“Is he the principal?”

“Security guard.” Lex leads me across the quad, her arm looped through mine. “Welcome to Monroe.”

CHAPTER 5

BEAUTIFUL BAD BOY

“Blue slip.” My English teacher—Mrs. Hellstrom, according to my schedule—extends her hand without so much as a glance in my direction. Lex insisted on walking me to my first class, and now I’m standing in the front of the room while everyone stares.

“I don’t have one. Just my schedule.” I hold it out to her.

Mrs. Hellstrom doesn’t look up from the book in front of her. She’s a serious-looking woman with pasty skin and thin, penciled-in eyebrows. “You need to go to the office. I can’t add you to the roster without a blue slip.”

A few students take advantage of the distraction and whip out their cell phones. A guy in the back is asleep, with his head on his desk. The girl sitting next to him has violet-and-brown ombré hair, and she’s painting her nails a matching shade of purple. None of the girls at my old school would’ve had the guts to dye their hair like hers.

At Woodley, standing out wasn’t a good thing, unless it involved scoring the “it” bag of the season or putting a unique spin on the currently accepted style. I always played it safe, choosing skinny jeans—from the dozens of almost identical pairs stacked in my closet—a simple top or tee under a fitted leather jacket, and cute flats or boots. I never cut my hair too short or grew it too long.

Pretty enough without stressing about it—that was my look.

At Monroe, the old sneakers and ratty button-down I’m wearing would fall into the category of not trying at all.

Mrs. Hellstrom notices everyone messing around and smacks her book shut. “People, this is not study hall. You can complete the questions on the required summer reading book in class now or in detention later. The choice is yours.”

A chorus of groans travels through the room, followed by the sound of papers rustling. Two girls in the front row stare at my tiny purse and laugh.

Mrs. Hellstrom turns to me. “Front office. Blue slip.”

I close the door and consider going back to Dad’s apartment, but I don’t have a car anymore, and I’m not busing it. I shove my stupid purse that probably screams the Heights into my backpack.

Finding the office isn’t easy. Monroe is four times the size of my old school, and the hallways look identical—rows of powder-blue lockers, white cinder-block walls, and bulletin boards decorated with a tiny bearded leprechaun in a tailcoat, holding up his fists. Yeah, that’s the mascot every high school wants.

I spot the office. A banner with the leprechaun in the corner hangs over the door: JAMES MONROE HIGH SCHOOL, HOME OF THE FIGHTING BARONS.

Behind a long counter inside, a lady with teased blond hair and an armload of brassy charm bracelets reads a magazine. Dad wasn’t kidding. She looks exactly like Dolly Parton.

Dolly Parton notices me and tears herself away from the magazine that she pretends she’s not reading. “Shouldn’t you be in class? If you need the nurse, she’s down the hall.”

“It’s my first day, and my English teacher, Mrs. Hellstrom, sent me here to get a blue slip.”

She pushes her hot-pink reading glasses higher on the bridge of her nose and lets out a long breath. I’m clearly cutting into her reading time. “Take a seat. I’ll be with you as soon as I finish this paperwork.” I’m assuming that’s code for magazine.

“Thanks.” Hopefully, she won’t finish until English class is over.

I choose a chair in the corner and close my eyes. This day feels like it will never end, and it’s only first period.

Door hinges creak, and my eyes fly open.

A woman stuffed into a gray suit that’s at least one size too small steps aside to let someone leave her office. “Don’t go anywhere, Mr. Leone. We are not finished here.”

Marco saunters out, hands in the pockets of his low-slung jeans, his black high-tops untied. My eyes are instantly drawn to the tribal lines inked on his arm, the intricate details beckoning me to come closer.

“Yes, ma’am.” He flashes her a lopsided grin. There’s no sign of the angry fighter I saw in the quad earlier. He taps on the counter as he passes Dolly Parton. “What’s up, Mrs. Lane?”

Mrs. Lane scowls. “I’m tired of seeing you in here. Why don’t you try behaving yourself for a week and see what happens?”

“I’d miss you too much.” Marco grins at her, and turns away from the counter. He sees me and the dimple vanishes. His gaze darts between the empty chairs.

If there is a god, please don’t let this guy sit next to me.

My mouth goes dry as he approaches. Marco drops into the vinyl chair across from mine, which is worse than if he sat next me, because now I have nowhere to look except at him.

Apparently, God is alive and well, and he has a sense of humor.

Marco rubs the back of his head, where the hair is cut closer to his scalp. It’s longer in the front, and I like the way it sticks up all over the place. He seems nervous and clears his throat. “Are you—?”

Not again. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

I hold up three fingers in the shape of a W. “Girl Scout promise.” I cringe. Those words did not just come out of my mouth.

He raises an eyebrow, and his cocky attitude returns. “Are you here to give your testimony?”

“What?”

“The fight. Did you get called in to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, Angel?”

Why does he keep calling me that? It must be an insult.

“No one called me in. I need a blue slip.” Why am I explaining myself to him? Or talking to him in the first place?

Marco leans forward and props his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands between his long legs. “So are all the schools in the Heights full?”

“Excuse me?”

“Just wondering how you ended up at Monroe. Nobody from the Heights wants to transfer here.”

How am I supposed to respond? Say something funny and risk offending him?

“I needed to start over,” I blurt out.

“I can get you that blue slip now,” Mrs. Lane waves me over, her brass bangles jingling.

I pick up my backpack and rush toward the counter. In a graceful move, I bump into Marco’s leg and almost trip.