The Lovely Reckless (7 page)

“My brother taught me. He knows everything about cars, and he's really patient.”

Daniel leans over his desk and checks out my book again. “Are you gonna start racing now, Frankie?”

“I'm not exactly Danica Patrick. I just want to pass Shop.” I laugh, hoping to impress them by mentioning the female NASCAR driver. I'm not about to tell them that I read about her in a fashion magazine.

The other kids smirk and trade glances. I'm definitely missing something.

“He's talking about street racing,” Sofia whispers, filling in the blanks.

Ugh … how did I miss that? I've heard about the illegal street races in the Downs, but I've never given them much thought. Nobody I know has ever been to one. My friends from the Heights avoid the Downs like it's a nuclear waste site. “Is that a big thing around here?”

Sofia leans toward me, and her dark waves fall over one shoulder, covering her scars. “For lots of people, it's the
only
thing.”

*   *   *

By seven o'clock, Sofia is the only kid left in the room.

“My brother should be here any minute. He comes straight from work.” She watches the door. “I'm not allowed to walk home alone. He's super strict.”

“I don't mind waiting. Does he keep an eye on you after you leave the rec center?”

She shoves her books inside her backpack. “And the rest of the time. My mom died of cancer when I was nine, and my dad's not around…” She pauses. “Much.”

“I'm sorry.”

Sofia smiles, and it lights up her whole face. “At least I have my brother.”

Someone knocks on the window, and the door opens.

Marco Leone walks in and my heart slams against my chest.

What's he doing here?

“Hey, Sopaipilla, how was school?” His gentle tone sounds unrecognizable—it's not the one that belonged to the fierce fighter in the quad or the cocky guy in the school office. He lifts Sofia's backpack off her shoulder.

“It was good,” she says. “And this afternoon, I taught Frankie about engine blocks.”

The side of his mouth tips up. “Who's Frankie? A boy at school?”

I bite my lip, and my throat turns to sandpaper.

Sofia laughs and wheels her brother around. “No, silly.”

Our eyes meet, and his go wide. It's the third time I've seen Marco up close—at least when I wasn't terrified—and he gets better-looking every time.

I give him a tiny wave. “Hi.”

Sofia seems to sense the awkwardness between us. “Do you know each other?” She frowns and puts a hand on her hip. “Marco, you didn't…”

“No, it's nothing like that.” He rubs his hands over his face.

My cheeks heat up when I realize she thinks we hooked up … or something.

Sofia turns to me. “But you guys do know each other, right?”

“No,” I say at the same time Marco says, “Yes.”

I shrug. “Sort of.”

“Are you
positive
you didn't mess around with her?” Sofia whispers to her brother a little too loudly.

Now my cheeks are on fire.

Marco flashes me a dangerous smile. “I'm pretty sure I'd remember.”

 

CHAPTER 8

HIGHWAY RUNNERS

When I get home, there's a note from Dad and a pizza box on the kitchen counter. He's investigating a “big case” with his partner, Tyson. He's really sorry.

Whatever.

I have no idea what makes a case big or small, unless it's related to the value of the stolen car. What I
do
know is that the investigation requires him to work lots of nights, a fact that makes me so happy I almost feel guilty.

Almost.

Cujo sits next to the table staring at the pizza box. I'm actually hungry, so I flip it open. Spinach and mushrooms. This has to be a joke. I hold up a slice. Vegetables do not belong on pizza. Dad knows this. Cujo tracks the slice as I drop it back into the box.

The dog follows me around the apartment like a furry bodyguard. He's probably the only reason Dad didn't hire a babysitter to stay with me at night. If Cujo wants spinach-and-mushroom pizza, I'll give it to him. I put a slice in his food bowl, and he scarfs it down.

My cell rings and Mom's face pops up on the screen. I haven't spoken to her since she dropped me off at Dad's, and today isn't going to be the day I do. I let the phone ring, and seconds after it stops, I get a text.

