“I’ve been trying to reach you, but I keep getting your voice mail. So I decided to stop by and give you the good news myself.”
Dad rubs the back of his neck.
“Richard met with the dean of admissions at Stanford, and he is willing to interview you. Isn’t that fantastic? They rarely grant interviews, but Richard talked him into it.”
How much did that cost him?
“I never wanted to go to Stanford, Mom. It’s a great school, but I didn’t feel comfortable there when we visited.” She opens her mouth to respond, but I’m not finished. “It wasn’t the right place for me.”
Mom presses her lips together. “It’s the right place for anyone lucky enough to get in.” She looks at my father. “Did you turn her against the idea of going to Stanford?”
Dad raises his eyebrows and laughs. “It looks like you did that all on your own, Elise.”
“It has nothing to do with Dad. I’m not going to the interview.”
Mom’s posture turns rigid. “People don’t turn down interviews at Standard, and you won’t, either. Are you determined to sabotage your future?”
“Maybe your mother is right, Frankie.” Dad says. “You don’t have as many options as you did before.”
“I’m tired of everyone bringing up my mistakes.”
Mom crosses her arms. “Then you should stop making so many.”
“I’m sorry my mistakes are limiting your opportunities to live vicariously through me.” I storm back toward the apartment door, and Lex scrambles to keep up. I’m done talking to my mother. “Dad, I’m going to study at Lex’s. I’ll text you when I get there.”
“Frankie! Don’t you dare leave while we’re having a conversation.” Mom’s composure cracks.
I turn around and face my mother. “A conversation requires two people, which means we haven’t had one in a long time.”
Lex follows me out and catches up with me at the bottom of the stairs. “I feel bad leaving your dad in there. Your mom looked like someone just told her that she’s carrying a fake Chanel bag.”
I don’t have time to enjoy the moment. The race starts in an hour and a half. Mom’s surprise visit gave me an excuse to get out of the apartment without making Dad suspicious, but it won’t matter if I’m late.
I wait until Lex pulls out of Dad’s complex before I ask her to drop me off.
“Why would I leave you at the gas station?” she asks.
“I need to catch a cab.” I avoid giving her too many details.
“Where are you going? I thought you said you were coming to my house.”
“There’s something I have to do first.”
* * *
“We shouldn’t be here.” Lex studies the crowd on V Street.
“Cruz promised no one will hassle us.” I should say me because Cruz has no idea I’m bringing Lex.
“And you believe her because…?”
After arguing with my parents, I’m not in the mood to fight with Lex. “I told you I’d take a cab.”
“Right. Then I’ll turn on the news tomorrow and find out that Hannibal Lecter is making a coat out of you.” Lex weaves around couples hooking up against car bumpers and people checking out the gleaming engines under popped hoods. “I just don’t get it.”
“I’ll explain later. I promise.”
And then you’ll freak out.
“I don’t put as much stock in promises these days.” Under normal circumstances, Lex wouldn’t let me get away with a cop-out answer like that, but she’s too busy worrying to notice.
I spot Cruz standing with Ava next to the GT-R. “Come on.”
Even in my tightest pair of black jeans and a T-shirt that is clingier than the ones I normally wear, my Sambas and unfussy waves don’t exactly blend in.
Lex sees Cruz and rolls her eyes. “Your new best friend is over there. What’s with the sling? Did she get injured assaulting someone?”
“Her father jerked it out of the socket. Does that count?”
Lex bites her lip and trains her eyes on the ground. “Is she okay?”
“No. Cruz was supposed to race tonight. She needs the money to pay her family’s rent.”
“What’s she going to do?” Lex sounds genuinely concerned.
This is the part where I tell her the reason we’re here and she kills me. I keep walking. “If someone else races Cruz’s car and wins, she still gets the money.”
“She should get Marco to race for her,” Lex says. “Aren’t they super close? And he can drive his ass off.”
Here goes. “That’s the problem … he’s too good. And the guy Cruz is supposed to race has to agree on her proxy.”
