The Lovely Reckless Page 3

  “Ready is a relative term.”

  “You could get a private tutor instead,” Lex teases. “It’s not too late to guilt-trip your mom into letting you come home.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  It was too late the moment Noah’s head hit the ground. Once the rumors spread through the Heights like bird flu, too late came and went.

  The only thing left is now.

  Here.

  In Lot B, we drive past dozens of restored muscle cars and rusted-out Hondas. A vintage black pickup with yellow flames painted on the sides eases into a space in front of us, and Lex stops.

  Outside my window, a group of guys stand huddled around a midnight-blue Mustang, checking out the engine. Noah and his friends from the lacrosse team used to form an almost identical huddle whenever one of them showed up with a new car. Except they were more interested in the upgrades inside than what was underneath the hood. Noah and his friends lived in lacrosse T-shirts or wrinkled button-downs with the sleeves rolled, and they all projected the same brand of confidence that comes from growing up with money.

  In Lot B, there isn’t a button-down in sight except mine. Instead, the guys wear low-slung jeans, have tattoos, and they are marked with the kind of confidence you earn.

  The dark-haired guy standing closest to the Fiat leans over the side of the Mustang, looking under the hood. The black ink on his arm catches my eye. A pile of skulls begins at his wrist. Above them, more tattoos snake their way over his light brown skin—a tree twists up from the skulls and one of the branches transforms into the stem of a black rose. Tribal lines curve from its center and disappear under the sleeve of his dark gray T-shirt.

  He looks over as if he senses me watching him. Dark eyes lock on mine. I stop breathing for a second. Guys at Woodley don’t look like this—rough, inked, and muscular. His hair sticks up in the front like he started spiking it and lost interest halfway through the process.

  He tilts his head, and a ghost of a smile crosses his lips.

  The Fiat lurches forward and Lex swears under her breath. “Are you insane, Frankie? We’re not in Kansas anymore. You can’t stare at people from the Downs. They’re not like the kids at Woodley.”

  I’m not naive. Washington Heights and Meadowbrook Downs didn’t get their nicknames by accident. Money is the dividing line—the street you live on, the type of car you drive, and whether your family has a country club membership matter more than anything else.

  Lex gestures at a Chevy with a spoiler that looks like it’s worth more than the car. “I mean, who puts a spoiler on a piece of junk like that? You have to walk into this place like you know you’re better than them, or they’ll eat you alive.”

  “Are you listening to yourself right now? Because you sound like my mom, and that’s scary. And hello? Your dad is from the Downs.”

  “That’s the reason the Senator spends so much time trying to clean it up. If he knew I was driving you to the rec center, he would freak.”

  “But you and Abel went to some Monroe parties last year when I was out with Noah.” I push away the memory of sitting in a movie theater with my head on Noah’s shoulder, our hands bumping in the popcorn bucket.

  Lex turns into Lot A and slips into an empty space between an Audi and a Lexus. “Most of those parties were near your dad’s apartment, and one of them was up the street from my house. We’re not the only people from the Heights at Monroe. All the private-school rejects go here.”

  “I know how it works.” Everyone does.

  Parents in the Heights are always bitching about it. The county is divided up into zones based on income, and every public school has one wealthy neighborhood and one poor neighborhood that feed into it. The rest fall somewhere in between and make up the difference.

  A zip code in the Heights means you end up at Monroe. Technically, we’re only ten miles from the Heights, but it feels like ten thousand. That’s why parents send their kids to private schools like Woodley Prep if they can afford it.

  “So you’ve never been to a party in the Downs? Not even once?”

  Lex glares at me. “You couldn’t pay me to show up at one of those parties.”

  “Do you know elitist that sounds?”

  She flips opens the visor and checks her makeup in the mirror. “I’m a realist, and you sound like a Peace Corps volunteer. Let’s see how elitist you think I am by lunch.”

