The Lovely Reckless(15)

When Miss Lorraine opens the door, the kids scramble, rushing to their seats and digging through their backpacks for the homework they should’ve been doing.

“It’s nice to see how hard everyone works when I’m not in here.” She walks over to the girl’s desk and flips her book around so it’s right side up.

“We were just taking a break.” A boy with long eyelashes and a mop of dark brown curls grins at Miss Lorraine. In soccer shorts, an Italian World Cup jersey, and black sweatbands around both wrists, he looks like a thirteen-year-old professional soccer player.

“Your break is over. This is Frankie.” She waves a hand in my direction. The kids’ expressions range from completely bored and mildly curious to Lord of the Flies territory. “She’ll be in charge in the afternoons.”

Several kids groan.

A girl wearing bright red lipstick and a gold nameplate necklace that reads DIVA rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

Miss Lorraine walks over to her desk. “I don’t remember asking your opinion, Kumiko.”

Kumiko stares me down from behind her shiny black bangs. “Need some community service for your college applications? That’s the only reason girls like you come around.”

Everyone waits for me to respond. This is a test, and I can’t afford to fail. Not if I’m stuck with these kids for the next four months.

I smile at Kumiko. “Nope. It was this or jail.”

She raises an eyebrow, and the corner of Miss Lorraine’s mouth twitches as if she’s fighting a smile.

“All right, then.” Miss Lorraine raps on the desk closest to the door. “Homework before house parties. And Frankie’s rules are my rules, so don’t try selling her any sob stories or you’ll end up with the elementary school kids. Do we understand each other?”

“Yep.”

“Got it.”

The moment Miss Lorraine disappears down the hall, the kids start talking again. At least now they have their books out. Maybe I should do that teacher thing and go around the room and make them tell me their names. Kumiko gives me the once-over and whispers to the girl next to her. Maybe not.

As the minutes tick by, it’s clear no one wants my help with homework. It gives me a chance to catch up on mine.

I’m studying an engine diagram in my gigantic Shop textbook when the future World Cup soccer player notices. He points at the page in front of me. “You’re taking Shop?”

“Unfortunately.” I pause. “Sorry … I don’t know your name.”

“Daniel Pontafonesco.”

“Why do you tell everyone your last name all the time?” asks a lanky boy with a black buzz cut and ear gauges who is lounging in the seat next to him. “You want people to think you’re related to one of those famous mob guys like Tony Soprano, don’t you?”

I dig my nails into my palms, praying I won’t have to break up a fight.

Daniel wads up a piece of paper and chucks it at the other boy. “I keep telling people because none of you can pronounce it. And not all Italians are in the mob, Carlos.”

The paper hits Carlos, and he falls back in his chair like he’s wounded. They’re just joking around. Instantly, I relax.

Kumiko yawns. “Tony Soprano isn’t a real person. He’s from a TV show, genius.”

Carlos turns around in his chair and glares at her. “I’m not the one failing government after only a week of school.”

“It was one quiz,” she snaps.

Time to change the subject. “So do you know a lot about cars, Daniel?”

He laughs, along with some of the other kids.

“Everyone in the Downs knows about cars,” Carlos says.

“Except you.” Daniel smirks at Carlos, who responds by throwing a fake jab.

He grins. “But I know how to box.”

The cute girl with the book takes a break from staring at Daniel and moves two seats closer to me. She has long brown hair that’s so dark it almost looks black and thick lashes fluttering against her light brown skin.

She gestures at my textbook. “It’s easier to remember the parts if you know how they work. There’s a cool app that lets you take the engine apart and put it back together again. Want me to find it for you?”

I key the passcode into my cell phone and hand it to her. “Thanks…?”

“Sofia.” She scrolls through the list of apps. “Got it.” She turns in her chair so I can see the screen, too. Raised pink-and-white slash marks—scars from some kind of cuts—cover the left side of the beautiful thirteen-year-old’s face, as if she survived an animal attack.

I try not to stare.

“Car accident,” Sofia says, as if she’s used to explaining.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

She shrugs. “No big deal. It could’ve been worse.”

I point at the diagram, ashamed of myself for staring at this brave girl’s scars. “So tell me how it works.”

“The rectangular thing in the middle is called the block.…”

Thirty minutes later, I can identify the block, pistons, camshaft, and flywheel, thanks to Sofia.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go over the pistons, piston rings, connecting rods and bearings,” she says proudly.