Rules Of Attraction (3 page)

one of my dad’s students. Last year, after a study session, my dad

found out that Alex works on cars. He told Alex about the 1972 Monte

Carlo I’ve been restoring, and Alex has been helping me get parts for it

ever since.

“Hey, Kiara.” He wipes his hands on a shop cloth, and asks me to

wait while he gets my radio. “Here it is,” he says, opening the box. He

pulls out the radio and removes it from the bubble wrap. Wires are

sticking out of the back like spindly legs, but it’s just perfect. I know I

shouldn’t be so excited about a radio, but the dash wouldn’t be

complete without it. The one that came with my car never worked and

the front plastic was cracked, so Alex has been looking online to find

me an authentic replacement.

“I didn’t get a chance to test it, though,” he says as he wiggles each

wire to make sure the connections are solid. “I had to pick up my

brother at the airport, so I couldn’t come in early.”

“Is he visiting from Mexico?” I ask.

“He’s not visitin’. He’ll be a senior at Flatiron startin’ tomorrow,” he

says as he fills out an invoice. “You go there, right?”

I nod.

He puts the radio back in the box. “Do you need help installin’ it?”

I didn’t think so before I saw it up close, but now I’m not so sure.

“Maybe,” I tell him. “Last time I soldered wires, I messed them up.”

“Then don’t pay for it now,” he says. “If you’ve got time tomorrow

after school, stop by and I’ll put it in. That’ll give me time to test the

thing.”

“Thanks, Alex.”

He looks up from the invoice and taps his pen on the counter. “I

know this is gonna sound loco, but can you help show my brother around

school? He doesn’t know anyone.”

“We have a peer outreach program at school,” I say, proud that I

can help. “I can meet you in the principal’s office in the morning and

sign up to be his peer guide.” The old Kiara would have been too shy and

would never have offered, but not the new Kiara.

“I’ve got to warn you . . .”

“About what?”

“My brother can be tough to deal with.”

My lips turn into a wide grin, because as Tuck pointed out . . . “I

love a good challenge.”

THREE :
Carlos

“I don’t need a peer guide.”

Those are the first words out of my mouth as Mr. House, the

Flatiron High School principal, introduces me to Kiara Westford.

“We pride ourselves on our peer outreach programs,” Mr. House

says to Alex. “They help ensure a smooth transition.”

My brother nods. “No problem with me. I’m sold on the idea.”

“I’m not,” I mumble. I don’t need a damn peer guide because (1) it’s

obvious from the way Alex greeted Kiara a few minutes ago that he

knows her, and (2) the girl is not hot; she has her hair up in a ponytail,

is wearing leather hiking boots with three-quarter stretch pants with

an Under Armour logo peeking out the bottom, and is covered from

neck to knee by an oversized T-shirt with the word ‘MOUNTAINEER’

written on it, and (3) I don’t need a babysitter, especially one that my

brother arranged.

Mr. House sits in his big, brown leather chair and hands Kiara a

copy of my schedule. Great, so now the girl knows where I’m supposed

to be every second of the day. If this situation weren’t so humiliatin’,

it’d be hilarious.

“This is a big school, Carlos,” House says as if I can’t figure out the

map on my own. “Kiara is an exemplary student. She’ll show you to your

locker and escort you to each class for your first week here.”

“You ready?” the girl asks with a big grin. “The first-period late

bell already rang.”

Can I request another peer guide, one who isn’t so happy to be at

school at seven thirty a.m.?

Alex waves me off, and I’m tempted to flip him the finger but I’m

not sure the principal would appreciate it.

I follow the exemplary student out into the empty hallway and I

think I’ve entered hell. Lockers line the hallways and signs are taped to

the walls. One says ‘YES WE KAHN!—VOTE FOR MEGAN KAHN FOR

STUDENT PRESIDENT’ and another reads ‘JASON TU—YOUR ‘GO-TU

GUY’ FOR STUDENT COUNCIL TREASURER!’ are displayed along with

the rest of the signs from people who actually want to ‘MAKE

HEALTHIER STUDENT LUNCHES THE NORM!—VOTE FOR NORM

REDDING.’

