paper and chucks it at the other boy. “I keep telling people because none of you can pronounce it. And not all Italians are in the mob, Carlos.”

The paper hits Carlos, and he falls back in his chair like he's wounded. They're just joking around. Instantly, I relax.

Kumiko yawns. “Tony Soprano isn't a real person. He's from a TV show, genius.”

Carlos turns around in his chair and glares at her. “I'm not the one failing government after only a week of school.”

“It was
one
quiz,” she snaps.

Time to change the subject. “So do you know a lot about cars, Daniel?”

He laughs, along with some of the other kids.

“Everyone in the Downs knows about cars,” Carlos says.

“Except you.” Daniel smirks at Carlos, who responds by throwing a fake jab.

He grins. “But I know how to box.”

The cute girl with the book takes a break from staring at Daniel and moves two seats closer to me. She has long brown hair that's so dark it almost looks black and thick lashes fluttering against her light brown skin.

She gestures at my textbook. “It's easier to remember the parts if you know how they work. There's a cool app that lets you take the engine apart and put it back together again. Want me to find it for you?”

I key the passcode into my cell phone and hand it to her. “Thanks…?”

“Sofia.” She scrolls through the list of apps. “Got it.” She turns in her chair so I can see the screen, too. Raised pink-and-white slash marks—scars from some kind of cuts—cover the left side of the beautiful thirteen-year-old's face, as if she survived an animal attack.

I try not to stare.

“Car accident,” Sofia says, as if she's used to explaining.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

She shrugs. “No big deal. It could've been worse.”

I point at the diagram, ashamed of myself for staring at this brave girl's scars. “So tell me how it works.”

“The rectangular thing in the middle is called the block.…”

Thirty minutes later, I can identify the block, pistons, camshaft, and flywheel, thanks to Sofia.

“Tomorrow, we'll go over the pistons, piston rings, connecting rods and bearings,” she says proudly.

It's like listening to someone speaking a foreign language. “Thanks. I need the help, and you're a great teacher.”