“All right. Let’s get to work,” I say. “Or Miss Lorraine will kick your butts, and mine.”

While the kids pretend they’re doing homework, I tackle my own. Without my overpriced science tutor to interpret the foreign language in my textbook, just copying the equations correctly feels like a win. Unfortunately, I doubt my chemistry teacher will agree.

Mom would hire me a tutor if I asked. But I’m not calling her. She’s still texting and leaving messages about the Stanford interview.

Three hours later, Sofia and I are alone, as usual. She pulls her chair next to mine, and we wrestle with our homework side by side. What I remember from eighth-grade algebra would fit on an index card, but I do my best to help her.

I’m not as lucky. After four failed attempts at solving the same chemistry equation, I shove the textbook over the edge of the desk, and it smacks against the floor. “I officially give up.”

“Shouldn’t you give an impressionable young mind a more positive example?” Marco stands in the doorway grinning, his muscular arms crossed over a chest I’ve imagined shirtless more than once. He’s the perfect combination of strong and cut without being overdeveloped—the kind of body most guys spend all day in the weight room to achieve. Marco probably doesn’t even work out.

But I’m still not happy about the way he acted after the race, even if he did say something that might mean he has feelings for me.

“Don’t give Frankie a hard time,” Sofia says as she puts away her homework. “Her science class seems really awful.”

Marco strolls over and picks up the book. “Chemistry, huh? Want some help?”

Is he joking?

Sofia slings her backpack over her shoulder. “He’s good at science.” She turns to Marco. “Can I hang out in the gym until you’re done? There’s a basketball game.”

He nods. “Don’t go anywhere else.”

“Got it,” she says and takes off down the hall.

Marco holds up my chemistry textbook. “Want me to take a look?”

“You’re serious?”

He puts the book on my desk and places a hand over his heart. “You doubt me? There’s a lot more to this package than a killer smile.”

Marco comes around to my side and glances at the top of my paper. Then he flips to the page that has been taunting me all afternoon. He skims it quickly, his brows furrowed in concentration. “This isn’t that bad.” He sits in the empty seat next to me and reaches for my pencil. He holds out his hand. “Paper?”

Handing him the paper, I rack my brain for a smart-ass comment—until he starts writing.

“It’s not as complicated as it looks. You’re just balancing equations.” He points at the directions at the top of the page. “You need to end up with the same number of atoms on both sides.”

I stare at him, my mouth hanging open. “How do you know all that?”

Marco copies the first problem, which I had solved incorrectly. “I took AP Chemistry last year.” He stops writing and studies me. “Let me guess—you assumed I was stupid because I’m from the Downs?”

“I didn’t expect you to be in AP classes because you got suspended the first day we met.” I don’t want him to know that Chief mentioned anything to me.

Marco seems satisfied with my response and works through the first three problems with me. Sofia is right; he’s a good teacher. He frowns a little when he concentrates, and I’m having a hard time keeping my mind on chemistry.

“Are you in any other AP classes?” I want him to tell me why he dropped them.

Marco clenches his jaw and draws triangles in the margin of the scratch paper we’re using. “Not since last year.”

“Why not?” It’s none of my business, but the more I learn about Marco, the more I want to know.

He pushes his chair back and leans forward, hands clasped between his knees. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor. “My life got screwed up, and last year it all caught up to me.”

The raw emotion in his voice makes it seems like the wounds are still fresh.

Without thinking, I touch his shoulder. Marco’s pain feels familiar, like we’re haunted by similar ghosts. He flinches beneath my fingers, and I start to pull my hand away. He catches my wrist and lets his thumb drift to my palm, tracing tiny circles on my skin.

“If I asked what happened, would you tell me?”

Marco pulls my hand in front of him along with his and slides his fingers between mine. My skin tingles.

I’m afraid to move. We’re holding hands. What if it was an accident? But he closes his other hand on top like he’s worried I’ll let go.

I won’t.

He takes a deep breath. “My mom died of cancer when I was thirteen.”

“I’m sorry.” I squeeze his hand.

“It happened fast, which is good, I guess, because she didn’t suffer long. But my old man was already screwed up, and her death threw him over the edge.”

“What do you mean by ‘screwed up’?” I’m praying he doesn’t tell me his father is a drug addict or an alcoholic who beat his kids.

“My dad used to street race in high school. Someone on the NASCAR circuit heard about him, and my dad ended up racing for real. But his career didn’t last long, and he came back here and married my mom. He always drank, but when she died, he started racing again—on the street, at the track. Anywhere he could lose money.”

“Is that who taught you to race?”

Marco clings to my hand. “Yeah. But only because it’s easier to con people into racing a fourteen-year-old.”

What kind of father pimps his son out to race for him? My mom always chose Richard over me, Lex’s parents have no idea where she is 90 percent of the time, and Abel’s mom drinks her way through life one glass of wine after another. But none of them have ever used us to make money.

“I’m sorry.”

Marco’s frown deepens, and he runs his fingers over our joined hands. He raises his eyes and looks at me for the first time since he started talking about his father. “You know what sucks? That’s the happiest part of the story.”

I know how it feels to carry a story inside you—one that you want to share with someone, but you can’t find the words. “If you don’t want to talk about this anymore, I understand.”