“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.