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fine.” How many times do I have to say it?
    â€œAre you sure?” He has kind eyes and a soothing voice, now that he’s not shouting.
    â€œShe’s okay, really, Mr. Santiago.” Lex hooks her arm through mine.
    Mr. Santiago notices the guy in the bloody Ravens jersey near the sidewalk. “Why aren’t I surprised to see you here, Mr. Cooper?” He snaps his fingers at the linebacker’s friends. “Take him to the nurse. I want him out of my sight.” Mr. Santiago zeroes in on Marco and points at the main building. “Start walking, Leone. You know the way.”
    With Marco safely on the sidewalk, Lex grabs my shoulders. “What were you thinking, Frankie?” She closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them again, I see it in her eyes. Pity. “Don’t answer that. Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
    Lex thinks I’m too fragile to hold it together, but she’s wrong. I’m like a broken bone that wasn’t set correctly. I might not heal perfectly, but I will heal.
    I brush off my shirt and pick up my purse and backpack. “I’m not leaving.”
    â€œDo you always have to be so stubborn?”
    I respond by crossing my arms.
    Lex sighs. “I should’ve asked Mr. Santiago to write us a note. We’re late for class.”
    â€œIs he the principal?”
    â€œSecurity guard.” Lex leads me across the quad, her arm looped through mine. “Welcome to Monroe.”

 
    CHAPTER 5
    BEAUTIFUL BAD BOY
    â€œBlue 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.
    â€œI 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