The Lovely Reckless(31)

How would it feel to be that confident?

“Why does everyone call him Chief?”

“He was a crew chief on the NASCAR circuit for twenty years. One day, he just left. Walked away and came back here.”

“What happened? Did he get hurt?”

“No. Someone else did,” Cruz stares straight ahead, distracted. She notices me watching her and snaps out of it. “I mean, nobody knows. Just rumors.”

The conversation about Chief is clearly over. Not that I blame her. I hate the thought of people talking about him.

Cruz stops at a locker near the stairs and grabs her books.

Two girls across the hall are looking at us.

“Next to Cruz,” a pasty redhead across the hall whispers. She’s wearing the kind of glittery eye shadow that most girls only wear at night. “Her boyfriend was that guy who got killed in the parking lot of the Sugar Factory in the Heights.”

“The chick who got booted from the rich-bitch private school?” her friend asks.

The redhead nods. “I heard she’s mental and takes a ton of meds.”

“That’s bullshit,” I say softly, my fingers digging into the strap of my backpack.

Cruz watches the girls, tapping her foot like a sprinter itching to run. “Screw this.” She drops her books and they smack against the floor. The sound echoes through the hallway, and people turn around to see what’s happening.

“You talk too much, Christine.” Cruz walks up to the redhead, who is wearing foundation that makes her skin look orange.

Christine shrinks back against the lockers. “I was just repeating what I heard. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“You should be more careful what you say in the future.” Cruz smiles, and it carries an unspoken threat. “You never know who’s listening.”

Cruz picks up her books. Within seconds, the sounds of locker doors slamming and people talking resume as if nothing happened. People give me curious looks, like they’re wondering why Cruz defended me. I’d love to know, too.

Am I supposed to thank her? That won’t be embarrassing or anything.

We turn the corner and Cruz stops me by the stairs. “Don’t let people talk shit about you, Frankie. Ignoring it is the same as giving them permission. Never give anyone permission to disrespect you.”

I almost say, It doesn’t matter.

But the words catch in my throat.

I follow Cruz down the steps to the basement.

Inside, we walk past the green Camaro and take our seats. Chief stands at the whiteboard, drawing a stick-figure diagram of a car halfway up a steep hill. He’s the only teacher I’ve ever had who wears jeans and a baseball cap in class. Then again, he also wears short-sleeve button-downs and tucks them into his jeans.

I like him. He reminds me of my dad’s father—if Granddad worked on cars instead of motorcycles and wore hats with motor oil logos on them.

I also like Shop. It’s a class I never would’ve taken at Woodley, not that the school offered it. Kids in the Heights pay other people to fix their cars, and when the new-leather smell wears off or they crash them—whichever comes first—their parents buy them the newer model.

Nobody at Woodley would waste time restoring an old muscle car. Why bother if you can buy a brand-new one?

Chief finishes the diagram and turns to the class. “You’re driving a car with manual transmission and you get stuck on a hill in traffic. What happens if you let up on the clutch too fast when everyone starts moving again?”

“Easy,” a guy calls out from the back. “The car stalls.”

“Good to know I wasn’t talking to myself last year.” Chief pushes his Valvoline cap farther back on his head. “Anybody know why?”

Cruz opens her textbook and slides it across the table between us. She taps on a subtitle toward the bottom: Manual Transmission. It’s the kind of thing a friend would do.

I’m not interested in sharing my secrets or baring my soul to anyone. But Cruz doesn’t strike me as the soul-baring type.

Scanning the text between us, I search for the answer to the question. “The bite point,” I call out.

Chief cracks a smile and nods. “That’s right, Frankie. Go on.”

Clearly, he expects me to explain the relationship between the bite point and stalling—something I couldn’t do if my life depended on it.

“I don’t really know what it means,” I admit.

“That’s all right. We’re here to learn,” Chief says. “Anyone who has ever raced a car should know what the bite point is. Cruz, why don’t you explain it to Frankie?”

The guys in class go crazy. “Damn, Cruz. Chief called you out.”

Cruz shakes her head. “The bite point is the sweet spot when you let up on the clutch and give the car some gas, and the clutch engages.”

The cute guy who sits at the table next to ours and has been staring at Cruz for most of the class drops down on one knee next to her, his hand over his heart. “It’s like falling in love. You know it when you feel it.”

She pushes him with her foot. “Shut it, Ortiz.”

“Mr. Ortiz is right about one thing.” Chief taps his dry-erase marker on the diagram. “You know it when you feel it. But it’s easy to miss the bite point when the car is on a slope and you’re worried about easing off the clutch into first without rolling backward or stalling.”