The Lovely Reckless(17)
the deans at Stanford.
Can you believe it?!
no.
The words sting. She’s not sorry.
I wonder how much that cost King Richard.
He explained your condition and the
extenuating circumstances.
My condition? Is that what they’re calling my PTSD now?
dog is barking. have 2 go.
I pocket my phone without waiting for a response. I’m not wasting money on a school I don’t care about anymore, even if the money happens to be my mother’s.
At least my first afternoon at the rec center wasn’t a complete disaster. The kids liked me for the most part, and with Sofia’s help, I might have a shot at passing Shop. Thinking about Sofia leads directly to Marco.
Who is this guy?
During the fight, he went from cocky to out of control in seconds, and it scared the crap out of me. But the look on his face after he plowed into me was pure panic. Not exactly how he acted in the office. I’ll take panicked and real over smart-ass bad boy any day, unless Option C is affectionate brother who carries his little sister’s backpack.
Everyone in high school fakes it on some level—in the Heights and in the Downs. Offering a bunch of strangers a window into your soul guarantees four years of total misery. Maybe Marco just fakes it better than the rest of us do.
Remembering the way he stared at me in the parking lot makes my stomach flutter.
What’s wrong with me?
Marco is not my problem, and after witnessing his cage match on the quad this morning and the personal escort from Mr. Santiago, I probably won’t see much of him.
Except when he picks up his sister every day.
After trashing the rest of the pizza, I find a lone box of mac and cheese behind the cereal. I’m shaking orange powder onto the noodles when my cell phone rings. It’s Lex.
“Is your dad home?” she asks the second I pick up.
“No. Why?”
“Abel is in some serious shit. I’m on my way to pick you up.”
“What happened?” This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten a call like this from Lex.
“He’s in the Downs. He bet on a street race, and now he owes some lowlife asshole money. The guy won’t let Abel leave until he pays him.”
“How did he end up at a street race?”
Lex falls silent. “A lot of stuff happened over the summer with Abel. He’s been doing crazy things.”
“Can you be more specific?” I jam my feet into my sneakers and grab my house key.
“Acting secretive, checking his phone every ten seconds, gambling, disappearing for days. But he never mentioned street races before.”
I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
I didn’t know.
One of my best friends was disappearing for days, and I had no clue.
Lex’s car horn blares at the other end of the line. “Move your ass or get out of the fast lane!” she shouts at another driver.
“How long until you get here?” I ask.
“Two minutes.”
I rush to my room and open the top drawer of my ugly dresser. I unfold a pair of fuzzy pink socks shoved in the corner and pocket the bills hidden inside. Two hundred dollars. It’s all I have now that Mom isn’t transferring money into my checking account every week.
Cujo barks as I head out the front door. “I wish I could bring you with us.” I would feel a lot safer.
Jogging down the steps outside, I try not to think about what Dad will do if he finds out I left the house. Odds are he’ll never know. Working undercover keeps him out of the precinct and on the street. He won’t risk someone overhearing a personal conversation, so he never calls. Instead, he relies on cryptic and excessive texts.
A flash of red tears around the corner, tires squealing.
I hop into the Fiat, hoping that no one sees me. “Next time, why don’t you take out an ad and let everyone in the neighborhood know I’m sneaking out?”
She peels away from the curb. “Please. It’s not like your dad is a social butterfly. He probably doesn’t even know his neighbors.” True.
“What else did Abel say?”
Lex weaves between lanes and swallows hard. “Just that he bet on a race and lost, and he needs us to bring him five hundred bucks, or they’re going to beat the shit out of him.”
“We can’t take that much out of an ATM, but I’ve got two hundred on me.”
“Relax. I’ve got it covered.” She flips over her purse and dumps the contents onto the console between us. Makeup and loose change fall into my lap and onto the floor—along with a wad of bills. “The ATM machine in the Senator’s sock drawer doesn’t have a daily limit.”
I collect the bills and count them—five hundred dollars. I roll up the money and clench it in my fist. “I still don’t understand why Abel went to a street race. Usually, he screws up closer to home, and there are plenty of places to gamble in the Heights.”
Rich guys from Woodley and the other private schools in the Heights will bet on anything.
“We’re talking about Abel, and he’s been even more unpredictable than usual.” Lex flies across three lanes of traffic to catch the V Street exit.
“What set him off? His mom?”
Lex doesn’t respond. Instead, she stares down the dark street. There’s something she’s not telling me, but pressing her for answers never works.