Joyride

Chapter Three

I don't actually breathe until Deputy Glass pulls out of our sandy driveway. The fact that he insisted on giving me a ride home at all almost gives me an ulcer—at least he doesn't have his blue lights flashing when we pull in. My only saving grace is that no one in our trailer park is usually up at this time of night. Not even Señora Perez, who enjoys a late-night cigarette every now and then on the front steps of her trailer. That's the benefit of living in a community of close-knit, hardworking immigrants—everyone is so tired that they actually sleep at night. Which is a good thing, since this bundle of nationalities is tightly secured by a rampant grapevine of unreliable gossip. Even the Russians get in on it. Gossip, as it turns out, has no language barrier. If anyone was awake to witness me being escorted home in a cop car . . . The scandal would permeate the very air in various, frenzied dialects.

I'm surprised to see a faint light shining through the living room window. Surely, surely, Julio is not awake. I make my way quietly up the stairs and use my key to unlock the door, giving the handle a jerk. The chain catches; Julio has officially locked me out.

Does he know what happened to night?

"Julio," I whisper between the crack in the door. "Let me in?"

I hear footsteps fall on the hollow floor of our living room, then the door is yanked shut from the inside. I bite my lip. I hear the chain being released and step back so the opening door doesn't knock me off the steps.

Julio greets me at the threshold with a tired smile. "Carlotta, why are you home so late? Did you have inventory to night?" But he's already walking back into the house, toward the four-by-six area our landlord calls a kitchen. I bounce up the steps and shut and lock the door behind me. A fragile but definite sense of relief swirls through me as I realize I may be off the hook; if Julio had seen the cop car, he would have already been in ballistic phase. That's the one good thing about Julio—you always know where you stand with him.

"Uh-huh," I mumble, but I can't help but feel a little hurt. If he was awake and knew I was late coming home—I glance at the clock that dares to flash 4:37 a.m. back at me—why didn't he bother to check up on me? What if I didn't have inventory? I could be dead on the side of the road somewhere, and he wouldn't know because he's too busy . . . What is he busy doing, exactly? And do I really want to press the issue, given the circumstances?

Then I see a pair of worn-jeaned legs stretching across the kitchen floor, the booted toes pointed toward the ceiling. Oh. "Hi, Artemio," I call, setting my backpack on the counter.

Julio had told me he'd be having Artemio, one of my father's old friends, over before work to see if he could fi x the kitchen sink.

Julio could hang drywall like a pro, but plumbing was entirely beyond his scope of construction skills. And our sink had been leaking for about three weeks now.

"Hola, Carlotta," Artemio says, his voice muffled under the cabinet. "You are very late. You sure she doesn't have a boyfriend, Julio?" He motions for Julio to hand him his wrench.

Julio looks at me. "She knows better than to have a boyfriend, don't you, Carlotta? My sister is smart, Artemio." The pride in his voice makes me perk up a little. "She knows boys are a waste of time. We stick together, don't we, Carly?"

It's nice to hear him say we stick together, instead of that he's stuck with me—which is how I feel. "Always," I say around a yawn. This situation does not require me, I know, but I'm hesitant to leave the room; Julio is not home often. Even now, he's already dressed for the day; he and Artemio carpool in the morning with some friends at work and will be leaving in about forty-five minutes. I might as well get a shower and change clothes too. But we have a guest. Guests come first, I can hear Mama say. "Can I make you some coffee, Artemio? Julio?" I flick my brother on his arm. "Did you make your lunch yet?"

Julio smiles. "We're fine, bonita. Go to bed."

Closing my eyes at this point would be stupid. Especially since I have to allot extra time to walk to school.

"You could skip school today," Julio says, seeing me yawn for a third time. "Get rested up for your next shift to night. It's good that you stayed late. We could use the extra money."

Julio has always been on the school-is-not-important bandwagon, right alongside Mama. It's hard to disagree at this moment, with my eyelids sagging as if weighted down with iron. But someday my perseverance will make him proud. Someday I'll show him that it all wasn't a waste of time. Someday I'll hand him an upper-class paycheck that could only be earned with a degree. And so I head to the bathroom for a cold shower.

---

I feel like slightly microwaved death.

Plopping down in the chair for fourth-period social studies, I set my books on the desk with the enthusiasm of a sloth. I offer a small wave to Josefina, who's already tucked neatly into her seat across the room. She's one of the girls who lives in my neighborhood, but we barely ever see each other except at school. She works too, cleaning houses on the weekend, so it's not like we'd ever have time to hang out—even if we did have more in common. She has four brothers, so she's into motorcycles and fixing cars and other things I couldn't care less about. The extent of our conversation is usually "Hi."

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 house work 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 school work. 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 honeycolored 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.

Another blemish is that Arden Moss is prettier than me. So I'd spend my time being jealous of his flawless skin or something, and that's not healthy for anyone.

And who names their son Arden? It's an awfully girly name for a guy, I think. Maybe because it's so similar to "garden" and that reminds me of pink flowers and such.

So by the time the bell rings, I've magnified all his faults to the point where I'm actually disgusted with him. Which is way more convenient than being starstruck.

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Author's note: I hope you are enjoying reading this excerpt from Joyride, which is on sale on 6/2/15. You can pre-order your copy now at macteenbooks.com/joyride. If I hit my pre-order goal, I will post an exclusive Joyride short story to Wattpad! In the story, Mr. Shackleford is a nice man, Carly knows. But as good as he is, he has some bad nights, and when "bad" turns into "catastrophic", she has to choose between being an employee and keeping her job, or being a friend and helping him out of his unusual predicament.