The Lovely Reckless Read Free Page B

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    â€œDoes your father still have family in the Downs?” Dad asks.
    â€œNope. The Senator moved everyone out as soon as he could afford it.” Lex refuses to call her father Dad. Instead, she calls him the Senator because she says he cares more about being the first Puerto Rican–American senator in the United States than about being a father.
    â€œI don’t blame him,” Dad says in his cop tone. “There’s a lot of crime. It’s a tough place for honest people to live. Make sure to keep the car doors locked while you’re driving.”
    â€œWe know, Dad.”
    He continues issuing instructions. “Remember to leave your purse in the car when you get to the rec center. Just take your phone and some money. And I got you something.” Dad opens the hall closet and fishes around in the pocket of his jacket. He returns with something pink in his hand. A flashlight? And two pieces of orange plastic?
    Dad hands me the pink thing.
    I take a closer look at the canister. “Pink pepper spray?”
    â€œI think it’s cute,” Lex says.
    â€œThen you can have it.”
    â€œIt’s pepper gel,” Dad explains. “The spray can blow back at you, but this stuff shoots wherever you aim the nozzle. And the gel really sticks.”
    â€œI’m not carrying that around.” I try to hand the canister back to him, but he won’t take it. “What if I set it off accidentally? I’m sure there’s a rule against bringing tear-inducing toxins to school.”
    â€œIt has a safety, so it won’t go off unless you want it to. Keep it in your bag.” Dad points at the small black shoulder bag that already feels like the wrong choice.
    I shove the pepper gel inside. Otherwise, he’ll never leave me alone.
    â€œAnd you both need one of these.” Dad offers us each an orange piece of plastic.
    Lex grabs one.
    â€œIt’s a rape whistle,” Dad says proudly.
    I saw that coming.
    She scrunches up her nose. “Umm … thanks.”
    I take mine and toss it in my army-green backpack.
    He scratches his head as if he’s forgetting something. “Wait inside the building until Lex gets there to pick you up.”
    And I won’t take any candy from strangers.
    â€œI’ll be on time, even if I have to speed,” Lex teases.
    Dad misses the joke. “Do you have a clean driving record?”
    â€œExcept for a few parking tickets, but everyone has some of those, right?” She flashes him the perfect smile that you only end up with after four years of braces.
    â€œI don’t.” Dad walks over to the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony, and he looks down at the parking lot. “Is your Fiat a stick shift?”
    â€œAutomatic,” Lex says. “Frankie is the only person I know who can drive a stick.”
    Because my dad suffers from undercover-cop paranoia and he forced me to learn in case of emergency.
    â€œOne day you might need to drive a vehicle that isn’t an automatic,” he says.
    I know exactly where this conversation is going. “Enough, Dad.”
    â€œWhat if you’re alone and some lunatic grabs you off the street, and he drives a stick shift?” Dad asks, like it’s a perfectly normal question. “If there’s an opportunity to get away, you won’t be able to take advantage of it.”
    Lex stares at my father, dumbfounded. She has heard me recount enough of these stories to know he’s serious. Usually, he saves these questions for me.
    â€œYou should learn,” Dad says. “If Frankie’s license wasn’t suspended, she could teach you.”
    My shoulders tense. I’m not letting him play his passive-aggressive games with me. “Is there something you want to say, Dad?”
    â€œJust stating a fact.” He stands his ground.
    â€œWhy? So I won’t forget how badly I messed up my life?”
    Dad sighs.