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“I want you to be careful out there, Shiloh,” Bibi said as I dried my hands and packed up my school bag, her tone suddenly grave. “Detective Harris told me one of the officers at his precinct had to be disciplined again. Mitch Dowd. I believe his son is in your grade.”
“Frankie,” I said. “He’s a li
ttle prick.”
“His father’s a big prick. He’s got something of a bad temper, I hear. A short fuse and an excess of pride. The worst combination.”
“Sounds like a real winner.”
“Harris used the word ‘psychotic.’”
“Christ. And he’s still on the job?”
“Likely not for much longer. But Shiloh, if Dowd pulls you over…”
“I know what to do, no matter who pulls me over.” I pecked her cheek. “I gotta run. You’ll be okay?”
“Of course.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I will. And Shiloh?” she called when I was at the kitchen door that led to the garage. “I might not agree with your boundaries, but I respect them.”
I smiled, warmth filling my chest. “I love you, Bibi,” I said, the words coming easily. Without hesitation.
There is nothing wrong with my heart, I thought in the garage, climbing into the boat of a Buick. It’s open for exactly the right people.
At school, I kept my earbuds in between classes. “Hunger” by Florence + the Machine filled my head while the rest of the school populace bustled around me, talking and laughing, full of New School Year energy that’d wear off in a week.
I caught sight of Miller Stratton trudging across the quad alone, head down, shoulders hunched. He met my eye and gave me a wave. I waved in return. The boy looked like he carried the weight of the world on his back. I wished Violet would help him carry the burden a little. But then, who was I to talk? I carried my own shit and was just fine.
But when Violet joined me in History—our last class of the day—her dark blue eyes were heavy and had Miller Stratton written all over them. She was miserable and beautiful at the same time.
This is why I don’t get involved with boys.
“Hey,” I said. “You okay?”
She put on her Violet McNamara Everything’s Fine? smile. “Sure. You look pretty, Shi. As usual. That’s stunning.” She reached over and touched the turquoise and silver ring on my index finger. “A Barrera original, I presume?”
“Free advertising.”
“You’re a genius.”
“And you’re deflecting in a really complimentary way. What’s going on?”
Violet was saved from answering. Our History teacher, Mr. Baskin, a heavyset guy with a graying beard and large glasses, took the podium at the front of the class. We all grew quiet as he called roll. He got to the W’s and frowned.
“Wentz? Wentz?” No answer. “Oh, that’s right. Suspended.”
He made a check in his roll book, then restarted the movie on the whiteboard that we’d begun last time: a documentary on the Russian Revolution.
When the room was dark and the movie rolling, I leaned to Violet. “Okay, Miss Friends-with-TMZ. Who is this new guy who keeps not showing up?”
“Ronan Wentz,” she whispered back. “Evelyn says he’s suspended for punching Frankie Dowd. Broke his nose.”
“My hero. That shithead had it coming.”
The heaviness in Violet’s eyes deepened. “He was giving Miller a hard time. Again.”
