For which I’m grateful today. The few hours I normally sleep in the mornings between my shift at the Breeze and my first class at school were consumed by filling out police reports—and making sure Mr. Shackleford was truly going to be okay. Oh, and the joy of walking to school instead of riding my bike, thanks to the gunman I’m now convinced was high or psycho or both.
That dick. What, did he think I was going to pedal him down and shoot him? That a short stack like me would actually pursue a guy twice her size on a bicycle? Or did he just feel the need to take something, even if it wasn’t cash? Klepto enloquecido.
What’s worse, that was our last bike. Julio’s got stolen a few weeks ago and we’ve been trading the one back and forth between us. And now mine got jacked—a fact that I haven’t made Julio aware of yet. Thankfully, when Deputy Glass brought me home last night, Artemio had Julio distracted. Because Deputy Glass was a talker; he would have spilled the beans about what I did. And my brother would have nodded politely, thanked the cop, then made me call Mama to tell her how I had jeopardized the entire family by being a hero. By drawing attention to myself.
Earlier this morning, I didn’t appreciate how lucky I’d been. Now, after my soda-induced stamina has kicked in, my brain can review the facts with clarity. And this is what I decide: I could have been so screwed. If Deputy Glass had walked me to the door. If Julio hadn’t had Artemio there.
I push the thought aside and try not to dwell on things that could have happened but didn’t. Taking out my school planner, I scribble in a note for Saturday: Go yard-saling. I’ve got at least ten dollars in quarters saved in my peanut butter jar. I was going to use the quarters for the Laundromat, but maybe Señora Perez in the trailer next door will let me trade some housework to use her washing machine. She keeps her place spotless, but sometimes she has odds and ends for me to do, like rearranging pictures or cutting the grass on her lot. I just have to catch her in the right mood, since she’s already being generous in giving me the password to her Wi-Fi to use for schoolwork. But if everything turns out as planned, I’ll find a cheap bike at a yard sale—if they’re willing to negotiate.
I open my social studies book where my homework is tucked. Thank God I got that done before calculus last night at work. The other kids in my row pass their papers up, and just as I’m about to tap the shoulder of the guy sitting in front of me, he turns around. His gaze lingers at the top of the paper I’m trying to hand him.
“Hi,” he says. “Carly, right?”
Somehow I keep my mouth from falling open. Arden Moss actually knows my name? And how disgusting is it that I even care? “Hi. Yeah.” I hand him the stack of papers, which he accepts without taking his eyes off me.
“Heard you had a rough night.” This throws me at first and not just because his eyes are ridiculously green. I hadn’t told anyone about the robbery. Then I remember that Arden is the sheriff’s son. Apparently confidentiality is not included in the sheriff’s policy. Did the subject come up at breakfast or something? Did they casually discuss the most horrific moment of my life over their Wheaties?
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I’m not sure why Arden would care or why he’s acknowledging my existence. He might not be the school’s star quarterback anymore, but he’s definitely still on the tip of everyone’s tongue. Now I know why. His green eyes, his honey-colored hair, the way his biceps bulge without flexing. He’s mesmerizing, really.
And I don’t have time for mesmerizing. “It was … interesting,” I tell him. Maybe if I downplay it, he’ll stop talking to me. “Not as bad as it sounds though.” Which is a lie. I pointed a gun at a stranger who was pointing a gun at me. It doesn’t get much more terrifying than that. Ask Mr. Shackleford. He actually messed his pants.
Arden’s eyes seem to light up. “I heard you were brave. Talked the robber down.”
I’m not sure what to say to this; I did in fact back-talk the robber like the idiota that I am. If I tell Arden that, he’ll press for more information, I’m certain. It’s too juicy to pass up. But the thing is, I’m not a good liar either. Señora Perez told me once that I’m “honest to a fault.” And the way she said it, extreme honesty wasn’t a good thing in her eyes. Of course, I’d just got done telling her that I didn’t think her anti-wrinkle cream was working. But she asked.
Mr. Tucker saves me. Standing in front of Arden’s desk, he clears his throat in a look-at-me sort of way. Arden whirls in his seat and hands the homework over to him. I notice that he doesn’t have any homework of his own to turn in, but mostly I’m glad he didn’t press the issue or infringe on Mr. Tucker’s patience. After all, Arden isn’t known for his adherence to the rules.
During class I can’t help but stare at Arden’s wide back. I’m a bit starstruck by our insubstantial conversation and I hate it. It was easy to ignore him before; he was Arden Moss, The Untouchable. I knew my place on the social ladder—crap, I’m not even on the social ladder—and I knew his. But now that he’s spoken to me, I have to acknowledge that he’s a real person—and I have to consider all the reasons why girls drool at the sound of his name.
So that’s why I concentrate on his flaws. He’s the sheriff’s son. That’s a flaw because the sheriff’s entire platform this past election was getting rid of undocumented immigrants. Normally I don’t care about politics and whatnot, but Julio wouldn’t shut up about it, and since we’re saving up to smuggle our parents back across the border, that’s one cavernous rift between me and Arden.