“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?”