The Lovely Reckless (11 page)

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.

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.

“Frankie, can I ask you something?” Kumiko shifts in her seat.

“Sure.”
Please don't let it be about birth control.

“We heard some stuff at school and want to know if it's true.”

“What kind of
stuff
?” I ask, dreading the answer.

Kumiko squirms a little more. “The guy from the Heights who got killed last June … he was your boyfriend, right?”

I'm never prepared when people ask about Noah's death. Usually, I see the question coming, which gives me time to deflect it. But Kumiko caught me off guard. Worse, there's nowhere to run. And what does it say about me if I dodge their questions?

Sofia watches me from across the table. If she's brave enough to let the world see her scars, I can answer their questions about Noah.

“Yeah. He was.” I fight to keep my voice steady.

The kids exchange glances, and Daniel clears his throat. I guess he's up next. “Is it true you were there but you can't remember what happened?”

“I remember some things, but not others.” Like the face of the guy who killed my boyfriend.

“At least you don't have amnesia.” Kumiko tosses her glossy black hair over her shoulder and turns her attention back to her homework.

“That's true.” I force a weak smile.

In the days that followed Noah's death, I would have given anything to forget. Now all I want to do is remember. I owe it to Noah.

We grew up together, and our friendship always mattered more to me than dating him. It's hard to admit now that he's gone. People expect me to pretend Noah and I were soul mates, destined to walk down the aisle five minutes after college graduation. But we didn't have a forever, I-can't-live-without-you kind of love. It was more like the I'll-never-forget-you kind.

The kind of love you have for a boy who said you were beautiful before it was actually true. A boy who knew you couldn't ride a bike until seventh grade but never told anyone. It's a love born from knowing someone for so long that most of your memories include him.

Admitting that Noah was anything less than my dream guy makes me feel like an awful person. But I'm determined to do something more than idealize our relationship.

I'm going to figure out who killed him—one memory at a time.

*   *   *

Sofia and I are the only ones in the room again when Marco shows up to get her.

“Hey.” He smiles at me, and my stomach flips a little.

“Hi.” I dig through my backpack to avoid looking at him. Why does he have to be so gorgeous?

Sofia gathers her stuff. “Marco? Do you have any money for the vending machine?”

He takes a worn leather wallet out of his back pocket and hands her a five. “Don't buy too much junk.”

“Deal.” Sofia ducks under his arm and bounds down the hall. “Bye, Frankie.”

“Bye.” I wave, but she's already gone.

Marco lingers by the door for a moment. “I'll see you around, Angel.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Does it bother you?” He cracks a half smile, and a dimple presses into his cheek. My eyes drift to his lips—full and wide.

Look somewhere else.

“That's not the point.” I stuff the chemistry textbook in my backpack. Anything to keep from staring at his mouth. “I have a name.”

“I know.” Marco holds my gaze a second too long, and my cheeks warm.

Does he ever blink?

When he closes the door and disappears down the hall, I switch off the lights and finally let myself exhale. Pretending Marco doesn't affect me is harder than I expected.

A minute later Marco passes the window. He's carrying a plastic milk bottle from the vending machine, and he leaves through the emergency exit. Where is he going? There's nothing behind the building except a bunch of run-down playground equipment that Miss Lorraine won't let the kids near.

It's a borderline stalker move, but I follow him.

I crack the door and peek outside. Streetlights illuminate a rotted play structure and the sidewalk at the end of the parking lot, leaving the back of the building, where I'm standing, in darkness.

A flash of brown and white darts through a pale circle of light. Cyclops, the one-eyed cat, slinks toward a yellow slide attached to the play structure.

“Hey, Cyclops. Brought you dinner.” Marco stands near the perimeter of the playground and sets a red plastic ashtray on the ground.