“Seriously, Cruz, I owe you.”

“Technically, you owe my grandmother. She says people can learn everything they need to know about life from a good telenovela. And you can’t owe me, since I already owe you.”

Today when we walk down the hall, I only attract a few stares.

“Thanks.” I need to hold on to the journal, and not just to keep my English teacher from reading my private thoughts. Ever since I started writing in it, I’ve remembered more and more about the night Noah died.

It might be a coincidence. But what if it isn’t?

Cruz throws me a sideways look. “You don’t have to thank me. We’re friends. That’s the kind of stuff BFFs do for each other, right?”

“Yeah.” Lex would do anything for me—not that I deserve it after the way I’ve treated her. “But Lex has never pulled off a performance like that to save my ass with a teacher. That’s probably normal best friend stuff at Monroe.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Cruz stares straight ahead, owning the hallway as usual. “I’ve never had a best friend before.”

CHAPTER 20

TITANIUM

When Lex drops me off at the rec center, I bypass the front steps—and the raunchy basketball rejects who never seem to play any basketball—and walk behind the building. I slip a furry mouse-shaped toy out of my pocket and look around for Cyclops. I bought it last night at the grocery store when Cruz decided we had to celebrate my triumph over the ramp with powdered donuts.

There’s no sign of Cyclops, but he’ll end up back here sooner or later if Marco keeps bringing him milk from the vending machine. I leave the fur mouse next to the rotted playground structure where I saw Marco feed him.

As I circle back around to the front, I catch a glimpse of a Dodge Charger parked near the Section 8 apartments across the street—Dad’s undercover car. The matte-black paint job and cage of metal bars protecting the bumper and front end make his car unmistakable. Dad’s partner, Tyson, lights a cigarette and slouches against his vintage Crown Vic. Dad hassles him about driving the car model favored by police departments all over the country, but Tyson says that’s why he chose it. A car thief who drives a Crown Vic isn’t afraid of anyone.

I don’t see Dad, but he must be nearby.

Tyson watches the apartment building next to him, his ebony skin and pretty-boy bone structure partially hidden by the folds of his navy hoodie.

What are they doing here?

Dad said they never work in this part of the Downs. It feels strange, as if the two different worlds I live in suddenly intersected without my permission, and I make a quick dash for the glass doors.

Inside, the kids in my group are listening to music, dancing, and playing games on their cell phones instead of studying. The moment I walk through the door, Daniel calls out, “Hey, Frankie. We thought you ditched us.”

I drop my backpack next to my usual seat. “You’re not that lucky. Why isn’t anyone working?”

“We had an assembly today,” Daniel explains.

Sofia smiles. “Which means no homework.”

Carlos turns up the music playing on his phone. “That’s right.”

“Don’t you have any long-term projects?” I ask. Like a private journal your English teacher expects you to turn in?

Kumiko and her friends dance in a circle. “It’s only the first month of school.”

I flip open my chemistry book and take out a piece of paper. “Just don’t get me in trouble with Miss Lorraine.”

“Deal.” Kumiko swings her hips to the beat of a pop song the radio stations play a hundred times a day.

For the next three hours, the kids dance, talk, and text while chemistry kicks my ass. It’s almost six thirty when I finally give up. The song changes, and the second I hear the melody, my blood turns to ice.

“Titanium”—the song that was playing at the Sugar Factory right before I went outside.

The room heats up, and a wave of dizziness rolls over me.

Noah’s baby-blue polo shirt—

“Frankie? Are you okay?” Sofia asks.

“She doesn’t look so good.” Daniel.

A guy with a blurred face—

I want to tell the kids I’m okay, but I can’t get the words out.…

Noah shakes his head at me—

“She needs help.” Kumiko’s voice is the last thing I hear.

I drop to my knees and duck between two cars just as the first hit catches Noah in the jaw. His head snaps back, then falls forward. An uppercut meets Noah’s chin and slams his head back again.

Threads of blood and saliva splatter across his shirt.

My body convulses, and I cover my mouth to keep from gagging.

Another hit from the side. Noah sways and falls. His back slams against the asphalt with a sickening thud. The guy with the blurred face grabs Noah’s collar and pulls him up so he can hit him again and again and again.

Blood. Everywhere.

The pink glow from the club marquee and the stench of stale beer and copper pennies.

The bastard’s arm cocking back over and over and sounds I will never forget—the crunch of bone against bone, the back of Noah’s head cracking against the shiny black asphalt.

The guy with the blurred face stands, his hands coated with blood so dark it looks black. He wipes Noah’s blood on the front of his hoodie.

Noah isn’t moving. He’s lying on the ground, bleeding and broken, arms splayed out at his sides.

The bastard laughs and says something to Noah.

Why can’t I hear him?

I want to close my eyes—to stop seeing.

“Frankie?” Someone calls my name.

“I think she’s gonna pass out, bro.”

“Move!” Another voice.

The room tilts, and I force my eyes open.

Black splotches … white cardboard ceiling tiles. I feel myself being lifted, or maybe I’m falling.

“Hang on, Frankie.” A guy’s voice.

The sound of metal scraping against concrete, followed by a blast of cool air on my skin. I suck in a long breath, and the dizziness settles into ripples instead of waves.

I’m leaning against someone’s chest, and the familiar mix of leather and citrus clings to his skin. Marco. His heartbeat races, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek.

“I’m okay,” I mumble.