Chapter 2

I peeled an orange and popped a piece into her mouth. "Your smoker's voice sounds cool now. But when you're old, you'll cough like a busted accordion. This one's sweet. Try it." Lindsey chewed, glanced at me sideways with a suppressed smile. "You're such a pain." … A few days later, some punks from the next block came looking for trouble. Word was they were armed. Lindsey exploded the moment she heard about it. She grabbed a steel pipe and headed for the door. "Who do they think they are, messing with my people? I'll cripple them." The lackeys were fired up, ready to charge out with her. I grabbed her arm. She whipped her head around. "Let go. Don't tell me to play dead. I'm not a coward." "Who said anything about being a coward?" I yanked a roll of tape from under the bed. "Wrap this around your arms. It'll stop a blade. And this…" I stuffed a packet of pepper we used for cooking into her pocket. "Aim for the eyes if you can't win them. We're thugs, not martial artists. Winning is all that matters. Don't be stupid and tank it head-on." The lackeys were stunned. Then, Lindsey burst out laughing. She ruffled my hair hard. "Damn, Yelena. That's dirty and vicious. I like how your brain works." … She won. She came back without a scratch, slinging an arm around my neck and calling me her strategist. While she was still buzzing with adrenaline, I quietly pulled out some antiseptic and dabbed the scrape on the back of her hand. "Does it hurt?" I asked, blowing gently on it. She froze. "This is nothing," she said, brushing it off, but her eyes softened. No one had ever taught her to take care of herself. Her parents were divorced and passed her back and forth like a burden. She grew up wild—like weeds. To her, staying alive was good enough. No one ever cared if she was hurt. "Guess it's not so bad having someone who notices," she muttered. Life went on—loud and chaotic. That was until one evening, while we were on our way home from school, a vintage bike stopped at the corner. A young man straddled it with one foot on the ground. He was wearing a white shirt, reading a book with his head lowered, looking calm and composed. Meet Johnathan Brown, my dad. The man who would later burn cigarettes into my mom's skin, chase her down the street with a kitchen knife, and smash the house when he got drunk. I felt a chill down my spine. Lindsey stopped and whistled. She wanted to tease the nerd. Jonathan looked up, adjusted his glasses, and his gaze landed on her. "Excuse me, could you tell me where the library is?" His voice was warm, polished, and completely out of place among people like us who grew up crawling through the dirt. Lindsey flushed visibly. She had grown up starved of affection, surrounded by violence. Someone soft-spoken like him hit her like a slow, deadly kindness. "It's… It's to the east," she stammered. She hid her cigarette behind her back without realizing it. She even smoothed her messy hair. In that moment, I heard the gates of hell creak open. I lunged forward, planted myself in front of her, and stared him down. "No idea. Now get lost." Jonathan blinked, then smiled. "Young lady, you don't have to be so angry." He gave Lindsey one last lingering look before riding off. She stood there, staring at his retreating figure. "Why were you so rude just now?" She shoved me, annoyed. "He was being polite." I turned and grabbed her shoulders hard. "Lindsey, stay away from him. He's not a good person. He'll kill you." She frowned. "You're exaggerating." … Jonathan started chasing Lindsey. It was nothing clever and almost embarrassingly cliche. However, in a vocational high school like ours, that soft, literary approach was devastating to someone like Lindsey. He hung a warm cup of coffee on the handle of her motorcycle. He would slip overly sweet love letters into her helmet, written on pink paper and perfumed. "Lindy, you're a rose with thorns, and I'm willing to be the gardener who bleeds." I watched Lindsey read it, lips curving upward uncontrollably, and felt sick to my stomach. So, I sabotaged everything. The flowers he sent went straight into the trash. I drank the coffee he gave her, then told her it had gone bad. I said to her on repeat, "Guys like that can't be trusted. They look like gentlemen, but they're rotten inside." At first, she thought I was just being petty. She was annoyed, but indulged me anyway. "Yelena, are you jealous someone's chasing me?"