“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.”