  I stare out the window, hoping to check out the other students … or the hot guy with the tattoos. Lot A doesn’t look much different from the parking lot at the country club. Aside from a few Acuras, Honda SUVs, and Jeeps, it’s packed with Audis, BMWs, Mercedes, and random sports cars like the Fiat. Judging from the jocks dressed like Abercrombie & Fitch models and the number of people holding Starbucks cups, no one from the Downs parks in this lot.

  The cups are the real giveaway.

  Dad’s partner, Tyson, complains that the Downs is the only place on earth without a Starbucks.

  “Is there assigned parking at Monroe?” I ask.

  Lex gets out and adjusts the black studded leather bag on her shoulder. “No. Why?”

  I look around. “It doesn’t seem like anyone from the Downs parks here.”

  She locks the car. “They don’t. By choice. They probably think we’ll ding their custom paint jobs. Who knows?” She heads for the main building on the opposite side of the street. “Most Monroe students hang out with people from their own neighborhood. And don’t give me that judgey look. I only transferred here last year. I’m not responsible for the social hierarchy.”

  “Social hierarchy? Wasn’t that a vocab term from our SAT prep class?” I’ve missed teasing Lex.

  “Whatever.”

  I follow her across the quad in front of a huge redbrick building, along with what seems like half the student body. Ahead of us, two girls dressed in Marc Jacobs drink Frappuccinos and text a few feet away from three guys wearing their jeans so low that I can read Tommy Hilfiger’s name on their boxer briefs. To their credit, the guys hike up their jeans whenever they slide down past the halfway point on their asses. Give them belts and they’re practically ready for cotillion.

  Ass-riding jeans aside, Monroe isn’t as bad as the private-school crowd thinks. I expected metal detectors and drug dealers handing out dime bags on the lawn.

  This I can handle.

  Before we make it to the sidewalk, the shouting starts.

  CHAPTER 4

  FIGHT CLUB

  “Marco! I heard you were trying to get with my girl.” A huge guy wearing a Baltimore Ravens jersey steps in front of a curvy redhead spilling out of her tank top—most likely the girlfriend in question. He stalks across the grass in our direction, looking big enough to be a linebacker for the Ravens.

  Lex throws her head back and sighs. “Now we’re going to be late for class. I don’t know why these losers can’t beat the crap out of each other off campus.”

  “Is it like this all the time?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Only on slow days.”

  I catch a glimpse of his target … the linebacker called him Marco.

  It’s him.

  It’s the guy with the tattoos who smiled at me in Lot B, and up close he’s jaw-droppingly gorgeous. I try not to stare at the black ink on his arm. I’ve seen tattoos before, but his are different—powerful and hypnotic.

  He doesn’t notice me.

  A girl with a thick mane of black waves pulled into a high ponytail stands beside Marco. The combination of her delicate features and the way she’s staring down the linebacker with her arms crossed gives her a pretty but tough vibe. Her white tank, dark jeans, and old-school gray-and-red Nike high-tops are borderline tomboy.

  It’s a look I wish I could pull off.

  “Leone!” The linebacker points at Marco. “I’m talking to you.”

  The pretty girl with the ponytail grabs Marco’s sleeve. “Walk away. He’s a little bitch.”

  Marco’s expression is calm and calculating, as if he
knows something the rest of us don’t. He crosses the lawn and stops in front of the linebacker, only a few feet away from Lex and me. “You really want to do this, Coop?”

  The other guy’s jaw twitches. “Nobody tries to take what’s mine.”

  What’s his? He’s talking about the redhead like she’s a personal possession—a jacket or a textbook he can toss into his locker.

  Asshole.

  “It’s not my problem if you can’t keep your girl happy,” Marco says. “But don’t worry. She’s not my type.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” The linebacker’s hands curl into fists.

  Marco cracks a cocky smile. “I’m not into girls who only look good from the neck down.”

  The guy in the Ravens jersey throws the first punch, and it catches Marco above the eye. Marco staggers, his feet crisscrossing.

  Lex tries to yank me back, but there’s a wall of people behind us now.

  Marco regains his balance and charges. He jabs an uppercut into the linebacker’s stomach, and the guy keels over, groaning and clutching his gut. Marco stands over him. “If you come at me like that again, you’ll end up with more than a couple of scratches on your face.”