Lex squishes her eyebrows together.
“The person racing for her.” I have roughly thirty seconds before Lex figures out why we’re really here. The universe decides to throw in some extra drama—Cruz sees me.
She walks toward us, slipping through the crowd like a pro. “You made it. And you brought your friend.”
“Yeah. You remember Lex, right?”
Cruz leads us to the curb across from the row of cars, where it’s less crowded. She tips her chin at Lex. “How’s it going? Did you come to cheer Frankie on?”
Shit.
“Cheer her on?” Understanding flashes in Lex’s eyes and she turns to me. “She doesn’t mean—”
“It’s no big deal. The whole thing takes less than a minute.” I try to sound reassuring.
“Are you completely insane?” Lex drags her hands through her hair. “Did you forget what happened when Abel screwed with the wrong people here?”
“It won’t go down like that tonight.” Cruz rushes to cover for me. “Frankie is just driving. If she loses, I’m the one who is on the hook for the money. Not her.”
Lex ignores her and stares at me. “I would tell you not to do this, but I’ll save us both some time and skip to the part where you won’t listen.”
“It’s going to be fine. I swear.”
Lex covers her ears. “Stop. Ever since Noah died, I’ve watched you take bigger risks, walking closer and closer to the edge. I won’t watch you jump. I’ll be in the car when you’re done.”
Cruz stares at Lex as she walks away. “Sorry. I figured she knew.”
“It’s not your fault.” I should’ve told Lex before we got here.
“I won’t give you any shit if you’re having second thoughts.”
“I’m not.”
Cruz lets out a sigh of relief. “Then I’ve got good news. Pryor agreed to race to the halfway mark, so you won’t have to turn around and come back to the starting line. And he’s gonna give you a car length.” I must look clueless, because she adds, “It means you get to start the race a car length ahead of him. Plus he’s racing an RX-7 he bought a week ago. He hasn’t lowered it yet, or put on the airdam or the rear wing. He hasn’t even replaced the shocks or tuned the engine yet! It will be slow as hell.”
“Why would he give me an advantage?”
“He isn’t thinking about it that way. You’re a rich girl from the Heights who has never raced before. He doesn’t think you have a chance.”
Rich girl from the Heights—will that label ever stop defining me? In Mom’s world, it’s an asset. Here, it’s a liability.
“Do you think I have a chance?”
“I’m letting you drive my car, aren’t I? Besides, winning is easier when you’ve got nothing to lose.”
Hearing the words out loud shocks me into silence. I’ve been telling myself that, but is that really who I am now?
A girl with nothing to lose?
I used to worry about every aspect of my life—the way I looked and the clothes I wore, my GPA, practicing the piano or not practicing the piano, every word that came out of my mouth and the way other people interpreted them. The list was endless. Everyone else’s opinion mattered more than mine.
I’m done carrying the weight of the old Frankie’s fears and other people’s expectations. The day Noah died,
he had no idea that it would be his last.
My future could end tomorrow, and if it does, I want to remember racing Cruz’s car.
And winning.
CHAPTER 22
RACER GIRL
A lanky guy with pockmarked skin stands next to an RX-7 painted an obnoxious shade of neon green that gives me a headache. He tips his chin at Cruz. “You ready or what?”
She leans against her car, hip cocked to the side. “Just waiting on you, Pryor.”
Pryor gives me a slow once-over, his eyes lingering everywhere they shouldn’t. He licks his lips and leers at Cruz. “You don’t have to wait on me. I’m ready whenever you need some love.”
“Which will be the same day they pass out fur coats in hell,” Cruz says under her breath. She opens the passenger-side door and gestures at the driver’s side. “Get in. I’ll ride with you to the line.”
As we drive past the crowd, people tap on the roof of Cruz’s car. Some even wish me luck. Others give me dirty looks. Pryor waits at the starting line, and I drive past the RX-7 until Cruz tells me to stop.
