I'm arguing for the dentist in Un dia de estos in my Spanish III essay when the fire alarms blare with the intent of popping our eardrums. The first shriek is instant, and belonging to the girl next to me. I think her name is Ruth. Pencils clatter to desks as if in a synchronized move.

Mr. Hoffman looks up from his computer, lifting both hands. "Calm down, it's just a fire drill. Flip over your tests, leave your backpacks and let's get going toward the doors."

I keep my wallet and phone in my pockets, so I drop my mechanical pencil. Bumping shoulders with Mike, I file toward the door. A bottle of hand sanitizer sits on the desk next to the door. I pump the cool gel into my hands and rub them together.

Kids talk, yammer, and squeal in the hallway. The sound bounces off the dark purple lockers, just something else to torture my ears. I sigh as two hallways converge into a slightly larger one, and traffic slows to a plod. The girl next to me squeals and darts – or tries to – as some dork with a shaggy blond surfer 'do tickles her. I guess right now he can get away with PDA.

Hands clamp onto my shoulders, and someone leans close, low voice sending shivers down my arms. "What's up, Glorietta Esperanza?"

I almost forget myself and squeal. I reach up to squeeze his hands. "Paco! Are you nuts? If my mom finds out-"

"Eh, whatever. Like anyone's going to notice right now?"

I scan the hallway, not seeing anyone that would rat me out. "Nice timing."

"Hey, I know what I'm doing."

The pace picks up a notch. Crud. I want as long as I can to talk with Cisco. "How's life? Maria?" I can't bring myself to ask about racing.

"School's boring. My grades are good, which makes colleges happy. Weekends are fun. My sister's still loca. Playing point guard. Still going out with Cruz."

I love the weight of his hands on my shoulders. "Yeah. That's why my mom won't let me play, you know. 'Cause Maria's playing and she's your sister."

He doesn't speak for a second. As we file into the parking lot, he settles one arm over my shoulders. "You know, there's something I'd call her but she is your mom."

I'm pretty sure I know what word he's thinking of. "I just don't get it. I didn't get charged with anything, I've never screwed up, and she keeps saying someday she'll let me ride again." Clouds cover the sun, and a couple water drops hit my nose. Good. The farms around here need rain.

"It's been six months."

I spot a girl holding up a sign with 7 on it, and I walk into that crowd. "I know, but she blows me off whenever I bring it up, or she just gets ticked off and gives me some spiel about mothers knowing best. What number are you?"

"Eight. You?"

"Seven."

"Whatever. Close enough."

I stop, turning to face Cisco. The wind yanks at his yellow t-shirt, which looks neon against his skin. "I'm gonna figure it out. She can't keep me from riding all the way through this summer and senior year."

He looks at me, chocolate eyes intense. "It's already been half a year. What makes you think she won't?"

I shiver, because he's voicing a vague suspicion I've had. "I don't even want to think that."

"You know that's what she's doing with this track crap. She just wants you to get into something else and-"

My voice is louder than I want. "Cisco!"

He stops, eyes narrowed.

I sigh. The last thing I want is to fight. "Sorry. But even if I decided to like track, I'm not giving up racing. Never."

He tilts his chin up. "If that's the case, then start talking with your brother."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

Cisco studies me, like he thinks I might be bluffing. "I mean Damien."

Step-brother, actually. He lives in the area. "I've barely even talked with him since last summer."

"I know he has some standard line about working at police headquarters, but the dude's down in the canyon every weekend."

Now I know what's going on. And I hate I've lied about Damien's job so many times. "Like I said, I wouldn't know. We don't talk."

Cisco shakes his head. "As much as you want to defend her, your mom's sure screwed a lot up of your life."

I open my mouth from some inbred instinct to retort, but I can't find something positive to say.

He keeps his gaze locked with mine. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

I close my eyes against the tears. "Look, my life sucks." Ouch. That is not what I meant to say.

His arms wrap around me, and for an instant I'm surrounded by warmth, his chin resting on my head, my head on his chest. I melt.

Then he jumps back. "Crap."

I jerk at the sound of my brother's voice. "Dadgum it!" John will have a field day if he catches me even looking at Cisco.

"Don't worry, Lita, I'm outta here." He's gone so fast I catch only a glimpse of his t-shirt before the crowd of group seven surrounds him.

John huffs over, face set in its usual petulant expression. The kid may be my brother, which means I should love him (I don't really), and speak nicely about him (I don't really), but he could stand to lose fifteen pounds. "Stupid fire drill."

"Mmhmm." If I don't talk, maybe he'll go away.

He squints at me. "Are you crying?" It's not a concerned sibling response. It's "Puh-lease tell me you aren't about to bawl."

Not anymore. "Gosh, have you ever heard of the word 'sensitivity'?" Little brat.

He lifts both hands like he's the offended one. "Sheesh, sis, sorry for asking."

"If you asked in a way that sounded halfway like you cared-"

"Yeah, whatever. Why are you such a grouch?"

I mash my lips together. The twit is not going to pull me into an argument. He is a freshman. I am a junior. I am mature and above him.

He glares at me. "Fine, be a jerk."

A herd of retorts pushes at my lips, but I keep them closed. I've found that silence is the safest response most of the time. "I thought you were supposed to be in group four."

"Yeah, so?"

I look at him with an aura of perfect serenity. "So the teacher in charge of your group will be doing a head count and you wouldn't want to get her mad, would you?"

He blinks. "They do head counts?"

I've never actually seen a teacher numbering off kids, but it could happen, right? I stand on tiptoes, looking toward group four. Sympathetically, I wince. "Ms. Hadley is your group's teacher? Yikes."

John's eyes widen, and he spins toward his group. "Hadley?"

The woman's nickname is Hadley the Horror. Freshman year, I dreamed she nailed me over the head with me with a TI-83 and measured the angle of my fall with a giant protractor. "Sure looks like her."

He mutters "Crap!" under his breath and waddles – er, hurries – away.

I retreat into the middle of my group. This is the easiest way for me to be alone. I look up to the sky, thick with clouds. The wind kicks up, pushing my hair from my face. Three rain drops fall on my face, one tracing my cheek like a tear.