The Lovely Reckless (5 page)

“Blue slip.” My English teacher—Mrs. Hellstrom, according to my schedule—extends her hand without so much as a glance in my direction. Lex insisted on walking me to my first class, and now I'm standing in the front of the room while everyone stares.

“I don't have one. Just my schedule.” I hold it out to her.

Mrs. Hellstrom doesn't look up from the book in front of her. She's a serious-looking woman with pasty skin and thin, penciled-in eyebrows. “You need to go to the office. I can't add you to the roster without a blue slip.”

A few students take advantage of the distraction and whip out their cell phones. A guy in the back is asleep, with his head on his desk. The girl sitting next to him has violet-and-brown ombré hair, and she's painting her nails a matching shade of purple. None of the girls at my old school would've had the guts to dye their hair like hers.

At Woodley, standing out wasn't a good thing, unless it involved scoring the “it” bag of the season or putting a unique spin on the currently accepted style. I always played it safe, choosing skinny jeans—from the dozens of almost identical pairs stacked in my closet—a simple top or tee under a fitted leather jacket, and cute flats or boots. I never cut my hair too short or grew it too long.

Pretty enough without stressing about it—that was my look.

At Monroe, the old sneakers and ratty button-down I'm wearing would fall into the category of not trying at all.

Mrs. Hellstrom notices everyone messing around and smacks her book shut. “People, this is
not
study hall. You can complete the questions on the required summer reading book in class now or in detention later. The choice is yours.”

A chorus of groans travels through the room, followed by the sound of papers rustling. Two girls in the front row stare at my tiny purse and laugh.

Mrs. Hellstrom turns to me. “Front office. Blue slip.”

I close the door and consider going back to Dad's apartment, but I don't have a car anymore, and I'm not busing it. I shove my stupid purse that probably screams the Heights into my backpack.

Finding the office isn't easy. Monroe is four times the size of my old school, and the hallways look identical—rows of powder-blue lockers, white cinder-block walls, and bulletin boards decorated with a tiny bearded leprechaun in a tailcoat, holding up his fists. Yeah, that's the mascot every high school wants.

I spot the office. A banner with the leprechaun in the corner hangs over the door:
JAMES MONROE HIGH SCHOOL, HOME OF THE FIGHTING BARONS
.

Behind a long counter inside, a lady with teased blond hair and an armload of brassy charm bracelets reads a magazine. Dad wasn't kidding. She looks exactly like Dolly Parton.

Dolly Parton notices me and tears herself away from the magazine that she pretends she's not reading. “Shouldn't you be in class? If you need the nurse, she's down the hall.”

“It's my first day, and my English teacher, Mrs. Hellstrom, sent me here to get a blue slip.”

She pushes her hot-pink reading glasses higher on the bridge of her nose and lets out a long breath. I'm clearly cutting into her reading time. “Take a seat. I'll be with you as soon as I finish this paperwork.” I'm assuming that's code for
magazine
.

“Thanks.” Hopefully, she won't finish until English class is over.

I choose a chair in the corner and close my eyes. This day feels like it will never end, and it's only first period.

Door hinges creak, and my eyes fly open.

A woman stuffed into a gray suit that's at least one size too small steps aside to let someone leave her office. “Don't go anywhere, Mr. Leone. We are not finished here.”

Marco saunters out, hands in the pockets of his low-slung jeans, his black high-tops untied. My eyes are instantly drawn to the tribal lines inked on his arm, the intricate details beckoning me to come closer.

“Yes, ma'am.” He flashes her a lopsided grin. There's no sign of the angry fighter I saw in the quad earlier. He taps on the counter as he passes Dolly Parton. “What's up, Mrs. Lane?”

Mrs. Lane scowls. “I'm tired of seeing you in here. Why don't you try behaving yourself for a week and see what happens?”

“I'd miss you too much.” Marco grins at her, and turns away from the counter. He sees me and the dimple vanishes. His gaze darts between the empty chairs.

If there is a god, please don't let this guy sit next to me.

