The Lovely Reckless (17 page)

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.”

“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.

“Bullshit.” It's definitely Marco.

“Frankie, I need you to look at me.” Miss Lorraine.

My eyelids flutter.

It's dusk, and darkness spreads across the blue-black sky like spilled paint. Miss Lorraine and Sofia kneel next to Marco, whose arms stay clamped around me.

Miss Lorraine brushes the hair away from my face. “I'm going to call your father.”

“No.” I bolt upright, almost smacking my head into Marco's chin. “My dad's at work, and he's already worried about me.”

Miss Lorraine touches Sofia's shoulder. “Go inside, sweetheart. She's okay.”

Sofia nods and walks toward the emergency exit. When she's inside, Miss Lorraine presses her fingers against her temples. “You need to see a doctor. You almost passed out.”

If I don't explain what happened, she'll call my dad. But if I do, Marco will find out how screwed up I am.

“Please don't call.” I rub my hands over my face.

Miss Lorraine's expression darkens. “Did you take something? Pills or—”

“I don't do drugs.” I'm out of options. “I have PTSD.”

Marco smooths my hair, and I realize how much he saw. He carried me outside and had a front-row seat to the Frankie Devereux Show.

“I have flashbacks from the night—” I don't want to say this in front of him.

She rests her hand on top of mine. “I know what happened. You don't have to talk about it unless you want to.”

I never want to talk about it again unless I can identify Noah's killer. My eyes burn, but I won't let myself cry. “When the flashbacks hit, I get dizzy. I've seen tons of doctors, and they all say it's normal.”

Normal if you're broken and glue isn't strong enough to hold you together.

“Are you being straight with me, Frankie?” Miss Lorraine's eyes drill into me.

“I swear.”

“I'm trusting you. Don't make me regret my decision.” When Miss Lorraine reaches the exit door, she points at me. “And I want to see you before you leave tonight.”

My cell vibrates in my pocket, and I slide off Marco's lap and sit in the dirt next to him. It's a text from Lex.

running late. senator's fault.

Great. Now I get to stay here and answer questions. I chuck the phone, and it lands in a patch of dirt in front of me.

Marco touches my shoulder.

I shove his hand away. “You can go inside. I don't need a babysitter.”

“I'm not leaving you alone.” Marco hesitates. “That's what happened the first day we met, when I got into the fight in the quad. You had a flashback?”

Just hearing the word makes me cringe and reminds me that I can't leave the old Frankie behind. The flashbacks are proof, and now Marco knows they happen all the time
.

He knows what a mess I am.

I jump to my feet, desperate to put space between us. “Why do you care if I'm alone or if I have flashbacks? I'm not your problem.”