“You’re exaggerating.”

Mrs. Hellstrom looks up.

Cruz waits until she returns to her book, then whispers. “I’ve known Marco since elementary school. He doesn’t follow girls around.”

Mrs. Hellstrom snaps her book shut and we all jump. “Ladies. We are working, not talking.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Hellstrom. I’m still having trouble writing with my left hand. Frankie was giving me tips.”

Was Cruz serious about Marco?

Did he really act differently around me? If he did, why me?

People were staring at us in the hallway. Then again, Marco always attracts attention at Monroe, on V Street … probably everywhere he goes.

Cruz chews on the end of her pen between pages. She came up with a genius solution to the journal problem early on. She’s making hers up. Technically, the writers of her grandmother’s favorite telenovela are doing all the work. The hopes, secrets, and fears in Cruz’s journal belong to Anna Maria Cortez, daughter of a powerful cartel leader.

I flip through the pages of my journal. Did I really write this much?

The old Frankie never wrote anything creative or risky. Essay topics were chosen based on how many similar papers popped up in an online search. If less than a few dozen hits showed up, she picked another subject. At Woodley, safe kept you out of the headmaster’s office and in the teachers’ good graces.

I take a deep breath and clear my head.

Noah and I argued the night he died.

I didn’t want to stand in line at the Sugar Factory, the current “it” club with a bouncer that accepted twenties as stand-ins for IDs. I didn’t want to get dressed up and eat sushi for the third time that week. I didn’t want to ride in his father’s new Lexus SUV, with a backseat big enough to guarantee another “will we or won’t we” sex conversation.

But I gave in, maintaining the status quo like the perfect girlfriend Noah wanted, programmed to say and do all the right things. Maybe if I had been a little less Barbie Dream Girl, Noah would still be alive.

That was the thing about Noah—he wasn’t a selfish jerk. He cared about me. Anything I gave up—or every time I gave in—it was my choice. I know that now. Making everyone else happy always mattered more than making myself happy.

The Sugar Factory lived up to its name—white walls, mirrored ceilings, chandeliers, and a blond selling Ecstasy in the ladies’ room.

“It’s like one of those LA clubs I was telling you about,” Noah said as he dragged me between the dance floor and the leather sofas. At least we weren’t in the back of the SUV.

We danced, my arms hooked around Noah’s neck, and everything felt perfect.

Perfect club.

Perfect boyfriend.

Perfect life.

The song changed, from can’t-catch-your-breath fast to let’s-do-it-right-here-on-the-dance-floor slow.

When my head started pounding from the music, Noah decided it was time to leave.

He told me to wait inside. I didn’t.

I wish it made a difference.

I wish I could remember that bastard’s face.

The bell rings, and I jump.

“Hand in your journals on the way out.” Mrs. Hellstrom takes a seat behind her desk.

I tuck mine in my backpack. I haven’t figured out how to avoid turning it in without failing English in the process. But I’ll have to find a way if I want to graduate.

Cruz finishes writing a sentence. “Let’s see what Mrs. Hellstrom thinks about Anna Maria Cortez hooking up with her sister’s boyfriend.”

“You did not write that.” Her soap opera makes my journal seem a little less dramatic.

She waves her notebook in the air. “This is good stuff. I’m gonna get an A. Watch.”

As we walk down the center aisle between the desks, I panic. “I can’t give her my notebook, Cruz.”

“Why not?”

I tighten my grip on the strap of my backpack. “I just can’t.”

One by one, my classmates drop their notebooks on Mrs. Hellstrom’s desk as she watches. We’re at the end of the line, with only two people ahead of us.

“Thank you, Mr. Navarro. Miss Denning.” Mrs. Hellstrom nods her approval. Cruz adds hers to the pile. “Miss Vera Cruz.”

Our teacher watches me expectantly. “Where is your journal, Miss Devereux? I noticed you writing in it just before the bell rang.”

My mouth goes dry. “I can’t turn it in yet.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

“Umm…”

Cruz cuts in, rolling her eyes. “Frankie wants it to be perfect before you read it. Isn’t that crazy?” she asks, as if the two of them are best friends swapping secrets.

Mrs. Hellstrom gives me a reassuring smile. “Nothing we write is ever perfect.”

“See?” Cruz nudges me and turns back to our teacher. “That’s exactly what I told her, but she won’t listen. It’s probably a writer thing. You must know what it’s like, Mrs. Hellstrom. I mean, you’re a writer. Does this ever happen to you?”

Mrs. Hellstrom sits straighter. “Of course. It happens to all writers.”

“Maybe Frankie could have a little more time?” Cruz asks.

“I’m not here to judge, Frankie. That’s not the purpose of the assignment, but I do need to know you’re working.”

“Oh, she’s definitely working.” Cruz opens my backpack and grabs my notebook. I lunge for it, but she pivots away from me. She tucks it under her chin and flips through the pages with her good hand. “Look at all this.”

Mrs. Hellstrom is too far away to read the words, but I snatch the notebook from Cruz anyway and clutch it against my chest.

“How much time do you think you need, Frankie?” Mrs. Hellstrom asks.

“I’m not sure. I’m still trying to figure out where it’s going.”

She nods and straightens a stack of papers on her desk. “Why don’t you check in with me on Friday?”

Not the response I was expecting. “That would be great.”

Cruz grabs my sleeve and drags me out. “Gotta go or we’ll be late for Shop.”

“Did that really just happen?” I ask Cruz as soon as we’re in the hallway and out of earshot.

She glances at my sneakers. “You can bet your sad-looking Adidas it did.”