Marco comes around to my side and glances at the top of my paper. Then he flips to the page that has been taunting me all afternoon. He skims it quickly, his brows furrowed in concentration. “This isn’t that bad.” He sits in the empty seat next to me and reaches for my pencil. He holds out his hand. “Paper?”
Handing him the paper, I rack my brain for a smart-ass comment—until he starts writing.
“It’s not as complicated as it looks. You’re just balancing equations.” He points at the directions at the top of the page. “You need to end up with the same number of atoms on both sides.”
I stare at him, my mouth hanging open. “How do you know all that?”
Marco copies the first problem, which I had solved incorrectly. “I took AP Chemistry last year.” He stops writing and studies me. “Let me guess—you assumed I was stupid because I’m from the Downs?”
“I didn’t expect you to be in AP classes because you got suspended the first day we met.” I don’t want him to know that Chief mentioned anything to me.
Marco seems satisfied with my response and works through the first three problems with me. Sofia is right; he’s a good teacher. He frowns a little when he concentrates, and I’m having a hard time keeping my mind on chemistry.
“Are you in any other AP classes?” I want him to tell me why he dropped them.
Marco clenches his jaw and draws triangles in the margin of the scratch paper we’re using. “Not since last year.”
“Why not?” It’s none of my business, but the more I learn about Marco, the more I want to know.
He pushes his chair back and leans forward, hands clasped between his knees. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor. “My life got screwed up, and last year it all caught up to me.”
The raw emotion in his voice makes it seems like the wounds are still fresh.
Without thinking, I touch his shoulder. Marco’s pain feels familiar, like we’re haunted by similar ghosts. He flinches beneath my fingers, and I start to pull my hand away. He catches my wrist and lets his thumb drift to my palm, tracing tiny circles on my skin.
“If I asked what happened, would you tell me?”
Marco pulls my hand in front of him along with his and slides his fingers between mine. My skin tingles.
I’m afraid to move. We’re holding hands. What if it was an accident? But he closes his other hand on top like he’s worried I’ll let go.
I won’t.
He takes a deep breath. “My mom died of cancer when I was thirteen.”
“I’m sorry.” I squeeze his hand.
“It happened fast, which is good, I guess, because she didn’t suffer long. But my old man was already screwed up, and her death threw him over the edge.”
“What do you mean by ‘screwed up’?” I’m praying he doesn’t tell me his father is a drug addict or an alcoholic who beat his kids.
“My dad used to street race in high school. Someone on the NASCAR circuit heard about him, and my dad ended up racing for real. But his career didn’t last long, and he came back here and married my mom. He always drank, but when she died, he started racing again—on the street, at the track. Anywhere he could lose money.”
“Is that who taught you to race?”
Marco clings to my hand. “Yeah. But only because it’s easier to con people into racing a fourteen-year-old.”
What kind of father pimps his son out to race for him? My mom always chose Richard over me, Lex’s parents have no idea where she is 90 percent of the time, and Abel’s mom drinks her way through life one glass of wine after another. But none of them have ever used us to make money.
“I’m sorry.”
Marco’s frown deepens, and he runs his fingers over our joined hands. He raises his eyes and looks at me for the first time since he started talking about his father. “You know what sucks? That’s the happiest part of the story.”
I know how it feels to carry a story inside you—one that you want to share with someone, but you can’t find the words. “If you don’t want to talk about this anymore, I understand.”
“This might not make any sense, but I want to say it out loud. Deacon, Cruz, people in my neighborhood—they know what happened. But I’ve never told anyone else.”
And he chose me.
Marco clears his throat. “Racing didn’t satisfy my dad for long. He wanted more money and the respect he lost when his NASCAR career ended, so he upped his game. He stopped racing cars and started stealing them.”
His father is a car thief—the kind of criminal my dad spends every day trying to catch.
“That’s what he was doing the night of Sofia’s accident. The asshole was delivering a stolen car. It was Sofia’s birthday. He promised to take her out for ice cream after they dropped it off. But the cops caught up with him first.” Marco lets my hand slip out of his and folds his arms over his head, shielding himself. “He crashed the car. All those NASCAR races he won … and he crashed the car. Maybe if the cops weren’t chasing him, he wouldn’t have crashed.” His breathing grows heavy, and he shoves the desk in front of him. The metal legs screech across the floor.