  As he turns to walk away, the linebacker pushes himself onto his knees. “I’d still look better than your sister.”

  The girl with Marco gasps and covers her mouth. I have no idea what the linebacker means, but everyone else seems to know. Whispers ripple through the crowd, and a few people call out.

  “Aww, shit!”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Beat his ass, Marco.”

  Marco’s cocky grin instantly vanishes. He charges and grabs the linebacker by the shoulders of his jersey. Marco jerks the linebacker down and simultaneously brings up his knee to meet the guy’s nose. The linebacker’s head snaps back violently on impact, and blood sprays across the grass.

  I suck in a sharp breath, and the sky tilts.

  Deep breath. Don’t freak out.

  A wave of dizziness crashes over me. My mind spins. I hear the crowd urging Marco on, the crack of bone against bone, as my vision blurs.…

  I’m in the parking lot next to the club.

  Noah gives me the look—the signal that means, don’t come over here. I drop to my knees and duck between two cars. The wet asphalt smells like beer and stale cigarettes, but I don’t care. I have a clear view of Noah, and that’s what matters.

  The guy closes in on him. Why can’t I see his face? He’s talking to Noah.

  No … yelling at him.

  Heavy boots hit the asphalt. Cars speed by on the street behind me.

  An arm swings. A fist hits Noah’s jaw, and he staggers.

  I can’t see him anymore. Where is he now?

  Something moves under the streetlights, and I see it—his baby-blue shirt. But it’s not blue anymore. It’s red.

  Another fist rockets toward Noah’s face. I don’t hear the crack, but I swear I feel it.

  One thought runs through my mind over and over.…

  I can’t let him hurt Noah again. I have to do something.

  The guy has his back to me, and I lunge at him from behind, pulling and clawing his shirt.

  “Frankie!” Lex yells.

  The guy pivots in my direction without looking, and his elbow catches me in the stomach.

  A jolt of pain hits, forcing the air out of my lungs, and I gasp.

  Flashes of color, faces, the sky—it all spins by me in a split second—and I’m falling.

  My back hits the grass. I hear Dad’s voice in my head: If someone gets you on the ground, roll into a ball and keep your face covered.

  I shield my face, but my stomach cramps, and I can’t pull up my knees.

  Voices bombard me from every side.

  “Someone help her!”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “I didn’t see her.” A guy’s voice. “I swear.”

  I open my eyes, expecting to see cars, streetlights, and the side of the club’s marquee with The Sugar Factory lit up in neon pink. Instead, sunlight blinds me. It’s not dark outside. A guy leans over me, blocking the sun … a guy I recognize. A redbrick building looms behind him. I’m not in the club parking lot.

  Think. I try to clear my head. I’m at Monroe. With Lex. Lot A. The fight. A hot guy with tattoos …

  “I thought you were one of his boys.” His chest heaves like he’s still out of breath from the fight. The hot guy … Marco.

  My heart pounds, echoing in my ears.

  “Are you okay?” Marco reaches for me, then pulls his hand back.

  “Yeah.” I nod in case he didn’t hear me.

  A trickle of blood runs down his cheek from a cut above his eye, but he doesn’t wipe it off. The girl who was hanging out with Marco before the fight stands behind him, watching me. “Did she hit her head? She might have a concussion.”

  “Move!” Lex yells, shoving people aside. She puts herself between me and Marco. “Get away from her!”

  Marco sits back on his heels, arms hanging at his sides as if he’s waiting for her to punch him. He looks younger and less dangerous. “I didn’t see her,” he repeats.

  “It was an accident.” The girl with Marco rests her hand on his shoulder.

  Lex drops down beside me. “Did that psycho hurt you?”

  “I’m fine.” A dull pain throbs in the pit of my stomach.

  The guy in the Ravens jersey groans and rolls onto his side. Blood spatters cover the front of his shirt, and one of his eyes has swollen shut. Two of his friends drag him to the nearest tree and prop him up.