Healthier student lunches?

Hell, back in Mexico you ate what you brought from home or

whatever crap they put in front of you. There weren’t choices. Where

I lived in Mexico you ate to survive, without worrying about counting

calories or carbs. That’s not to say that some people don’t live like

kings in Mexico. Like in America, there are definitely the rich areas in

every one of the thirty-one Mexican states . . . but my family just

didn’t live in any of ’em. I don’t belong at Flatiron High, and I sure as

hell don’t want to follow this girl around all week. I wonder how much

the exemplary student can take before she gives up and quits. She

directs me to my locker and I shove my stuff inside. “My locker is two

away from yours,” she announces, as if that’s actually a good thing.

When I’m ready, she studies my schedule and walks down the hall at

the same time. “Mr. Hennesey’s class is one flight up.”

“¿Dónde está el servicio?” I ask her.

“Huh? I don’t take Spanish. Je parle français— I speak French.”

“Why? Do a lot of French people live in Colorado?”

“No, but I want to do a semester abroad in France my sophomore

year of college like my mom did.”

My mom didn’t even finish high school. She got pregnant with Alex

and married my dad.

“You’re learnin’ a language that you’ll use for one semester? Sounds

stupid to me.” I stop when we reach a door with a male stick figure

painted on it. With my thumb, I point to the door. “Servicio is

bathroom . . . I asked where the bathroom is.”

“Oh.” She looks a little confused, as if not exactly knowing how to

handle deviations from the schedule. “Well, I guess I’ll just wait out

here for you.”

Time to have a little fun by screwin’ with my peer guide. “Unless you

want to come inside and show me around . . . I mean, I don’t know how

far you wanna take this whole peer guide thing.”

“Not that far.” She purses her lips like she just sucked on a sour

lemon and shakes her head. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

In the bathroom, I brace my hands on the sink and take a deep

breath. All I can see in the mirror above the sink is a guy whose family

thinks he’s a total fuckup. Maybe I should have told mi'amá the truth:

that I got fired from the mill for protecting little fifteen-year-old

Emilie Juarez from being harassed by one of the supervisors. It was

bad enough she had to quit school and start working to help her family

put food on their table. When our boss thought he could put his filthy

hands on her just because he was el jefe, I went ballistic. Yeah, it cost

me my job . . . but it was worth it and I’d do it again even if it had the

same consequences.

A knock on the door brings me back to reality, and the fact that I

have to be escorted to class by a girl who dresses like she’s goin’

mountain climbing. I can’t imagine a girl like Kiara ever needing a guy to

fight for her, because if any guy threatened her she’d probably

suffocate him with her oversized tee.

The door creaks open the slightest bit. “You still in there?” Kiara’s

voice echoes through the bathroom.

“Yep.”

“You almost done?”

I roll my eyes. When I walk out of the bathroom a minute later and

head toward the stairs, I notice my escort isn’t following. She’s

standing in the empty hallway, that sour look still plastered on her

face. “You didn’t even have to go,” she says, sounding annoyed. “You

were stalling.”

“You’re a genius,” I say flatly, then take the stairs up two at a time.

Score one for Carlos Fuentes.

I hear her footsteps tapping on the floor behind me, trying to

catch up. I walk down the second-floor hall, thinking of ways I can

ditch her.

“Thanks for making me super late to class for no reason,” she says,

hurrying up behind me.

“Don’t blame me. Wasn’t my idea to have a babysitter. And, for the

record, I can find my way around just fine on my own.”

“Really?” she asks. “Because you just passed Mr. Hennesey’s room.”

Shit.

One point for the exemplary student.

Score is 1–1. Thing is, I don’t like ties. I like to win . . . by big

margins. I can’t help but be annoyed at the flash of amusement in my

peer guide’s eyes. I step closer to her, really close. “Have you ever cut

class?” I ask her, mischief and flirting laced in my voice. I’m trying to

throw her off so I have the upper hand again.

