The Lovely Reckless (19 page)

Cruz doesn't even flinch as she texts faster with one hand than I can with two. “What if he calls the cops?”

“What's your dad gonna tell them? That he got his ass beat for pushing his daughter around?” Deacon tries to read over her shoulder and she shoves him.

After a moment she relaxes. “He didn't call the cops. At least, Teresa doesn't think so. She says he's in his room, and Mom keeps sending her to the kitchen to get bags of frozen vegetables.”

Deacon brushes Cruz's ponytail over her shoulder. “See? Everything's all good.” He gestures at me. “Until Marco finds out that you let her race.”

“I'll deal with Marco.” She taps the roof of her car and pokes her head through the window. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

Cruz walks over to where Video Game Girl stands on the curb, twirling her hair like she's bored.

“You look good in the driver's seat,” Deacon says before he jogs away and joins Cruz on the curb.

I'm not sure if he's making fun of me, but I feel powerful behind the wheel of Cruz's car. I wish my mom could see me right now. Would an Ivy League girl be sitting in the driver's seat of a modified GT-R, getting ready to haul ass in an illegal street race?

The RX-7 roars, and headlights blind me in the rearview mirror.

I block out the sounds around me—people shouting, music pumping, engines revving. It's a skill I perfected to survive a summer of country club condolences. The distance is a quarter mile, although technically less, with the lead my rich-girl-from-the-Heights status earned me.

After practicing for hours on the garage ramp and the dead-end street, I understand the delicate balance between letting off the clutch and giving the car enough gas. And thanks to years of piano practice, I know when to shift gears just by listening to the subtle differences in the sound of the engine, without looking down at the tachometer.

Video Game Girl takes her place in front of us, her waist-length black hair arranged in two high braids like pigtails.

I press the clutch to the floor and shift into first gear. Then I give the car just enough gas to keep it at five thousand RPMs, walking the tightrope between moving and staying still.

Video Game Girl raises her arms. Exhaust burns my nasal passages. Headlights blink behind me as Pryor signals that he's ready. I follow his lead and flick my headlights on and off the way Cruz taught me.

The floorboards vibrate against my feet, but I hold them in place.

Any second now …

Her arms drop, and my foot slams on the gas pedal.

I shift into second, and Cruz's car lurches forward as I slide the gearshift from second gear to third, fourth, fifth, and up to sixth in rapid succession.

Adrenaline shoots through my veins, and my pulse rages.

The rush is insane. That's the only way to describe the speed—a rush of adrenaline and energy, rubber and metal.

The steering wheel shakes like the Nissan is fighting for control. I hear Cruz's voice in my head:
Keep your eyes on the finish line and the pedal on the floor. Don't worry about the other car.

Up ahead, the finish line is only a few car lengths away, and the RX-7 hasn't pulled in front of me. I steal a glance in the driver's-side mirror and watch the splash of neon green grow smaller and smaller.

Wait? Why isn't Pryor's car moving?

The Nissan streaks across the finish line and I brake, but I don't know if I actually won the race.

Why would he stop?

Did I jump the line? If I did, it's an automatic loss, and he wouldn't have bothered to keep going.

I flip a U-turn and drive back to the starting line and the crowd at a normal speed. If I screwed up, I don't want to know yet. For a few more seconds, I want to enjoy the rush.

Cruz runs toward the car, waving and smiling. I stop just shy of the starting line. She opens the door and pulls me out with her good arm. “I can't believe it. You smoked his ass.”

“Does that mean I won?” I ask.

Cruz laughs. “Hell yeah.”

I won.

A smile stretches across my face. “I had a head start.”

“And his engine flooded, but this isn't NASCAR. We don't give trophies for second place. You won.” Cruz leads me through packs of spectators, and I can't stop smiling. Strangers pat me on the back and congratulate me.

My heartbeat still hasn't returned to normal when an arm latches on to my wrist and pulls me through the crowd, away from everyone—bands of black ink wrapping around beautiful tan skin. My legs are numb from the vibrating floorboards, and I stumble.

Marco whips me around and stares back at me, our faces only inches apart.

“How long have you and Cruz been planning this bullshit behind my back?” Anger rages in his eyes, and a frown line cuts between his brows.

“I don't know. A few days?”

People walk around us, giving Marco a wide berth.

“You need to calm down, Marco,” Cruz says evenly. She's beside me again, but she sounded more confident when she was dealing with Deacon.

“Don't say anything right now, Cruz. You lied to me.” He shakes his head, his chest heaving like he's about to explode. Deacon warned her that Marco wouldn't be happy about me racing. Apparently, it was the understatement of the year.

“The whole thing was my idea,” she says.

“No, it wasn't.” I'm not letting her take the fall for me. “I offered.”

“You offered?” Marco's brown eyes drill into me. He gave me the same look after I kissed him at the party—a mixture of shock and confusion. “Of course you did.”

Marco turns his back on me and stalks toward the grass.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I ask, following him.

“Frankie, wait,” Cruz calls after me.

“Hey!” I'm right behind Marco. “You can't say something like that and walk away.”

He makes it to the grass, then turns around so fast that we almost collide. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Umm … I don't know,” I say sarcastically. “How about Cruz needed someone to drive her car so she could pay the rent?”

“That's not your problem.”

“She's my friend.”

Marco presses the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Your
friend
? You hardly know her.”

“You're pissed off because I'm friends with Cruz?” It hurts coming from Marco, but I won't give him the satisfaction of letting him know.

“Hold on. That's why you think I'm angry?” He shakes his head as if my response doesn't make any sense.

“If that's not it, then what's your problem?” Because I don't have a clue.

