I stop walking and turn around to face him. “Wow. One stupid decision and I’m a total screwup? It’s good to know where I stand.”

He rubs his temples like I’m giving him a headache. “Drinking and driving is more than a stupid decision. Someone could’ve died.”

The words twist like a screwdriver inside me. “I know.”

“And you weren’t exactly on the straight and narrow before the DUI. Your mom told me that you quit playing piano and volunteering at the hospital and started sneaking out and drinking instead. By my count, that’s more than one bad decision.”

My extracurricular activities aren’t me. They’re things I do, not who I am.

Mom will never see it that way, but I hoped Dad might understand.

Guess not.

A car horn honks outside. “This was fun, Dad, but I’ve had enough bonding for one morning. I’m going to be late for school.”

“Frankie, wait,” Dad calls after me.

The apartment door bangs shut as I run down the steps to the parking lot.

I’m done waiting.

* * *

Lex doesn’t say much in the car on the way to school. The most I get out of her is that she gave in and talked to Abel last night, and they ended up fighting. After what my dad said this morning, I’m fine with silence.

At school, I take out my frustration on my locker when it won’t open. I bang the side of my fist against it the way Marco did yesterday.

Nothing.

Today officially sucks.

I spot Marco coming down the hall.

“Hey,” I call out. He looks up, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Want to show a rich girl how to open her locker? It seems like you’re the only person around here who knows how to get into it.”

Marco walks toward me. “I never called you that.”

But he probably thought it.

“Right. I should’ve said ‘a Royal’.”

He slouches a little. “I never called you that, either.” The scent of leather and citrus envelops me when he reaches my locker. “Just so I’m clear, you’re asking for my help, right?”

I cock my head to the side and throw him some attitude. “Weren’t you suspended?”

“Just for the day. The teachers miss me if I’m not around.” He leans his shoulder against the locker next to mine and stares down at me. “And you never answered my question. Are you asking for my help?”

“Are you going to show me or not? Otherwise, I’ll just go to the office and tell Mrs. Lane I need another one.”

It’s almost time for first period, and other students filter into the hallway. Marco’s presence at my locker doesn’t go unnoticed. Girls stare, and a couple of them give me dirty looks.

“He’d never be into her,” one of them whispers.

Because I’m not his type? Or because I’m from the Heights?

I fiddle with the latch on my locker, hoping Marco didn’t hear. I’m used to people talking about me. Watching your boyfriend get beaten to death outside the hottest new club in the Heights guarantees a certain amount of gossip. But it feels different with Marco standing next to me.

Marco touches my arm. His fingertips linger longer than necessary, and my skin tingles. “So there’s a trick to opening it.” He points at the number on top of the door: 231. “You have to hit the two.”

“That’s all?”

He steps aside. “Try it.”

Curling my hand, I hit the side of my fist against the number two. The locker springs open, and I break into a smile. I can’t help it.

“It worked.” I close it and try again. The rusty blue door swings open a second time.

Marco watches me.

My cheeks heat up, and I change the subject. “How did you figure out the trick?”

He gives me a sheepish smile. “This was my friend Deacon’s locker. The guy who was with me last night. He rigged it so no one could break in.”

None of Turk’s friends wanted to mess with the scarred blond any more than Miss Lorraine wanted him in the rec center. And Marco is his friend. Not a good sign.

“Did he graduate?” More people around us are beginning to stare.

“Not before he got expelled.” Either Marco doesn’t notice we’re attracting attention or he doesn’t care.

Why should he? Gossip never hurts guys like Marco.

The bell rings, and I slip past him. “Thanks for the help.” I force my legs to move, my skin still buzzing from his touch.

“Hey, Frankie?” he calls out.

I glance back at him, ignoring the eyes on us. “Yeah?”

“You should smile more often.”

A hint of one tugs at the corner of my mouth. “I’ll think about it.”

I turn around and start walking, careful to keep my head down so that no one sees the moment when the huge smile I was fighting finally breaks free. It takes every ounce of self-control not to look back and see if he’s watching.

CHAPTER 12

ROCK STARS, POETS, AND SINNERS

I make it to English class moments before the bell. Most of the seats are taken except the ones in the front. The firing zone.

No, thanks.

An empty desk in the back corner offers a glimmer of hope—and a familiar face. Cruz lounges in the next seat over. After last night, I’m not sure what to expect.

Mrs. Hellstrom taps a stack of papers against her desk. “Put away your cell phones, ladies and gentlemen. Today we are discussing the requirements for the long-term assignment that will account for forty percent of your English grade this semester. So if I were you, I would pay attention.”

Cruz gives me a nod. Coming from her, it feels like an invitation. I take the empty seat and dig through my backpack. Where’s my pen?

She reaches in front of me and puts a pencil on my desk.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

Cruz points at the front of the room with her pen. “Take notes. Mrs. Hellstrom is a hardass.”

In Shop class, Cruz barely acknowledged my existence. Then last night she tried to help me, and now she’s lending me a pencil and giving me advice?

The drama at the street races proved that I’m completely out of my element—and that one of my best friends has zero common sense. I’m sure that didn’t impress anyone.

So what did I miss?

Mrs. Hellstrom scrawls a series of names on the board in illegible serial killer handwriting. “Sylvia Plath. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Virginia Woolf. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Alice Walker.” She stretches her arm across the whiteboard and draws a line under the names. “What do these writers have in common?”