“Remember not to hit the gas until after her arms drop, and don’t let off the clutch too fast—” She stops talking, and her expression darkens. “Shit.”
A figure walks up to the passenger side. I catch a glimpse of Deacon’s baseball cap and streaks of angry scars in my peripheral vision. Cruz angles her body toward the window and props her good arm on the ledge. She’s trying to hide her sling.
Deacon bends down to her eye level and studies me behind the wheel. “When did you start teaching driver’s ed, Cruz?”
“Don’t be a jerk, Deacon. Frankie’s a good driver, and she wants to race.”
I sit up straighter and raise my chin, hoping I’m worthy of the compliment.
“Marco is gonna lose his shit when he hears about this.” Deacon laughs. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
Cruz looks away.
Why would Marco care if I race Cruz’s car?
Deacon tucks a toothpick into the corner of his mouth, studying Cruz. “You’re the reason Chief asked Marco to help him work on his piece of shit Chevy tonight. I didn’t know you were such a good liar. Was Chief in on it, too?”
“Of course not. He hates street racing.”
Deacon’s pale blue eyes darken, and he leans closer. “At least I’m not the only person you lied to.”
Cruz’s breath catches. “Deacon—”
“Let me see your arm.” He yanks open the door.
Cruz flies out of the car. “Did you do something stupid?”
“Your asshole of a father won’t hit you again.”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking.
“Are we racing or what?” Pryor calls out.
Deacon turns around, the veins in his neck bulging. “Keep talking and you won’t be able to race.”
Pryor shrinks back against the seat. “Sorry, man.”
Cruz grabs Deacon’s arm. “Tell me what you did.”
“Less than I should’ve. But Teresa was home, and I didn’t want to scare her.” Is he serious? I wasn’t even there and I’m scared. Deacon shrugs. “I broke his wrist … maybe his arm, too. I don’t know. But I dislocated his shoulder for sure.”
Cruz doesn’t even flinch as she texts faster with one hand than I can with two. “What if he calls the cops?”
“What’s your dad gonna tell them? That he got his ass beat for pushing his daughter around?” Deacon tries to read over her shoulder and she shoves him.
After a moment she relaxes. “He didn’t call the cops. At least, Teresa doesn’t think so. She says he’s in his room, and Mom keeps sending her to the kitchen to get bags of frozen vegetables.”
Deacon brushes Cruz’s ponytail over her shoulder. “See? Everything’s all good.” He gestures at me. “Until Marco finds out that you let her race.”
“I’ll deal with Marco.” She taps the roof of her car and pokes her head through the window. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah.”
Cruz walks over to where Video Game Girl stands on the curb, twirling her hair like she’s bored.
“You look good in the driver’s seat,” Deacon says before he jogs away and joins Cruz on the curb.
I’m not sure if he’s making fun of me, but I feel powerful behind the wheel of Cruz’s car. I wish my mom could see me right now. Would an Ivy League girl be sitting in the driver’s seat of a modified GT-R, getting ready to haul ass in an illegal street race?
The RX-7 roars, and headlights blind me in the rearview mirror.
I block out the sounds around me—people shouting, music pumping, engines revving. It’s a skill I perfected to survive a summer of country club condolences. The distance is a quarter mile, although technically less, with the lead my rich-girl-from-the-Heights status earned me.
After practicing for hours on the garage ramp and the dead-end street, I understand the delicate balance between letting off the clutch and giving the car enough gas. And thanks to years of piano practice, I know when to shift gears just by listening to the subtle differences in the sound of the engine, without looking down at the tachometer.
Video Game Girl takes her place in front of us, her waist-length black hair arranged in two high braids like pigtails.
I press the clutch to the floor and shift into first gear. Then I give the car just enough gas to keep it at five thousand RPMs, walking the tightrope between moving and staying still.
Video Game Girl raises her arms. Exhaust burns my nasal passages. Headlights blink behind me as Pryor signals that he’s ready. I follow his lead and flick my headlights on and off the way Cruz taught me.
The floorboards vibrate against my feet, but I hold them in place.
