The guy who looked like he was asleep in the back of the room yesterday raises his hand.

“Jamal?” Mrs. Hellstrom watches him expectantly.

“They’re all novelists or poets.”

“Jamal is correct, but they have something else in common.” When no one volunteers an answer, Mrs. Hellstrom perches on the front of her desk, half sitting and half standing in one of those I’m-a-cool-teacher poses. “All these authors kept journals.”

“So they wrote in diaries?” asks a girl in the second row.

Mrs. Hellstrom starts pacing, as if whatever she’s about to tell us is so exciting she can’t sit still any longer. “Their journals weren’t accounts of their day-to-day lives, like traditional diaries. They were far less structured.”

She retrieves a stack of handouts from her desk and gives some to the first person in each row to pass back. “These packets include samples from the journals of the authors whose names are on the board, in addition to some other artists you might recognize.”

I flip through the photocopied pages. Sylvia Plath. Henry David Thoreau. Anne Frank. Frida Kahlo. Kurt Cobain. Pages of poetry, song lyrics, doodles, lists, and anecdotes mixed in with longer entries.

Abel once told me that his dad used to make lists of words and phrases whenever he worked on a new song.

“These are kinda personal,” Cruz says.

“You’re right,” Mrs. Hellstrom says. “These excerpts contain everything from observations and ideas for stories, songs, and poems to the thoughts and dreams of the journal writers.” She’s borderline euphoric now. “Their hopes and fears … they’re all here in different forms. This semester, each of you will create a journal that reflects who you are as a writer.”

Is this woman insane? I don’t like discussing my fears with my friends. There’s no way I’m sharing them with her—in writing.

And my hopes?

I hope I can sleep for more than three hours a night. I hope the flashbacks of Noah’s head hitting the ground will stop and I’ll remember the faces of his attacker instead. I hope my dad gets off my back. I hope Mrs. Hellstrom quits tomorrow and takes this nightmarish assignment with her.

Mrs. Hellstrom flips through the packet, reading Kurt Cobain lyrics that never made it into his songs, and passages from what she calls a coming-of-age art journal.

I sigh and drop my head on my desk.

“She assigns crazy-ass stuff like this every year,” Cruz whispers. She stops talking every time Mrs. Hellstrom glances up from the packet.

“Okay,” I manage.

Cruz raises her hand.

“Isabella? Do you have a question?” our insane teacher asks.

“So you want us to tell you our secrets?”

“I’m not asking you to share anything you’re uncomfortable with, Isabella. The journals are a place to experiment, so you can find your voices as writers. They can be full of short stories or poetry if you don’t want to write about yourself directly. But I think you’ll find that even journals composed of narrative entries are a reflection of the writer.”

“Isabella?” I whisper when Mrs. Hellstrom turns to answer another question.

She rolls her eyes. “Isabella Vera Cruz. But nobody calls me that except annoying teachers like her.”

“Trust me, I get it.” I point at myself. “Francesca Devereux.”

She laughs, and Mrs. Hellstrom glares at us.

Eventually, we get paired up to answer boring questions about the entries from the dead and famous.

“So are you okay after everything that went down last night?” Cruz asks me.

“Yeah.” The realization hits me all at once. I’m not just saying it because she is the one asking.

For the first time in months, it’s true.

I am okay.

Last night I held it together when Sung grabbed me, and this morning I stood my ground with Dad—something the old Frankie never would’ve done. It feels like I’m finally waking up after being asleep for years.

“When I mentioned the street races to your friend Abel, I didn’t think he’d really come. Or that it would start such a shit storm.” Cruz shakes her head. At least that part of Abel’s story was true. “But I couldn’t believe you showed up.”

“Why?” Now that I asked, I’m not sure I want to know the answer.

“Girls from the Heights don’t usually come to the street races.”

“Abel is one of my best friends, and he was in trouble. It’s not like I had a choice.” A second too late, I realize the way it sounds. “Not that there’s anything wrong with where you race.”

“You had a choice. Most people won’t have your back if it means putting their own ass on the line. Trust me.”

“I don’t have many real friends.” The words tumble out. Perfect. She probably thinks I sit alone at a huge table in the cafeteria every day.

“Me neither.”

The bell rings, and Mrs. Hellstrom issues last-minute instructions as chair legs scrape and students bolt out the door. I close the photocopied packet of other people’s private thoughts and stuff it in my backpack.

Cruz tucks her pen in the pocket of the painted-on jeans that manage to look cool on her, instead of like she’s trying too hard.

I follow her out of the classroom, expecting her to ditch me. Instead, she falls into step beside me. “So what’s the deal between you and Marco?”

Is it that obvious?

“There’s no deal.”

“He doesn’t stick his neck out for just anyone.”

“His sister is in my group at the rec center. He probably wanted to make sure her tutor didn’t get kidnapped.” It’s pretty much the same answer I gave Lex, and from the look on Cruz’s face, she isn’t buying it, either.

Cruz owns the hallway. Guys stare and girls move aside. A jock wearing a Monroe Soccer T-shirt and a Tag Heuer watch that’s worth at least nine hundred dollars checks out Cruz instead of paying attention to the cheerleader batting her lashes at him.

The jock grins at Cruz, and she gives him the finger. “Guys from the Heights are assholes.”

All of a sudden, it feels like I’m standing on the wrong side of enemy lines. But the truth is, lots of guys from the Heights are arrogant, selfish, and entitled. Noah was an exception. “You’re right. Most of them are.”