Are you ignoring my calls? I have
something important to tell you.

Maybe she wants to apologize.

what?

I would prefer to tell you on the
phone.

Mom can text her apology. I'm still hurt—about the way she dumped me here like she didn't care, the disappointed looks she has given me for months now, and the fact that she cares more about the girl I was than the one I am now. But I'm not ready to tell her any of that.

i'm studying. u want me to do
well right?

Richard has a meeting with one of
the deans at Stanford.
Can you believe it?!

no.

The words sting. She's not sorry.

I wonder how much that cost King Richard.

He explained your condition and the
extenuating circumstances.

My
condition
? Is that what they're calling my PTSD now?

dog is barking. have 2 go.

I pocket my phone without waiting for a response. I'm not wasting money on a school I don't care about anymore, even if the money happens to be my mother's.

At least my first afternoon at the rec center wasn't a complete disaster. The kids liked me for the most part, and with Sofia's help, I might have a shot at passing Shop. Thinking about Sofia leads directly to Marco.

Who is this guy?

During the fight, he went from cocky to out of control in seconds, and it scared the crap out of me. But the look on his face after he plowed into me was pure panic. Not exactly how he acted in the office. I'll take panicked and
real
over smart-ass bad boy any day, unless Option C is affectionate brother who carries his little sister's backpack.

Everyone in high school fakes it on some level—in the Heights and in the Downs. Offering a bunch of strangers a window into your soul guarantees four years of total misery. Maybe Marco just fakes it better than the rest of us do.

Remembering the way he stared at me in the parking lot makes my stomach flutter.

What's wrong with me?

Marco is not my problem, and after witnessing his cage match on the quad this morning and the personal escort from Mr. Santiago, I probably won't see much of him.

Except when he picks up his sister every day.

After trashing the rest of the pizza, I find a lone box of mac and cheese behind the cereal. I'm shaking orange powder onto the noodles when my cell phone rings. It's Lex.

“Is your dad home?” she asks the second I pick up.

“No. Why?”

“Abel is in some serious shit. I'm on my way to pick you up.”

“What happened?” This isn't the first time I've gotten a call like this from Lex.

“He's in the Downs. He bet on a street race, and now he owes some lowlife asshole money. The guy won't let Abel leave until he pays him.”

“How did he end up at a street race?”

Lex falls silent. “A lot of stuff happened over the summer with Abel. He's been doing crazy things.”

“Can you be more specific?” I jam my feet into my sneakers and grab my house key.

“Acting secretive, checking his phone every ten seconds, gambling, disappearing for days. But he never mentioned street races before.”

I lean against the wall and close my eyes.

I didn't know.

One of my best friends was disappearing for days, and I had no clue.

Lex's car horn blares at the other end of the line. “Move your ass or get out of the fast lane!” she shouts at another driver.

“How long until you get here?” I ask.

“Two minutes.”

I rush to my room and open the top drawer of my ugly dresser. I unfold a pair of fuzzy pink socks shoved in the corner and pocket the bills hidden inside. Two hundred dollars. It's all I have now that Mom isn't transferring money into my checking account every week.

Cujo barks as I head out the front door. “I wish I could bring you with us.” I would feel a lot safer.

Jogging down the steps outside, I try not to think about what Dad will do if he finds out I left the house. Odds are he'll never know. Working undercover keeps him out of the precinct and on the street. He won't risk someone overhearing a personal conversation, so he never calls. Instead, he relies on cryptic and excessive texts.

A flash of red tears around the corner, tires squealing.

I hop into the Fiat, hoping that no one sees me. “Next time, why don't you take out an ad and let everyone in the neighborhood know I'm sneaking out?”

She peels away from the curb. “Please. It's not like your dad is a social butterfly. He probably doesn't even know his neighbors.” True.

“What else did Abel say?”

Lex weaves between lanes and swallows hard. “Just that he bet on a race and lost, and he needs us to bring him five hundred bucks, or they're going to beat the shit out of him.”