My mouth goes dry as he approaches. Marco drops into the vinyl chair across from mine, which is worse than if he sat next me, because now I have nowhere to look except at him.

Apparently, God is alive and well, and he has a sense of humor.

Marco rubs the back of his head, where the hair is cut closer to his scalp. It's longer in the front, and I like the way it sticks up all over the place. He seems nervous and clears his throat. “Are you—?”

Not again. “I'm fine.”

“Yeah?”

I hold up three fingers in the shape of a W. “Girl Scout promise.” I cringe. Those words did not just come out of my mouth.

He raises an eyebrow, and his cocky attitude returns. “Are you here to give your testimony?”

“What?”

“The fight. Did you get called in to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, Angel?”

Why does he keep calling me that? It must be an insult.

“No one called me in. I need a blue slip.” Why am I explaining myself to him? Or talking to him in the first place?

Marco leans forward and props his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands between his long legs. “So are all the schools in the Heights full?”

“Excuse me?”

“Just wondering how you ended up at Monroe. Nobody from the Heights wants to transfer here.”

How am I supposed to respond? Say something funny and risk offending him?

“I needed to start over,” I blurt out.

“I can get you that blue slip now,” Mrs. Lane waves me over, her brass bangles jingling.

I pick up my backpack and rush toward the counter. In a graceful move, I bump into Marco's leg and almost trip.

“Sorry,” I mumble without turning around.

At the counter, I hand Mrs. Lane my schedule and watch as she writes each word. Anything to avoid looking at him. Marco's eyes burn into my back, and warmth spreads through my cheeks. Another minute and I'm out of here.

Mrs. Lane hands me the blue slip, and I snatch it out of her hand.

I'm halfway out the door when Marco calls after me. “See you around, Angel.”

 

CHAPTER 6

PRACTICAL ARTS

After I leave the office, my morning gets progressively worse. My schedule sucks, a fact I didn't fully absorb until now.

In addition to Mrs. Hellstrom's English class, I have the first lunch period, which should be called breakfast based on how early it starts; chemistry, a subject my SAT scores proved I should avoid unless I want to fail a class; and no study hall.

I managed to dodge the music requirement thanks to the years I spent playing the piano—which seemed like a win. Until I realized that if an enthusiastic teacher reads my transcript and finds out that I have perfect pitch, I'll end up in a stupid musical to fulfill some public school requirement I don't know about.

But for reasons beyond explanation, my art history class from Woodley doesn't fulfill the practical arts requirement here. So I end up in Monroe High's version of the arts—Auto Shop.

The Shop classroom is in the basement. I trudge down the steps, prepared to spend the semester memorizing the parts of an engine—or is it called a motor?

Whatever. I memorized hundreds of Renaissance paintings. How hard can this be?

The hallway at the bottom of the steps leads to a stainless-steel door covered with names, phone numbers, and personal details that qualify as TMI. Above the doorframe, graffiti-style letters spell out:
WHAT HAPPENS IN SHOP STAYS IN SHOP.

When I crack the door and slip inside, I realize just how badly I misjudged this class. The proof sits raised on black rubber blocks in the middle of the room—a bright green Camaro, at least according to the chrome emblem. With two tires and the passenger-side door missing, it resembles a huge model car that no one ever finished. Next to the rubber blocks, toolboxes overflow with screwdrivers, hammers, and power tools I can't identify, confirming that I'm in over my head.

The girl with the ponytail who was outside with Marco this morning is the only other girl in class. Apparently, her name is Cruz, and she barely looks at me when our teacher—a weather-beaten old guy everyone calls Chief—seats me at the workstation next to hers. The lesson requires using a socket wrench. The tool turns out to be more complicated than the actual assignment, which I never start.

*   *   *

After Shop class, I hunt down my locker because my
Automotive Basics
textbook weighs more than an encyclopedia. Cars are way more complicated than I thought.

My locker is down the hall from the vending machine.

Noah would've loved this
.

I find the number that matches the one on my schedule and try to open the dented metal door. It won't budge.

Perfect.

