Free Perfect Chemistry 1 by Simone Elkeles

tell by the way her words make Carmen back off.
    Coach Bautista appears behind Carmen. "You three having a party
    and didn't invite the rest of the class?"
    "We were having a little chat," Carmen says, not missing a beat and
    acting as if we're all friends hanging out.
    "Well, then, I suggest you chat after school instead of during class.
    Miss Ellis and Miss Avila, join the rest of your classmates in the gym.
    Miss Sanchez, go to where you're supposed to be."
    Carmen points her red-painted fingernail at me. "Later," she says,
    then walks out of the locker room, but not before making Isabel move
    out of the way for her to pass.
    "Thanks," I say softly to Isabel.
    Her answer is a nod.
    TWELVE : Alex
    "You almost done with the Honda? It's time to close up," my cousin
    Enrique says to me. I work at his auto body shop every day after school
    . . to help my family put food on our table, to get away from the Latino
    Blood for a few hours, and because I'm damn good at fixing cars.
    Covered in grease and oil from working on the Civic, I roll out from
    under the car. "It'll be done in a sec."
    "Good. The guy's been on my ass to have it fixed for three days
    now."
    I tighten the last bolt and walk over to Enrique as he wipes his
    dirty hands on a shop cloth. "Can I ask you somethin'?"
    "Shoot."
    "Can I have a day off next week? There's this chem project at
    school," I explain, thinking of the topic assigned to us today, "and
    we're supposed to meet with--"
    "Peterson's class. Yeah, I remember those days. She's a real hard-
    ass." My cousin shudders.
    "You had her?" I ask, amused. I wonder if her parents are parole
    officers. That woman sure likes discipline.
    "How can I forget? You're not a success unless you develop a
    treatment for a disease or save the earth," Enrique says, doing a
    pretty decent imitation of Mrs. P. "You don't forget a nightmare like
    Peterson. But I'm sure havin' Brittany Ellis as a partner--"
    "How'd you know?"
    "Marcus came by and told me 'bout her, says he's in class with you
    guys. He's jealous you got a hot partner with long legs and big . . ."
    Enrique moves his hands in the air, mock feeling her chest. "Well, you
    know."
    Yeah, I know.
    I shift my weight from one foot to the other. "What about takin'
    time off Thursday?"
    "No hay problema." Enrique clears his throat. "You know, Hector
    was lookin' for you yesterday."
    Hector. Hector Martinez, the guy who runs the Latino Blood from
    behind the scenes. "Sometimes I hate . . . you know."
    "You're stuck in the Blood," Enrique says. "Like the rest of us.
    Never let Hector hear you question your commitment to the Blood. If
    he suspects you're disloyal you'll become the enemy so fast your
    head'll spin. You're a smart kid, Alex. Play it safe."
    Enrique is an OG--an Original Gangster--because he'd proven
    himself to the Latino Blood a long time ago. He paid his dues, so now he
    can sit back while the younger LB members are on the front lines.
    According to him, I've just gotten my feet wet and have a long time to
    go before my friends and I get OG status.
    "Smart? I bet my motorcycle I could get Brittany Ellis to sleep
    with me," I tell him.
    "Scratch what I said." Enrique points to me with a smirk on his
    face. "You're a dumbass. And you'll soon be a dumbass without a ride.
    Girls like that don't look at guys like us."
    I'm beginning to think he's right. How the hell did I ever think I
    could lure the very beautiful, very rich, and very white Brittany Ellis
    into my very poor, very Mexican, and very dark life?
    Diego Vasquez, a guy from school, was born on the north side of
    Fairfield. Of course, my friends consider him a white guy even though
    his skin is darker than mine. They also think Mike Burns, a white guy
    who lives on the south side, is Mexican even though he doesn't have any
    Mexican blood in his body. Or Latino blood, for that matter. Yet he's
    considered one of us. In Fairfield, where you were born defines who
    you are.
    A horn beeps loudly in front of