“The NASCAR commission banned him from racing. I tried to tell him there were other kinds of racing. I even offered to go with him. But he didn’t see the doors open to him, only the one that was shut. He went back to where I found him racing as a teenager, and I followed him. Decided I was done teaching kids how to race, and I started teaching them how cars work instead.”
Chief pauses and looks at me. “I’ve only seen one driver with as much natural talent behind the wheel. His son.”
My mind spins, and the pieces click into place. “Wait? You’re not talking about Marco, are you?”
“Wish I wasn’t. Marco’s life would’ve turned out a lot different if I hadn’t made so many mistakes with his father. I failed Marco’s dad the same way I failed Deacon. And myself. Like I said, I gave up too easy. In life, a person has to fight for the things that matter to them—and that includes yourself.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Marco will fight for his sister, for his friends, and I’m willing to bet he’d fight to the ends of the earth for you. But he won’t fight for himself. He only sees one door, Frankie. He needs someone to show him the other ones.”
*
The conversation with Chief leaves me reeling. Marco’s dad wasn’t just a monster who taught his son to street race so he could make money betting on Marco’s races. His father raced professionally—at the highest level. Why didn’t he teach Marco how to race on a track, or ask Chief to teach him?
Marco loves cars and he’s smart. He could’ve followed in his father’s footsteps and raced legally. Instead, he’s street racing and stealing cars.
With the exception of a few people rifling through their lockers or sitting on the floor doing homework, the hallways are still empty. I push through the double doors and cross the quad.
I feel around inside my backpack for my cell phone and walk toward Lot B. Marco is usually here by now.
Deacon’s hunter-green Firebird sits at the far end, parked diagonally across two spaces. Typical. I’ve never seen him on campus before, and I’m not thrilled to see his car. I turn around, still watching the Firebird, and I smack right into someone.
Hard blue eyes settle on me. From this angle, Deacon’s scars look straight, like one smooth slash instead of lots of jagged cuts. He rolls the toothpick in his mouth with his teeth.
“Have you seen Marco?” I keep my tone light.
He tips his chin toward the opposite end of Lot B. “Something wrong?”
“No. I just wanted to talk to him before first period.”
Deacon watches me, slow and lazy like a tiger before it pounces on an antelope and tears it apart. His neck muscles twitch down to his shoulders.
“I’m thinking it’s better if you don’t.” He studies me from under the curved bill of his baseball cap. “Talk to him, I mean.”
“What?” I laugh, pretending that I think he’s joking.
Deacon turns the toothpick. Wearing a ribbed white tank without his hoodie, he looks bigger than he did the night of the street races. “You’ve been doing too much talking, and now you’ve got my boy’s head all screwed up.” He winds his finger in a circular motion next to his temple.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He reaches out and lifts a few strands of my hair and rubs them between his fingers. “A smart girl like you from the Heights…” He drops my hair. “I bet you can figure it out.”
I shrink back and hate myself for letting a guy like Deacon Kelley intimidate me. I know he helped Sofia, but I still think he’s scum. But he’s dangerous scum, so I play along. “You don’t like Marco dating a girl from the Heights. Is that it?”
Deacon raises an eyebrow and gives me his poor imitation of a smile. “Dating? Is that what you think you two are doing?”
Why did I use that word in front of him?
“I don’t give a shit who Marco screws.” Deacon lowers his voice. “You’re not the first girl he hooked up with from the Heights. He’s always had a thing for rich chicks.”
He is trying to upset me. I meet his gaze. “I guess you just don’t like girls like me.”
Deacon shifts his weight. “Hey, come on now. I never said I didn’t like you, Angel.” The word sounds toxic coming from him. “This isn’t personal. You’re a distraction, and me and Marco have shit to take care of.”
“What kind of shit?”
Deacon’s ice-blue eyes turn dark. “With all the talking you two have been doing, I bet you know.” He doesn’t blink. He’s analyzing my reaction, the same way Dad does. “Don’t you, Frankie?”
“Is this some kind of test? Because I’m not interested.” Lying to Deacon can’t be any harder than lying to my father.
A Mazda honks, and Deacon’s head snaps in its direction. The kid behind the wheel turns pale. “Sorry, Deacon. I didn’t know it was you.”
Deacon brings his fist down on the hood of the car, and it leaves a dent. “Pay attention, or something might happen to this piece of shit you’re driving.”
The kid nods, his hands glued to the wheel.