I drop my backpack on the floor and fiddle with the rusty latch.

Come on. Open already.

The stupid thing isn't even locked.

“Shit.” I slam my hand against the metal, and flecks of powder-blue paint flutter to the floor. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll get lead poisoning.

“Rough day?” asks a familiar voice.

I spin around and Abel grins at me, his face framed by a short cloud of dark brown twists.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “Did you blow off class?”

“Nope.” Abel gives me the sexy smile that drives other girls crazy—including the two staring at him from across the hallway. Abel and I have been friends since sixth grade, and he's more like a brother to me, but I get it.

His lean build, boyish good looks, and the gorgeous contrast between his St. Lucian mother's light green eyes and his Jamaican father's deep brown skin never fails to send girls into a feeding frenzy. That's not the only thing Abel inherited from his father. Dressed in skinny jeans, a vintage Alice in Chains T-shirt, and his dad's beat-up Doc Martens, he bears a creepy resemblance to his dad, Tommy Ryder—the front man for the band Dirty Rotten Devils and a rock legend who overdosed when Abel was eleven.

He waves at the girls, and I roll my eyes. “Are you ever
not
flirting?”

Abel clutches his chest like he's wounded. “You know my heart only belongs to one girl.”

Lex. The two of them have been crazy about each other forever, a fact that hasn't brought them any closer to dating. For years, Lex wouldn't even admit she had feelings for him.

Noah was the one who finally coaxed the truth out of her. He had a way of making people feel comfortable enough to tell him anything. Thinking about Noah triggers the hollow ache in my chest.

“So did you come to check up on me?” I force a smile.

Abel holds up a thick white form that looks suspiciously similar to my class schedule. “Technically, I transferred yesterday, but I had to pick up a copy of my immunization records this morning.”

My mouth falls open. “You left Woodley?”

“Yep. I'm officially a member of the masses.” He slings his arm over my shoulder. “Like I'd let you spend senior year without me. You'd never survive the withdrawal.”

More like he can't survive being away from Lex, and now he has an excuse to transfer.

“Your mom is okay with this?”

He laughs. “Now, let's not get crazy. But there's nothing she can do about it. I'm eighteen.”

“Look who finally showed.” Lex strolls up behind him. “It took you long enough.”

“You knew?” Of course she did.

Lex hands Abel her books. “I know everything before it happens, kind of like the pope.”

“I think you mean God,” Abel says.

She leans closer to him. “I'm flattered, but you can call me Lex.”

A fresh wave of students floods the hallway, and Abel starts attracting serious attention. Some girls stop walking altogether, while others backtrack and cluster near the lockers, whispering and trying to make eye contact. Half of them are staring because he's gorgeous, and the other half probably recognize him from the random tabloid photos of Abel and his mom doing boring things like grocery shopping.

Lex glares at his groupies. “You've only been here five minutes, and your fan club is already forming.”

Abel winks at her. “It's a gift.”

“Move along.” Lex shoos away the girls with a flick of her wrist. A curvy brunette bats her over-mascaraed lashes at Abel and blows him a kiss as she leaves.

He tugs on the sleeve of my shirt. “Forget to do your laundry?”

“I'm flying under the radar.”

He peels opens a pack of SweeTarts and pops a few into his mouth. “How's that working for you?”

“Shitty. But if I can open my locker—which, by the way, isn't even locked—I'll upgrade it to ‘slightly shitty.'”

“Step aside. I've got this.” Abel bends down and inspects the handle, rattling the latch. “It's probably rusted shut.”

“Perfect.”

“Let me see your schedule, Romeo.” Lex plucks it out of his back pocket and unfolds it, running her finger down the page. “Someone forgot to turn on the charm in the office. Your schedule sucks almost as much as Frankie's. At least you have second lunch.”

“With study hall right after,” Abel says. “It doesn't get better than that.”

“Lex has the same lunch period,” I offer. “You can sit together in the cafeteria.”

“Not with me.” Lex tucks Abel's schedule in his shirt pocket. “I don't eat in District 12.”