After finishing her education she went to work at her father's manufacturing company. Forced to be lab partners with Alex Fuentes a gang member from the other. I read this book in one sitting and it was amazing. Brittany is a pretty awesome heroine, though she did have her silly moments telling Alex to apologize to the artist I loved Shelly and I like how the family problems attempted to work themselves out toward the end.
Did I mention that I loved this book? So, I started out with the second book to this trilogy, Rules of Attraction, and after finishing that book I was so excited to read Perfect Chemistry first book and Chain Reaction third book.
Elkeles writing style is very unique. In this trilogy, she uses the two main characters of the book to narrate-- which I think is very exciting because in this way, readers are able to "be in the minds" of both characters.
Loved each and every part of this book. I will definitely recommend this book to young adult, romance lovers. Your Rating:. Your Comment:. But I was itching to make Little Miss Perfecta stumble in her introduction of me. And stumbling she is. This partner of mine knows how to hide her true motions, something I recognize because I do it all the time. I wonder if that smile has ever gotten her out of a speeding ticket.
Introduce Alex to the class. And he has a secret desire nobody would ever guess. Even Peterson straightens to attention. Guess again, gringa. I sit up in my chair while the class remains silent. Unlike her introduction of me. Chuckles come from mis cuates in the back of the class, and Brittany is as stiff as a board beside me, as if my words hurt her precious ego.
Brittany Ellis is used to people fawning all over her and she could use a little wake-up call. I give a high five to another Latino Blood named Marcus sitting behind me just as I catch Isa shaking her head as if I did something wrong. I take one look at Colin and with my eyes tell him game on. I have definitely invaded his territory.
Miss Ellis and Mr. Fuentes, please see me after class. Which is it? Brittany reaches out for the notebook paper. Now hurry to your next class. This one, the most popular and coveted one of all, actually cares. She faces me with clear eyes made of ice. I just want to hear from her own lips what her reason is. Your life is too perfect. It reminds me of cookies. I love cookies, so this is not good at all. He resembles a burro, with his big white teeth and ears sticking out from his buzz cut.
I can handle this. I size up Burro Face and his friends to see if I can take them all on, and decide I could give all four a run for their money. Other students are gathering around us, leaving room for a fight that is sure to be fast, furious, and bloody. Little do they know Burro Face is a runner.
Thanks, mamacita. Right back at ya. This is what Adams wants, perfectly planned to get my ass kicked out of school.
Sierra calls them the Fairfield M-factor. Morgan hugs me. Megan opens her locker, which is next to mine, and pulls out her poms. I close my locker and we walk toward the practice field. Seriously, when is that girl not dating someone? When we reach the practice field, our entire squad is sitting on the grass waiting for Ms. Peterson would never allow it. She made that crystal clear. I never go slumming on the south side.
Remember last year when Alyssa McDaniel dated that one guy. Darlene does a little shiver. The south side girls hated har for taking one of their guys and she stopped hanging with us. The confused little couple was on an island all alone.
Thank God Alyssa broke up with him. When Ms. Small tells us to stretch, Sierra nudges Darlene over so she can talk to me. I got called into Dr. Which was ridiculous because nothing happened. He thought I was too scared to tell him the truth. But I am now. Carmen Sanchez can kick my butt any day of the week. She probably practices with weapons, and the only weapon I know how to use is, well, my pom-poms.
Call me crazy but somehow I doubt my poms will scare off a girl like Carmen. Maybe in a word war I could make a good showing, but definitely not in a fistfight. Guys fight because of some primal, innate gene that makes them prove themselves physically.
Maybe Carmen wants to prove something to me, but there is seriously no need. Most people think nothing bothers me. My best friend shakes her head. Now that statement worries me more than the idea of Carmen looking for me. Because I try really hard to keep everyone at a distance.
She let me cry it out, even when I refused to give her details. Small has us get in formation, then plays the custom music made for our squad by the music department while I count off. My body hums to the beat. Music is my drug, the one thing that makes me numb. Small, can we try starting in the broken T position instead of the T position like we previously practiced? Small smiles, obviously pleased with my suggestion. During the transition I want Morgan, Isabel, and Caitlin in the front row.
Remember to keep your shoulders down. Sierra, please make your wrists an extension of your arms instead of bending them. Small plays the music again. The beat, the lyrics, the instruments. As I dance in sync with the other girls, I forget about Carmen and Alex and my mom and everything else.
The song is over too quickly. I still want to move to the beat and the lyrics when Ms. Small turns off her CD player. The second time around is better, but our formation needs work and some of the new girls are having a hard time with the steps.
Small instructs as she hands me the CD player. Isabel is in my group. She kneels down to take a drink from her water bottle. But she has kind eyes.
She nods. I make a point of walking over to a sweating Isabel and telling her what a good job she did today on the routine. A piece of paper is tucked under one of my windshield wipers. I pull it off. Crumpling it up, I shove it into my book bag. He said to wait for him. When Darlene gets to talking about penises and sex, stand back because she never stops. A perfect time to escape. I like being alone. Nobody to put on an act for. I can even blast the music if I want.
