Abel winks at her. “It’s a gift.”

“Move along.” Lex shoos away the girls with a flick of her wrist. A curvy brunette bats her over-mascaraed lashes at Abel and blows him a kiss as she leaves.

He tugs on the sleeve of my shirt. “Forget to do your laundry?”

“I’m flying under the radar.”

He peels opens a pack of SweeTarts and pops a few into his mouth. “How’s that working for you?”

“Shitty. But if I can open my locker—which, by the way, isn’t even locked—I’ll upgrade it to ‘slightly shitty.’”

“Step aside. I’ve got this.” Abel bends down and inspects the handle, rattling the latch. “It’s probably rusted shut.”

“Perfect.”

“Let me see your schedule, Romeo.” Lex plucks it out of his back pocket and unfolds it, running her finger down the page. “Someone forgot to turn on the charm in the office. Your schedule sucks almost as much as Frankie’s. At least you have second lunch.”

“With study hall right after,” Abel says. “It doesn’t get better than that.”

“Lex has the same lunch period,” I offer. “You can sit together in the cafeteria.”

“Not with me.” Lex tucks Abel’s schedule in his shirt pocket. “I don’t eat in District 12.”

I lean against the locker next to mine and listen while the two of them argue about whether Abel can talk Mrs. Lane into changing his schedule by the end of the day. It turns into a challenge, like everything else between the two of them. The stakes are just getting interesting when a tattooed arm reaches over my shoulder.

Marco bangs the side of his fist against my locker, and it springs open.

Mr. Santiago is right behind him. “Keep moving, Leone. You’re out of here.”

“It’s your world, Mr. S. I’m just living in it.” Marco pushes his way through the double doors that lead outside. Before I have a chance to thank him, he’s gone.

“Who was that?” Abel asks, examining the lock to see what he missed.

Lex waits until the doors slam behind them. “You don’t want to know.”

CHAPTER 7

DREAMS DIE IN THE DOWNS

Lex parks in front of the rec center between a shiny black Cadillac and a Volkswagen Jetta with a zoo of stuffed animals lined up in the rear window.

“Have I mentioned that I think this is a terrible idea?” she asks.

“Only about twenty times.” I hate relying on Lex for rides. Hanging out with her makes it harder to forget about my old life and start a new one at Monroe. So many of my memories with Lex and Abel include Noah.

But I feel like a bitch for not wanting her around.

Unfortunately, my transportation options are severely limited without a car (repo’d by Mom), a driver’s license (currently suspended), or a bus route to the Downs that doesn’t include drunks, perverts, and pickpockets (according to Dad).

A group of shirtless guys wearing basketball shorts lean against the wall of the building and watch us. One of them grabs his crotch and blows Lex a kiss. She throws the car into reverse. “We are out of here.”

I grab the wheel. “I can’t leave. I’m on probation.”

Lex puts the Fiat back into park and studies the gray building. Something catches her attention, and she leans over the steering wheel, squinting. “What does it say above the door?”

Graffiti covers the original inscription, and now it reads DREAMS DIE IN THE DOWNS.

It takes Lex a minute to decipher the letters. “You actually expect me to leave you here?” Her gaze darts between the graffiti and the basketball players, who have moved on to more creative gestures.

“You’re overreacting.” Hopefully. I dig through my purse, shove a credit card and a twenty in the pocket of my jeans, and sling my green canvas backpack over my shoulder. “I’m leaving my purse.”

“I’ll be back at seven to pick you up. If anything happens, text me.”

“Nothing is going to happen.” I get out and walk up the steps to the building where I’ll spend my afternoons for the next four months.

“Hey, princess! Get tired of those bitch-ass rich boys in the Heights?” One of the guys leaning against the wall calls out and grabs his crotch again. “Looking for some of this?”

Nice.

“Think I’ll pass.” I fake a confident smile.

A mangy cat prowls across the sidewalk in front of them. It hears me and turns, its spine arched and the hair on its back standing on end. It’s missing an eye—the empty cavity covered in a layer of gnarled skin. Bald patches all over the cat’s body reveal more battle scars.

The mutant cat hisses, ears flattened against its skull.

Shit.

I skid to a stop, hoping it will take off. But this animal is a fighter, and right now I’m the enemy. Images of rabid animals from a video we watched in seventh-grade science flicker through my mind, and I back away slowly. The cat matches me step for step, lowering its head and advancing like a tiger ready to spring.

A dog barks, and the one-eyed cat’s head jerks toward the parking lot. Some kind of husky mix darts between the cars and up the hill beside the steps where I’m standing.

The cat has no chance.

The husky reaches the sidewalk, and the one-eyed cat lunges, hissing and clawing. The dog trips over its paws as it changes direction and retreats down the hill, with the cat tearing across the asphalt behind it.

I suck in a sharp breath, and the basketball players laugh. They haven’t moved from the wall. I hope they get rabies.

The glass door swings open, and a woman about my mom’s age with an Afro of soft spirals strolls out of the rec center. “I see you met Cyclops.”

“Is that your cat?” I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans.

“He’s nobody’s cat. The kids here gave him that name. Not that he lets any of them get within ten feet of him. He doesn’t like people.”

“I picked up on that, thanks.”

She raises an eyebrow, a warning to watch my attitude. “Is there something I can help you with?” It’s clear from her tone that helping me is the last thing she wants to do.

“My name is Frankie Devereux. I’m supposed to check in with Mrs. Johnson.”

She sizes me up from beneath expertly shaped eyebrows. “Francesca Devereux?”