“Street racing is dangerous. You could've been killed. Or arrested.” Marco hesitates as if he wants to say more but he's holding back. “Is that what you want, Frankie? Because every time I turn around, you're doing something reckless. Jumping into fights. Showing up here with Lex and a wad of cash. Getting wasted at a party with people you barely know. And now you're racing Cruz's car. What's next? Skydiving without a parachute?”

The last time we talked, I was in flashback freak-out mode. He probably thinks I'm crazy.

“Unless you're suddenly perfect and I missed the memo, you don't get to judge me,” I yell, even though anger isn't what I'm feeling. I'm scared—of Marco and how easily he sees the truth about me. Of myself and how much I can't see.

“Say whatever you want about me, Frankie. Odds are if it's bad, it's probably true.” Marco rubs the back of his neck, dark clouds churning in his eyes. “I'm a screwup. But you aren't. Promise me you won't do anything that stupid again.”

Why does he care?

My eyes burn, but I won't cry in front of him. “I just want everyone to leave me alone.”

Marco reaches out and touches my cheek. “You sure about that?”

I stare at my sneakers.

His expression softens. “Every once in a while, the universe gives us what we ask for, so just make sure you're asking for the right things.”

“What do you ask for?”

Marco looks stunned, as if no one has ever bothered to ask him a question like that before. We aren't as different as he thinks. Part of me wants to tell him that—to take some of the sadness out of those brown eyes—but I've already let myself get too close.

“I want Sofia to graduate,” he says finally. “To go to college and get out of the Downs. I want Cruz's dad to stop beating the crap out of her.”

“None of that is for you.”

He keeps his gaze focused on me. “There's no room in my life for what I want.”

“But if there was?”

“I still couldn't have it.” Marco stares at the ground between us, hands shoved in his pockets. “Some things aren't meant for guys like me.”

 

CHAPTER 23

UNSOLVABLE EQUATIONS

The ride back from V Street consisted of lots of apologies from me and icy stares from Lex. I avoided the subject of my risky, ledge-walking behavior, and she didn't bring it up, either. Instead, Lex tortured me with the street-racing statistics she looked up online while I was racing—fun stuff like the number of annual deaths and arrests.

Lex is still angry with me the next day, and she barely talks to me on the way to school in the morning. We're halfway to the rec center in the afternoon when I try to break the ice.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the race.”

“Why would you?” She shrugs. “You don't tell me anything.”

“That's not true.”

She looks over at me. “Are you serious right now? Before you started at Monroe, we hardly talked at all. When Noah died, you shut me out. I called and texted you all summer, and you almost never responded. And if I tried to make plans or come over, you gave me a bullshit excuse. I thought things would change when you transferred to Monroe, but now instead of ignoring everyone, you only ignore me. If you didn't need me to drive you to school and the rec center, I'd probably never hear from you.”

She's right, and it kills me.

“I'm sorry.”

Lex pulls into the parking lot and cuts the engine. “Don't be. You have new friends, and if you don't want to hang out anymore, just say so. Because I'm tired of being the only person in this friendship.”

The thought of not talking to Lex at all makes me realize how important she is to me. “I screwed up, Lex. It's just…”

I'm the shittiest best friend in the history of shitty best friends.

“What?”

“It was you and me and Abel and Noah for such a long time. And it's hard to think about him.”

Her expression softens. “That's what this is about? I thought you were trying to replace me.”

“I just wanted to forget.”

Lex throws her arms around me. “As long as you don't forget about me, too.”

I hug her back, and my eyes flicker to the front of the building.

The three shirtless basketball players are watching us. Two of them flick their tongues at us, and the third guy has added a new crude gesture to his repertoire.

“Look.”

Lex glances at them. “They really are assholes.”

“Agreed.”

She gestures at the door. “Now get out of here before you end up with more community service. I'll pick you up at seven.”

I watch her drive away as I walk up the hill.

Dirt clings to my sneakers, and I realize it's everywhere. I never paid much attention before, but there's almost no grass around the rec center—not even under the abandoned playground structures behind the building.

Dad said there is no grass on the playgrounds in 1-D. At least the ground here isn't littered with dirty needles and burnt aluminum foil. In a strange way the rec center feels like an island all its own—a place safe from the world around it.

It's not the Heights. The air here smells like rubber and damp soil, salt 'n' vinegar potato chips, and the perfume aisle in a department store, but that's okay.

The air smells like something else, too.

Asphalt.

The scent gets stronger, and I hear Noah laughing.…

“You're such a liar.” I'm barefoot, in cutoffs and a tank top.

“I'm not lying.” Noah shrugs, wearing board shorts and his X Games T-shirt. “It's my favorite smell after cotton candy.”

I roll my eyes. “Then you're the only person in the universe whose second-favorite smell is asphalt.”

He circles around me on his Mongoose and does a crazy trick. “Want to know why?”

I put my hands on my hips. “Not even a little bit.”

Noah flips a 360 on the back wheel. “It reminds me of riding my bike in the summer. That's when they fill the potholes and my wheels get the best spin.”

“Whatever. I hate bikes.”

Noah grins at me. “That's because you don't know how to ride one.”

“I never should've told you!” I storm down the sidewalk, my long hair swishing behind me.

The real world starts to seep in from the corners, the way a sheet of paper burns if you hold a match at the bottom.

The rec center's glass doors …

Dirt on the ground where there should be grass …

The images fade, taking young Frankie and young Noah with them.

“Hey, Frankie?” Noah calls out. “If you want to learn how to ride, I'll teach you.”

I put my hands on my knees and take a deep breath. But I'm not shaking or dizzy, and my heart isn't racing. The flashbacks are changing. This one wasn't even about the night Noah died.

Why now?

Why this memory instead of the one I need?

I don't want to remember random moments from our childhoods. I want to remember a
specific
moment from the night at the Sugar Factory.