“I think so.” I have no idea.

I press the clutch to the floor and shift into first gear. I let up on the clutch and give the Nissan some gas, trying to synchronize the two movements. The engine revs along with my pulse, and the car starts rolling backward.

“Brake!” Cruz shouts. “Don’t hit the wall!”

I slam my foot against the brake pedal, and the Nissan jerks to a stop.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get it.”

“If my clutch survives.” Cruz rubs her temples and exhales slowly. “Straighten out the wheel and try again.”

After thirty minutes of stalling and sliding backward, I’m ready to give up.

“Stop overthinking it, Frankie. Trust your instincts.”

In theory, it sounds easy. But after all the wrong turns I’ve taken—the choices I let other people make for me and the bad ones I made on my own—trusting myself feels impossible.

With the clutch pinned to the floor, I shift into first again.

I can do this.

One foot is on the clutch, the other on the brake. I picture the pedals on a piano, the way my feet controlled them as my fingers danced across the keys. Playing the piano requires a firm but delicate touch … and timing. Getting up this ramp can’t be harder than playing Mozart’s Concerto no. 19 in F Major.

I release the clutch, balancing the weight between the pedals, easing up on the brake and pressing down on the gas. The car starts rolling backward, and my first instinct is to hit the brake again. But I feel the clutch catch.

A little more gas …

The car springs forward, and the engine revs higher than it should. I shift into second gear, and the GT-R launches up the ramp.

Cruz smiles. “See. Piece of cake. Now let’s do it a couple more times.”

“Okay.” I don’t move. “This is just a ramp, Cruz. I’m guessing a race will be a lot harder. Maybe we need to come up with a plan B?”

“You are plan B.”

CHAPTER 18

PERFECT PITCH

It’s only eight o’clock in the morning, and I need a nap. Practicing on the ramp last night was nerve-racking. I lean against my locker and zone out. I don’t see Marco until he reaches over my shoulder and puts his hand on the door above me. He angles his body, caging me in on the other side, and looks down at me.

My mind flashes back to the kiss, the way his lips felt against mine. Without thinking, I touch my mouth. Marco sucks in a sharp breath.

He’s so close. The scent of leather and citrus envelops me.

The only interaction we’ve had since the kiss and the disaster that followed was with Cruz before school yesterday, and it didn’t involve talking to each other.

“I have to go.”

“Don’t leave,” he whispers, warm breath tickling my neck. “I was waiting for you.”

“Why?” I pretend he isn’t inches from nuzzling my neck.

“To say I’m sorry.” For yelling at me or kissing me? Marco shifts, and his chest brushes my shoulder.

Why does the slightest physical contact with him send my pulse into overdrive?

Because you made out with him on the hood of a car, and it was the most amazing kiss you’ve ever had.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Does that mean you accept my apology?” he asks. “Only an asshole would make a comment like that after what happened to your boyfriend. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine.” I try to maneuver around him, but Marco steps in front of me and I plow into him.

He catches me by the shoulders. “It’s not fine—not what I said or what happened to him.”

The hallway is packed. Footsteps echo. Locker doors slam. Voices become muffled and distorted. I can’t have a flashback now—not in the hallway in front of everyone. Not in front of Marco.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” It’s a plea.

Marco nods and lets his hands slide down my arms, his brown eyes locked on mine. “Why did you kiss me, Frankie?”

It’s the last question I expected him to ask, and I don’t have an answer—not one I’m willing to say out loud. The bell rings, and students rush down the hallway like the building is on fire.

“Because you were drunk, right?” he asks.

Say yes and he’ll leave you alone.

“It doesn’t matter.” I step around Marco and walk into the crowd, but I hear him call out behind me.

“What if it matters to me?”

* * *

“What’s going on between you and Marco Leone?” Lex asks the minute we pull out of Lot A. “And don’t say nothing, because everyone is talking about you two.”

Perfect.

Lex tightens her grip on the wheel. “If you don’t want to tell me, then just say so. But don’t lie to me.”

I pull at the loose threads on my shoelaces. “I’m not sure.”

“But something is going on?”

I lean back against the headrest. “We kissed. Once.”

And I’ve thought about it a hundred times since then.

Lex chews on her bottom lip. “Were you going to tell me at all?”

“Were you going to tell me you slept with Abel?”

“Fine. We’re even.” Her shoulders sag. “But you don’t want to get involved with Marco. You’ll be the one who gets hurt.”

“We’re not involved. We kissed one time.” Knowing how Lex feels about Marco, I’m uncomfortable talking about him with her. We ride the rest of the way in silence, something Lex used to hate.

* * *

“How’s your hand-eye coordination?” Cruz asks later that night. We’re on a dead-end street behind an old recycling plant for more street-racing prep. The whole place reeks of wet newspaper.

“Why? Are we playing tennis?” I’m in a rotten mood. At school today, I overheard Abel on his cell talking about bidding on something.

Cruz gives me a strange look. “My racket is in the shop.”

“Stupid joke.”

“You think?” Cruz angles her body toward me. “Back to the original question. Do you have good hand-eye coordination or what?”

“I can play treble and bass clef scales on the piano simultaneously, which, musically speaking, is pretty badass.”

Cruz taps on the gearshift. She’s all business tonight. “Then it’s time to teach you the hard part.”