“We can't take that much out of an ATM, but I've got two hundred on me.”

“Relax. I've got it covered.” She flips over her purse and dumps the contents onto the console between us. Makeup and loose change fall into my lap and onto the floor—along with a wad of bills. “The ATM machine in the Senator's sock drawer doesn't have a daily limit.”

I collect the bills and count them—five hundred dollars. I roll up the money and clench it in my fist. “I still don't understand why Abel went to a street race. Usually, he screws up closer to home, and there are plenty of places to gamble in the Heights.”

Rich guys from Woodley and the other private schools in the Heights will bet on anything.

“We're talking about Abel, and he's been even more unpredictable than usual.” Lex flies across three lanes of traffic to catch the V Street exit.

“What set him off? His mom?”

Lex doesn't respond. Instead, she stares down the dark street. There's something she's not telling me, but pressing her for answers never works.

“He said to turn on Second Street,” she says finally.

“We just passed it.”

She flips a U-turn and loops back. Three tough-looking men sit on the porch of a boarded-up house, smoking. “I can't believe he came here.”

The street runs parallel to a set of train tracks rusting on the other side of a chain-link fence. Trains stopped coming through the Downs a decade ago.

“Headlights.” I point at glowing halos in the distance. “Park under a streetlight.”

“I'm not walking all the way over there.”

“If the cars racing here look anything like the ones in Lot B, the Fiat won't exactly blend in.”

“Fine.” Lex parks next to the curb. “But if it gets stolen, Abel is buying me a new one.”

I hope that's the least of our problems.

Lex follows me toward the lights. “He said to look for a black car with white racing stripes. I can't remember what he called it.”

We reach the edge of the crowd and spot the main attraction—dozens of classic muscle cars, like the Camaro in Shop class, and sports cars with flashy paint jobs, lined up a row. Hoods are popped and doors hang open while music pulses from sound systems loud enough to rival the ones in most clubs. Girls dressed in everything from fitted shorts and heels to boyfriend jeans and metallic high-tops mill around between the cars or check out the engines with the guys like they're at a car show, while the owners lounge in the driver's seats.

At the end of the row of cars, people are standing along an empty stretch of road.

“Who's ready to race?” a girl with straight jet-black hair that reaches past her waist shouts from the middle of the street. The combination of knee-high lace-up boots, black tank, shiny black pants, and deep red lipstick against her alabaster skin makes her look like a character from a video game.

People whistle and shout, and the atmosphere instantly changes from street party to casino floor. Bookies rush to collect bets as a midnight-blue Mustang and an iridescent-white Acura line up side by side in front of Video Game Girl. Engines rev, and a surge of energy buzzes through the crowd like an electric current.

Video Game Girl raises her arms.

The moment they drop, tires squeal and clouds of exhaust billow into the air. The whole place smells like burnt rubber and rotten eggs.

I scan the sea of unfamiliar faces, searching for Abel or a car like the one Lex described.

Off to the side of the racing strip, three guys are drinking in front of a black car parked on the grass—a car with white stripes running down the middle. A guy wearing a hooded leather jacket bends down and grabs a huge beer can. I catch a glimpse of another leather jacket—the worn black one that belonged to Abel's dad.

“I see him.” I'm not about to point at anybody here.

“Where?” Lex pushes up on her toes as people weave in front of us and block her view.

“To my left, by the car. He's standing between the guy who just grabbed a beer and the one with the writing tattooed on his neck.” I nudge her with my elbow when she stares too long. “Be subtle. They don't look friendly.”

Lex stops walking, and a girl behind us bumps into me.

“Excuse you!” she snaps.

“Sorry.” I grab Lex's arm and pull her away from the crowd. “Are you trying to get our asses kicked?”

Lex stares back at me, chin trembling. “What if your dad wasn't working tonight and you couldn't get out of the house? I'd be here alone right now.”