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them was up the street from my house. We’re not the only people from the Heights at Monroe. All the private-school rejects go here.”
    â€œI know how it works.” Everyone does.
    Parents in the Heights are always bitching about it. The county is divided up into zones based on income, and every public school has one wealthy neighborhood and one poor neighborhood that feed into it. The rest fall somewhere in between and make up the difference.
    A zip code in the Heights means you end up at Monroe. Technically, we’re only ten miles from the Heights, but it feels like ten thousand. That’s why parents send their kids to private schools like Woodley Prep if they can afford it.
    â€œSo you’ve never been to a party in the Downs? Not even once?”
    Lex glares at me. “You couldn’t pay me to show up at one of those parties.”
    â€œDo you know elitist that sounds?”
    She flips opens the visor and checks her makeup in the mirror. “I’m a realist, and you sound like a Peace Corps volunteer. Let’s see how elitist you think I am by lunch.”
    I stare out the window, hoping to check out the other students … or the hot guy with the tattoos. Lot A doesn’t look much different from the parking lot at the country club. Aside from a few Acuras, Honda SUVs, and Jeeps, it’s packed with Audis, BMWs, Mercedes, and random sports cars like the Fiat. Judging from the jocks dressed like Abercrombie & Fitch models and the number of people holding Starbucks cups, no one from the Downs parks in this lot.
    The cups are the real giveaway.
    Dad’s partner, Tyson, complains that the Downs is the only place on earth without a Starbucks.
    â€œIs there assigned parking at Monroe?” I ask.
    Lex gets out and adjusts the black studded leather bag on her shoulder. “No. Why?”
    I look around. “It doesn’t seem like anyone from the Downs parks here.”
    She locks the car. “They don’t. By choice. They probably think we’ll ding their custom paint jobs. Who knows?” She heads for the main building on the opposite side of the street. “Most Monroe students hang out with people from their own neighborhood. And don’t give me that judgey look. I only transferred here last year. I’m not responsible for the social hierarchy.”
    â€œ Social hierarchy ? Wasn’t that a vocab term from our SAT prep class?” I’ve missed teasing Lex.
    â€œWhatever.”
    I follow her across the quad in front of a huge redbrick building, along with what seems like half the student body. Ahead of us, two girls dressed in Marc Jacobs drink Frappuccinos and text a few feet away from three guys wearing their jeans so low that I can read Tommy Hilfiger’s name on their boxer briefs. To their credit, the guys hike up their jeans whenever they slide down past the halfway point on their asses. Give them belts and they’re practically ready for cotillion.
    Ass-riding jeans aside, Monroe isn’t as bad as the private-school crowd thinks. I expected metal detectors and drug dealers handing out dime bags on the lawn.
    This I can handle.
    Before we make it to the sidewalk, the shouting starts.

 
    CHAPTER 4
    FIGHT CLUB
    â€œMarco! I heard you were trying to get with my girl.” A huge guy wearing a Baltimore Ravens jersey steps in front of a curvy redhead spilling out of her tank top—most likely the girlfriend in question. He stalks across the grass in our direction, looking big enough to be a linebacker for the Ravens.
    Lex throws her head back and sighs. “Now we’re going to be late for class. I don’t know why these losers can’t beat the crap out of each other off campus.”
    â€œIs it like this all the time?”
    She rolls her eyes. “Only on slow days.”
    I catch a glimpse of his target … the linebacker called him Marco.
    It’s him.
    It’s the guy with the tattoos who