In Lot B, we drive past dozens of restored muscle cars and rusted-out Hondas. A vintage black pickup with yellow flames painted on the sides eases into a space in front of us, and Lex stops.
Outside my window, a group of guys stand huddled around a midnight-blue Mustang, checking out the engine. Noah and his friends from the lacrosse team used to form an almost identical huddle whenever one of them showed up with a new car. Except they were more interested in the upgrades inside than what was underneath the hood. Noah and his friends lived in lacrosse T-shirts or wrinkled button-downs with the sleeves rolled, and they all projected the same brand of confidence that comes from growing up with money.
In Lot B, there isn’t a button-down in sight except mine. Instead, the guys wear low-slung jeans, have tattoos, and they are marked with the kind of confidence you earn.
The dark-haired guy standing closest to the Fiat leans over the side of the Mustang, looking under the hood. The black ink on his arm catches my eye. A pile of skulls begins at his wrist. Above them, more tattoos snake their way over his light brown skin—a tree twists up from the skulls and one of the branches transforms into the stem of a black rose. Tribal lines curve from its center and disappear under the sleeve of his dark gray T-shirt.
He looks over as if he senses me watching him. Dark eyes lock on mine. I stop breathing for a second. Guys at Woodley don’t look like this—rough, inked, and muscular. His hair sticks up in the front like he started spiking it and lost interest halfway through the process.
He tilts his head, and a ghost of a smile crosses his lips.
The Fiat lurches forward and Lex swears under her breath. “Are you insane, Frankie? We’re not in Kansas anymore. You can’t stare at people from the Downs. They’re not like the kids at Woodley.”
I’m not naive. Washington Heights and Meadowbrook Downs didn’t get their nicknames by accident. Money is the dividing line—the street you live on, the type of car you drive, and whether your family has a country club membership matter more than anything else.
Lex gestures at a Chevy with a spoiler that looks like it’s worth more than the car. “I mean, who puts a spoiler on a piece of junk like that? You have to walk into this place like you know you’re better than them, or they’ll eat you alive.”
“Are you listening to yourself right now? Because you sound like my mom, and that’s scary. And hello? Your dad is from the Downs.”
“That’s the reason the Senator spends so much time trying to clean it up. If he knew I was driving you to the rec center, he would freak.”
“But you and Abel went to some Monroe parties last year when I was out with Noah.” I push away the memory of sitting in a movie theater with my head on Noah’s shoulder, our hands bumping in the popcorn bucket.
Lex turns into Lot A and slips into an empty space between an Audi and a Lexus. “Most of those parties were near your dad’s apartment, and one of them was up the street from my house. We’re not the only people from the Heights at Monroe. All the private-school rejects go here.”
“I know how it works.” Everyone does.
Parents in the Heights are always bitching about it. The county is divided up into zones based on income, and every public school has one wealthy neighborhood and one poor neighborhood that feed into it. The rest fall somewhere in between and make up the difference.
A zip code in the Heights means you end up at Monroe. Technically, we’re only ten miles from the Heights, but it feels like ten thousand. That’s why parents send their kids to private schools like Woodley Prep if they can afford it.
“So you’ve never been to a party in the Downs? Not even once?”
Lex glares at me. “You couldn’t pay me to show up at one of those parties.”
“Do you know elitist that sounds?”
She flips opens the visor and checks her makeup in the mirror. “I’m a realist, and you sound like a Peace Corps volunteer. Let’s see how elitist you think I am by lunch.”
I stare out the window, hoping to check out the other students … or the hot guy with the tattoos. Lot A doesn’t look much different from the parking lot at the country club. Aside from a few Acuras, Honda SUVs, and Jeeps, it’s packed with Audis, BMWs, Mercedes, and random sports cars like the Fiat. Judging from the jocks dressed like Abercrombie & Fitch models and the number of people holding Starbucks cups, no one from the Downs parks in this lot.
The cups are the real giveaway.
Dad’s partner, Tyson, complains that the Downs is the only place on earth without a Starbucks.
“Is there assigned parking at Monroe?” I ask.
Lex gets out and adjusts the black studded leather bag on her shoulder. “No. Why?”
I look around. “It doesn’t seem like anyone from the Downs parks here.”