Perfect Chemistry 1 Read Free

of
    alignment."
    Colin called a few times during the summer from his family's cabin,
    where he was hanging out with his buddies, but I don't know where our
    relationship stands now. He just got back last night.
    "I love those jeans," Sierra says, eyeing my faded Brazilian pants.
    "I'll be borrowing them before you know it."
    "My mom hates them," I tell her, smoothing my hair at a stoplight,
    trying to tame my blond frizzies. "She says it looks like I got them at a
    used clothing store."
    "Did you tell her vintage is in?"
    "Yeah, like she'd even listen. She was hardly paying attention when
    I asked her about the new caretaker."
    No one understands what it's like at my house. Luckily, I have
    Sierra. She might not understand, but she knows enough to listen and
    keep my home life confidential. Besides Colin, Sierra is the only one
    who's met my sister.
    Sierra flips open my CD case. "What happened to the last
    caretaker?"
    "Shelley pulled a chunk of her hair out."
    "Ouch."
    I drive into the high school parking lot with my mind more on my
    sister than on the road. My wheels screech to a stop when I almost hit
    a guy and girl on a motorcycle. I thought it was an empty parking space.
    "Watch it, bitch," Carmen Sanchez, the girl on the back of the
    motorcycle, says as she flips me the finger.
    She obviously missed the Road Rage lecture in Driver's Ed.
    "Sorry," I say loudly so I can be heard over the roar of the
    motorcycle. "It didn't look like anyone was in this spot."
    Then I realize whose motorcycle I almost hit. The driver turns
    around. Angry dark eyes. Red and black bandanna. I sink down into the
    driver's seat as far as I can.
    "Oh, shit. It's Alex Fuentes," I say, wincing.
    "Jesus, Brit," Sierra says, her voice low. "I'd like to live to see
    graduation. Get outta here before he decides to kill us both."
    Alex is staring at me with his devil eyes while putting the kickstand
    down on his motorcycle. Is he going to confront me?
    I search for reverse, frantically moving the stick back and forth.
    Of course it's no surprise my dad bought me a car with a stick shift
    without taking the time to teach me how to master driving the thing.
    Alex takes a step toward my car. My instincts tell me to abandon
    the car and flee, as if I was stuck on railroad tracks with a train
    heading straight for me. I glance at Sierra, who's desperately
    searching through her purse for something. Is she kidding me?
    "I can't get this damn car in reverse. I need help. What are you
    looking for?" I ask.
    "Like . . . nothing. I'm trying not to make eye contact with those
    Latino Bloods. Get a move on, will ya?" Sierra responds through gritted
    teeth. "Besides, I only know how to drive an automatic."
    Finally grinding into reverse, my wheels screech loud and hard as I
    maneuver backward and search for another parking spot.
    After parking in the west lot, far from a certain gang member with
    a reputation that could scare off even the toughest Fairfield football
    players, Sierra and I walk up the front steps of Fairfield High.
    Unfortunately, Alex Fuentes and the rest of his gang friends are
    hanging by the front doors.
    "Walk right past them," Sierra mutters. "Whatever you do, don't
    look in their eyes."
    It's pretty hard not to when Alex Fuentes steps right in front of
    me and blocks my path.
    What's that prayer you're supposed to say right before you know
    you're going to die?
    "You're a lousy driver," Alex says with his slight Latino accent and
    full-blown I-AM-THE-MAN stance.
    The guy might look like an Abercrombie model with his ripped bod
    and flawless face, but his picture is more likely to be taken for a mug
    shot.
    The kids from the north side don't really mix with kids from the
    south side. It's not that we think we're better than them, we're just
    different. We've grown up in the same town, but on totally opposite
    sides. We live in big houses on Lake Michigan and they live next to the
    train tracks. We look, talk, act, and dress different. I'm not