  Without the bleeding linebacker next to us, I’m the main attraction. Just what I need on my first day at a new school. On the upside, getting knocked on my ass distracted the crowd. Hopefully, no one noticed me zoning out.

  I stand up too fast and my legs turn into Jell-O. The ground slips out from under me, and Marco springs to his feet. He reaches for my elbow, but Lex beats him to it.

  She slaps his hand away. “Don’t touch her.”

  The pretty tomboy raises her eyebrows.

  Marco steps back, his eyes locked on mine. The intensity of his gaze—the way he’s staring directly at me—isn’t helping my Jell-O legs situation.

  “You okay, Angel?” Another question lingers in his eyes, but I don’t know what he’s asking.

  “I’m—”

  “Clear this area now!” a deep voice thunders across the quad. Within seconds, a man about Dad’s age, with strong features and salt-and-pepper hair, crosses the lawn. Judging by his turtleneck and pressed jeans, he’s a teacher.

  He points at Marco. “Not you, Leone. Stay right where you are.”

  Marco raises his hands and clasps them behind his head like he’s under arrest. “Whatever you say, Mr. S.”

  Mr. S takes one look at Lex shielding me from Marco and shoves him toward the sidewalk. Then he turns to me. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” How many times do I have to say it?

  “Are you sure?” He has kind eyes and a soothing voice, now that he’s not shouting.

  “She’s okay, really, Mr. Santiago.” Lex hooks her arm through mine.

  Mr. Santiago notices the guy in the bloody Ravens jersey near the sidewalk. “Why aren’t I surprised to see you here, Mr. Cooper?” He snaps his fingers at the linebacker’s friends. “Take him to the nurse. I want him out of my sight.” Mr. Santiago zeroes in on Marco and points at the main building. “Start walking, Leone. You know the way.”

  With Marco safely on the sidewalk, Lex grabs my shoulders. “What were you thinking, Frankie?” She closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them again, I see it in her eyes. Pity. “Don’t answer that. Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

  Lex thinks I’m too fragile to hold it together, but she’s wrong. I’m like a broken bone that wasn’t set correctly. I might not heal perfectly, but I will heal.

  I brush off my shirt and pick up my pu
rse and backpack. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Do you always have to be so stubborn?”

  I respond by crossing my arms.

  Lex sighs. “I should’ve asked Mr. Santiago to write us a note. We’re late for class.”

  “Is he the principal?”

  “Security guard.” Lex leads me across the quad, her arm looped through mine. “Welcome to Monroe.”

  CHAPTER 5

  BEAUTIFUL BAD BOY

  “Blue slip.” My English teacher—Mrs. Hellstrom, according to my schedule—extends her hand without so much as a glance in my direction. Lex insisted on walking me to my first class, and now I’m standing in the front of the room while everyone stares.

  “I don’t have one. Just my schedule.” I hold it out to her.

  Mrs. Hellstrom doesn’t look up from the book in front of her. She’s a serious-looking woman with pasty skin and thin, penciled-in eyebrows. “You need to go to the office. I can’t add you to the roster without a blue slip.”

  A few students take advantage of the distraction and whip out their cell phones. A guy in the back is asleep, with his head on his desk. The girl sitting next to him has violet-and-brown ombré hair, and she’s painting her nails a matching shade of purple. None of the girls at my old school would’ve had the guts to dye their hair like hers.

  At Woodley, standing out wasn’t a good thing, unless it involved scoring the “it” bag of the season or putting a unique spin on the currently accepted style. I always played it safe, choosing skinny jeans—from the dozens of almost identical pairs stacked in my closet—a simple top or tee under a fitted leather jacket, and cute flats or boots. I never cut my hair too short or grew it too long.

  Pretty enough without stressing about it—that was my look.

  At Monroe, the old sneakers and ratty button-down I’m wearing would fall into the category of not trying at all.

  Mrs. Hellstrom notices everyone messing around and smacks her book shut. “People, this is not study hall. You can complete the questions on the required summer reading book in class now or in detention later. The choice is yours.”

  A chorus of groans travels through the room, followed by the sound of papers rustling. Two girls in the front row stare at my tiny purse and laugh.