The Lovely Reckless(5)

“You can’t slip and make a comment like that at school.” Dad gives us his serious cop look. “You both understand that, right?”

I ignore the question.

“Absolutely,” Lex says. “I mean … I absolutely won’t say anything.”

“Good.” Dad nods and looks over at me. “I would never send you to Monroe if I thought it would be an issue. The high school and the rec center are in the Third District—the nicer part of the Downs. It’s nothing like the war zone where I work in the First District.”

It’s weird to hear him describe any part of the Downs as nice. I guess it seems that way if you compare the run-down projects, abandoned buildings, and streets lined with liquor stores in Dad’s district with the neighborhoods near Monroe.

“People in one-D think I’m a car thief. If anyone finds out I’m a cop, I’ll have to walk away from my open cases and transfer to a district outside the Downs.”

Most people hear the word undercover and automatically think of DEA agents in movies—the ones who have to disappear without telling anyone where they’re going and move into crappy apartments so they can infiltrate the mob or the Hells Angels. But that’s not the way it works for regular undercover cops like Dad.

Obviously, he doesn’t wear a T-shirt that says I’M A COP. But he also doesn’t have to lie to the whole world about his job—just people who hang out in, or near, his district.

“Frankie? You understand, too, right?” He sounds irritated. That’s what I get for ignoring his question the first time.

“I’ve never told anyone about your job except Lex, Abel, and Noah. Why would I start now? Maybe you should lecture Mom. She still bitches about it to all her friends.”

Dad sighs. “I’m not trying to give you a hard time. I’m just reminding you to be careful what you say.”

“Consider me reminded.” I glare at him, and Dad turns to Lex.

“Your parents don’t mind you driving Frankie to the rec center?”

“They’re fine with it.” They probably have no idea. Lex’s parents are never around unless they need her to pose for press photos.

“Does your father still have family in the Downs?” Dad asks.

“Nope. The Senator moved everyone out as soon as he could afford it.” Lex refuses to call her father Dad. Instead, she calls him the Senator because she says he cares more about being the first Puerto Rican–American senator in the United States than about being a father.

“I don’t blame him,” Dad says in his cop tone. “There’s a lot of crime. It’s a tough place for honest people to live. Make sure to keep the car doors locked while you’re driving.”

“We know, Dad.”

He continues issuing instructions. “Remember to leave your purse in the car when you get to the rec center. Just take your phone and some money. And I got you something.” Dad opens the hall closet and fishes around in the pocket of his jacket. He returns with something pink in his hand. A flashlight? And two pieces of orange plastic?

Dad hands me the pink thing.

I take a closer look at the canister. “Pink pepper spray?”

“I think it’s cute,” Lex says.

“Then you can have it.”

“It’s pepper gel,” Dad explains. “The spray can blow back at you, but this stuff shoots wherever you aim the nozzle. And the gel really sticks.”

“I’m not carrying that around.” I try to hand the canister back to him, but he won’t take it. “What if I set it off accidentally? I’m sure there’s a rule against bringing tear-inducing toxins to school.”

“It has a safety, so it won’t go off unless you want it to. Keep it in your bag.” Dad points at the small black shoulder bag that already feels like the wrong choice.

I shove the pepper gel inside. Otherwise, he’ll never leave me alone.

“And you both need one of these.” Dad offers us each an orange piece of plastic.

Lex grabs one.

“It’s a rape whistle,” Dad says proudly.

I saw that coming.

She scrunches up her nose. “Umm … thanks.”

I take mine and toss it in my army-green backpack.

He scratches his head as if he’s forgetting something. “Wait inside the building until Lex gets there to pick you up.”

And I won’t take any candy from strangers.

“I’ll be on time, even if I have to speed,” Lex teases.

Dad misses the joke. “Do you have a clean driving record?”

“Except for a few parking tickets, but everyone has some of those, right?” She flashes him the perfect smile that you only end up with after four years of braces.

“I don’t.” Dad walks over to the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony, and he looks down at the parking lot. “Is your Fiat a stick shift?”

“Automatic,” Lex says. “Frankie is the only person I know who can drive a stick.”

Because my dad suffers from undercover-cop paranoia and he forced me to learn in case of emergency.

“One day you might need to drive a vehicle that isn’t an automatic,” he says.

I know exactly where this conversation is going. “Enough, Dad.”