Any second now …
Her arms drop, and my foot slams on the gas pedal.
I shift into second, and Cruz’s car lurches forward as I slide the gearshift from second gear to third, fourth, fifth, and up to sixth in rapid succession.
Adrenaline shoots through my veins, and my pulse rages.
The rush is insane. That’s the only way to describe the speed—a rush of adrenaline and energy, rubber and metal.
The steering wheel shakes like the Nissan is fighting for control. I hear Cruz’s voice in my head: Keep your eyes on the finish line and the pedal on the floor. Don’t worry about the other car.
Up ahead, the finish line is only a few car lengths away, and the RX-7 hasn’t pulled in front of me. I steal a glance in the driver’s-side mirror and watch the splash of neon green grow smaller and smaller.
Wait? Why isn’t Pryor’s car moving?
The Nissan streaks across the finish line and I brake, but I don’t know if I actually won the race.
Why would he stop?
Did I jump the line? If I did, it’s an automatic loss, and he wouldn’t have bothered to keep going.
I flip a U-turn and drive back to the starting line and the crowd at a normal speed. If I screwed up, I don’t want to know yet. For a few more seconds, I want to enjoy the rush.
Cruz runs toward the car, waving and smiling. I stop just shy of the starting line. She opens the door and pulls me out with her good arm. “I can’t believe it. You smoked his ass.”
“Does that mean I won?” I ask.
Cruz laughs. “Hell yeah.”
I won.
A smile stretches across my face. “I had a head start.”
“And his engine flooded, but this isn’t NASCAR. We don’t give trophies for second place. You won.” Cruz leads me through packs of spectators, and I can’t stop smiling. Strangers pat me on the back and congratulate me.
My heartbeat still hasn’t returned to normal when an arm latches on to my wrist and pulls me through the crowd, away from everyone—bands of black ink wrapping around beautiful tan skin. My legs are numb from the vibrating floorboards, and I stumble.
Marco whips me around and stares back at me, our faces only inches apart.
&
nbsp; “How long have you and Cruz been planning this bullshit behind my back?” Anger rages in his eyes, and a frown line cuts between his brows.
“I don’t know. A few days?”
People walk around us, giving Marco a wide berth.
“You need to calm down, Marco,” Cruz says evenly. She’s beside me again, but she sounded more confident when she was dealing with Deacon.
“Don’t say anything right now, Cruz. You lied to me.” He shakes his head, his chest heaving like he’s about to explode. Deacon warned her that Marco wouldn’t be happy about me racing. Apparently, it was the understatement of the year.
“The whole thing was my idea,” she says.
“No, it wasn’t.” I’m not letting her take the fall for me. “I offered.”
“You offered?” Marco’s brown eyes drill into me. He gave me the same look after I kissed him at the party—a mixture of shock and confusion. “Of course you did.”
Marco turns his back on me and stalks toward the grass.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, following him.
“Frankie, wait,” Cruz calls after me.
“Hey!” I’m right behind Marco. “You can’t say something like that and walk away.”
He makes it to the grass, then turns around so fast that we almost collide. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Umm … I don’t know,” I say sarcastically. “How about Cruz needed someone to drive her car so she could pay the rent?”
“That’s not your problem.”
“She’s my friend.”
Marco presses the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Your friend? You hardly know her.”
“You’re pissed off because I’m friends with Cruz?” It hurts coming from Marco, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of letting him know.
“Hold on. That’s why you think I’m angry?” He shakes his head as if my response doesn’t make any sense.
“If that’s not it, then what’s your problem?” Because I don’t have a clue.
“Street racing is dangerous. You could’ve been killed. Or arrested.” Marco hesitates as if he wants to say more but he’s holding back. “Is that what you want, Frankie? Because every time I turn around, you’re doing something reckless. Jumping into fights. Showing up here with Lex and a wad of cash. Getting wasted at a party with people you barely know. And now you’re racing Cruz’s car. What’s next? Skydiving without a parachute?”