“No,” she says slowly, looking nervous.

Good. I lean in even closer. “We should try it together sometime,” I

say softly, then open the classroom door.

I hear her suck in a breath. Listen, I didn’t ask for a face and body

girls find attractive. But thanks to the mixture of my parents’ DNA,

I’ve got them, and I’m not ashamed to use ’em. Having a face Adonis

would admire is one of the few advantages I’ve been given in life, and I

use it to its fullest potential whether it’s for good or evil.

Kiara quickly introduces me to Mr. Hennesey, then just as quickly

she’s out the door. I hope my flirting has scared her off for good. If

not, I might have to try harder next time. I sit in math class and scan

the room. All of the kids here look like they come from upper-class

homes. This school is nothing like Fairfield, the Chicago suburb I lived

in before we moved to Mexico. At Fairfield High, we had rich kids and

poor kids. Flatiron High is more like one of those expensive private

high schools back in Chicago, where every kid wears designer labels and

drives fancy cars.

We used to make fun of those kids. Now I’m surrounded by them.

As soon as math is over, Kiara is waiting outside the classroom. I

can’t believe it.

“So how was it?” she asks over the noise of everyone else rushing

to their next class.

“You don’t want me to answer honestly, do you?”

“Probably not. Come on, we only have five minutes.” She weaves her

way through the students. I follow behind, watching her ponytail sway

like a horse’s tail with every step she takes. “Alex warned me you were

a rebel.”

She ain’t seen nothin’ yet. “How do you know my brother?”

“He was one of my dad’s students. And he helps me with the car I’m

restoring.”

This chica is unreal. Restoring a car? “What do you know about

cars?”

“More than you,” she says over her shoulder.

I laugh. “Wanna bet?”

“Maybe.” She stops in front of a classroom. “Here’s your bio class.”

A hot chick passes us and goes in the room. She’s wearing tight

jeans and an even tighter shirt. “Whoa, who was that?”

“Madison Stone,” Kiara mutters.

“Introduce me to her.”

“Why?”

Because I know it’ll annoy the shit out of you. “Why not?”

She clutches her books to her chest, almost as if they’re a shield

of armor. “I can think of five reasons off the top of my head.”

I shrug. “Okay. List ’em.”

“There’s no time, the bell is about to ring. Do you think you can

introduce yourself to Mrs. Shevelenko? I just remembered I forgot my

French homework in my locker.”

“You better hurry.” I look at my wrist, which doesn’t have a watch

wrapped around it, but I don’t think she notices. “The bell is about to

ring.”

“I’ll just meet you here after class.” She runs down the hall.

In class, I wait for Shevelenko to look up from her desk and

acknowledge me. She’s on her laptop, sending what looks like personal

e-mail.

I clear my throat to get her attention. She glances at me, then

changes programs. “Choose any seat. I’ll call attendance in a minute.”

“I’m new,” I tell her. She should have figured that one out on her

own because I haven’t been in her class the past two weeks, but

whatever.

“Are you that exchange student from Mexico?”

Not really. It’s called transfer student, but I don’t think this

woman cares about the details.

“Yeah.”

I can’t help but notice the beads of sweat on her peach-fuzz

mustache. I’m pretty certain there are, you know, people who can take

care of that. My aunt Consuelo had the same problem until my mom got

ahold of her and some hot wax and put them in the same room

together.

“You speak Spanish or English at home?” Shevelenko asks.

I’m not even sure that’s a legal question, but whatever. “Both.”

She cranes her neck and scans the rest of the class. “Ramiro, come

here.”

This Latino kid walks up to her desk. The guy is a taller version of

Alex’s best friend, Paco. When they were seniors in high school, Alex

and Paco got shot, and our entire lives turned upside down. Paco died. I

don’t know if any of us will ever fully get over what happened. Right

after my brother got out of the hospital, we moved to Mexico to stay

with family. Since the shooting, nothing’s been the same.

“Ramiro, this is . . .” Shevelenko looks up at me. “What’s your