Apparently, God is alive and well, and he has a sense of humor.
Marco rubs the back of his head, where the hair is cut closer to his scalp. It’s longer in the front, and I like the way it sticks up all over the place. He seems nervous and clears his throat. “Are you—?”
Not again. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah?”
I hold up three fingers in the shape of a W. “Girl Scout promise.” I cringe. Those words did not just come out of my mouth.
He raises an eyebrow, and his cocky attitude returns. “Are you here to give your testimony?”
“What?”
“The fight. Did you get called in to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, Angel?”
Why does he keep calling me that? It must be an insult.
“No one called me in. I need a blue slip.” Why am I explaining myself to him? Or talking to him in the first place?
Marco leans forward and props his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands between his long legs. “So are all the schools in the Heights full?”
“Excuse me?”
“Just wondering how you ended up at Monroe. Nobody from the Heights wants to transfer here.”
How am I supposed to respond? Say something funny and risk offending him?
“I needed to start over,” I blurt out.
“I can get you that blue slip now,” Mrs. Lane waves me over, her brass bangles jingling.
I pick up my backpack and rush toward the counter. In a graceful move, I bump into Marco’s leg and almost trip.
“Sorry,” I mumble without turning around.
At the counter, I hand Mrs. Lane my schedule and watch as she writes each word. Anything to avoid looking at him. Marco’s eyes burn into my back, and warmth spreads through my cheeks. Another minute and I’m out of here.
Mrs. Lane hands me the blue slip, and I snatch it out of her hand.
I’m halfway out the door when Marco calls after me. “See you around, Angel.”
CHAPTER 6
PRACTICAL ARTS
After I leave the office, my morning gets progressively worse. My schedule sucks, a fact I didn’t fully absorb until now.
In addition to Mrs. Hellstrom’s English class, I have the first lunch period, which should be called breakfast based on how early it starts; chemistry, a subject my SAT scores proved I should avoid unless I want to fail a class; and no study hall.
I managed to dodge the music requirement thanks to the years I spent playing the piano—which seemed like a win. Until I realized that if an enthusiastic teacher reads my transcript and finds out that I have perfect pitch, I’ll end up in a stupid musical to fulfill some public school requirement I don’t know about.
But for reasons beyond explanation, my art history class from Woodley doesn’t fulfill the practical arts requirement here. So I end up in Monroe High’s version of the arts—Auto Shop.
The Shop classroom is in the basement. I trudge down the steps, prepared to spend the semester memorizing the parts of an engine—or is it called a motor?
Whatever. I memorized hundreds of Renaissance paintings. How hard can this be?
The hallway at the bottom of the steps leads to a stainless-steel door covered with names, phone numbers, and personal details that qualify as TMI. Above the doorframe, graffiti-style letters spell out: WHAT HAPPENS IN SHOP STAYS IN SHOP.
When I crack the door and slip inside, I realize just how badly I misjudged this class. The proof sits raised on black rubber blocks in the middle of the room—a bright green Camaro, at least according to the chrome emblem. With two tires and the passenger-side door missing, it resembles a huge model car that no one ever finished. Next to the rubber blocks, toolboxes overflow with screwdrivers, hammers, and power tools I can’t identify, confirming that I’m in over my head.
The girl with the ponytail who was outside with Marco this morning is the only other girl in class. Apparently, her name is Cruz, and she barely looks at me when our teacher—a weather-beaten old guy everyone calls Chief—seats me at the workstation next to hers. The lesson requires using a socket wrench. The tool turns out to be more complicated than the actual assignment, which I never start.
*
After Shop class, I hunt down my locker because my Automotive Basics textbook weighs more than an encyclopedia. Cars are way more complicated than I thought.
My locker is down the hall from the vending machine.
Noah would’ve loved this.
I find the number that matches the one on my schedule and try to open the dented metal door. It won’t budge.
Perfect.
I drop my backpack on the floor and fiddle with the rusty latch.
Come on. Open already.
The stupid thing isn’t even locked.
“Shit.” I slam my hand against the metal, and flecks of powder-blue paint flutter to the floor. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get lead poisoning.
“Rough day?” asks a familiar voice.
I spin around and Abel grins at me, his face framed by a short cloud of dark brown twists.