The Lovely Reckless by Kami García

touches my arm. His fingertips linger longer than necessary, and my skin tingles. “So there’s a trick to opening it.” He points at the number on top of the door: 231. “You have to hit the two.”
    â€œThat’s all?”
    He steps aside. “Try it.”
    Curling my hand, I hit the side of my fist against the number two. The locker springs open, and I break into a smile. I can’t help it.
    â€œIt worked.” I close it and try again. The rusty blue door swings open a second time.
    Marco watches me.
    My cheeks heat up, and I change the subject. “How did you figure out the trick?”
    He gives me a sheepish smile. “This was my friend Deacon’s locker. The guy who was with me last night. He rigged it so no one could break in.”
    None of Turk’s friends wanted to mess with the scarred blond any more than Miss Lorraine wanted him in the rec center. And Marco is his friend. Not a good sign.
    â€œDid he graduate?” More people around us are beginning to stare.
    â€œNot before he got expelled.” Either Marco doesn’t notice we’re attracting attention or he doesn’t care.
    Why should he? Gossip never hurts guys like Marco.
    The bell rings, and I slip past him. “Thanks for the help.” I force my legs to move, my skin still buzzing from his touch.
    â€œHey, Frankie?” he calls out.
    I glance back at him, ignoring the eyes on us. “Yeah?”
    â€œYou should smile more often.”
    A hint of one tugs at the corner of my mouth. “I’ll think about it.”
    I turn around and start walking, careful to keep my head down so that no one sees the moment when the huge smile I was fighting finally breaks free. It takes every ounce of self-control not to look back and see if he’s watching.

 
    CHAPTER 12
    ROCK STARS, POETS, AND SINNERS
    I make it to English class moments before the bell. Most of the seats are taken except the ones in the front. The firing zone.
    No, thanks.
    An empty desk in the back corner offers a glimmer of hope—and a familiar face. Cruz lounges in the next seat over. After last night, I’m not sure what to expect.
    Mrs. Hellstrom taps a stack of papers against her desk. “Put away your cell phones, ladies and gentlemen. Today we are discussing the requirements for the long-term assignment that will account for forty percent of your English grade this semester. So if I were you, I would pay attention.”
    Cruz gives me a nod. Coming from her, it feels like an invitation. I take the empty seat and dig through my backpack. Where’s my pen?
    She reaches in front of me and puts a pencil on my desk.
    â€œThanks,” I whisper.
    Cruz points at the front of the room with her pen. “Take notes. Mrs. Hellstrom is a hardass.”
    In Shop class, Cruz barely acknowledged my existence. Then last night she tried to help me, and now she’s lending me a pencil and giving me advice?
    The drama at the street races proved that I’m completely out of my element—and that one of my best friends has zero common sense. I’m sure that didn’t impress anyone.
    So what did I miss?
    Mrs. Hellstrom scrawls a series of names on the board in illegible serial killer handwriting. “Sylvia Plath. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Virginia Woolf. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Alice Walker.” She stretches her arm across the whiteboard and draws a line under the names. “What do these writers have in common?”
    The guy who looked like he was asleep in the back of the room yesterday raises his hand.
    â€œJamal?” Mrs. Hellstrom watches him expectantly.
    â€œThey’re all novelists or poets.”
    â€œJamal is correct, but they have something else in common.” When no one volunteers an answer, Mrs. Hellstrom perches on the front of her desk, half sitting and half standing in one of those I’m-a-cool-teacher poses. “All these authors kept journals.”
    â€œSo they