Enjoying the music is short-lived, though, when I feel my phone vibrate. I pull my cell out of my pocket. Two voice messages and one text message. All from Colin.
I call him on his cell. I told you I could handle it and you totally ignored me. And you caused a whole scene in the hallway. I just hate that guy. Her head is usually where her feet are, one leg is dangling off the bed. Did my mom check her credentials?
My sister smiles wide when she sees me. You hungry for dinner? As I slip new leak-proof underwear on her and slide her legs into a fresh pair of sweats, Baghda watches from the sidelines. I wheel Shelley into the kitchen. Our usually pristine kitchen is a disaster.
I spoon soupy food into her mouth while I keep talking. Peterson, should be a boot camp instructor. I scanned the syllabus. Because every word that comes out of her mouth is a struggle. My sister shakes her head. My sister loves magazines. I hear the garage door open just as I pull out the notebook paper Mrs. My mom saunters into the kitchen with a Neiman Marcus bag on her arm. Not that my sister cares. My dad walks through the door a minute later, grumbling about work. He owns a computer chip manufacturing company and has prepped us that this is a lean year, but my mom still goes out and buys stuff and my dad still bought me a BMW for my birthday.
He looks tired and worn, as usual. My mom glances at the microwave. My dad walks out of the kitchen. She seems thankful, if her small smile is any indication, for the help. We work side-by-side in silence. I set the table while my mom brings the salad, scrambled eggs, and toast to the table. She mumbles complaints about not being appreciated, but I figure she wants me to listen and not say anything.
Shelley is still busy looking at her magazines, oblivious to the tension between my parents. He plops himself down at his usual spot at the head of the table and spoons eggs onto his plate. No thank you. I need to keep an eye on her. At nine Megan calls to complain about Darlene.
I agree, although I think we already are. Peterson and help my mom put Shelley to bed. I need to hear it from Colin. I want to hear he loves me. I want to hear he missed me. Colin clears his throat. Colin and I have never had sex, period. Phone sex or real sex.
Touch yourself, Brit. Take off your shirt and touch yourself. Not now, at least. You mad? Things that get your heart racing and your blood pumping, you know? Pure adrenaline rush. Get it? He should have thought about that before he took the Big 8 and bounced without paying up. As if Hector would ever let that happen. As if I would ever let that happen. When Hector sends me to collect, I do it. I may not like doing it, but I do it.
Nobody wants to face Chuy. Technically my hands are clean of drugs. Okay, so drug money does touch my hands quite frequently, but I just hand it over to Hector. It makes me a pawn, I know. He likes coming with me. I promise. I need collateral. I eye his car. Or shoot anyone. At the first glance of my Glock, Blake holds out his keys.
Please, no. I toss the keys to him. I always come through. Most of the students at Fairfield eat outside until late October, when the Illinois winter forces us to sit in the cafeteria during lunch period. My friend Lucky, with his oversized red shirt and black jeans, slaps me on the back as he parks his butt next to me with a cafeteria tray balanced on his hand. I swear Brittany Ellis hates you like the plague, man. That one incident cost me a shitload of money having to buy new books.
Knowing her, she had it professionally dyes to match the exact shade of her sapphire eyes. Paco pointed it out yesterday night when we hung out. Come on, Alex. Look at her. Long, shiny hair, aristocratic nose, slightly tanned arms with a hint of muscle in her biceps to make you wonder if she works out, full lips that when she smiles you think world peace is possible if everyone had her smile.
I shove those thoughts from my mind. Call it my defense mechanism. Call it cockiness. Julio is my most prized possession, an old Honda Nighthawk motorcycle. I rescued it from a dump and turned it into a sleek ride. Rebuilding the bike took me forever. Lucky is not backing down. Time to either back down myself or play the game. The most popular white chick at school would sure as hell learn a lot by hanging with me. Easy as a fight between Folks and Peoplerival gangs on a Saturday night.
You know, that give-and-take wordplay that heightens your awareness of the opposite sex. Might even be fun.
I imagine the entire school witnessing the pristine white chick drooling over the Mexicano she vowed to hate. I hold out my hand.
I bet we could make muchos billetes on that thing. We can title it Brittany Goes South of the Border. Stupid, maybe. But not suicide. While the other guys drool over Leticia and talk to her friends, Paco and I are left alone by the tree. Paco nudges me. Nothing like a little foreplay in chemistry class to spark things up. I stare uncomfortably at the food I brought from home. Thanks to Paco everything looks like mierda now. He should seriously know better. As I have that though, I feel something drop on my pants.
Yes, a big blob of wet, gloppy stuff passing as taco mean lands right on the crotch of my faded jeans. I flick the mystery meat off my crotch. A big, greasy stain lingers. I turn back to Paco. I wait at the tree while other kids throw away their lunches and head back inside. Before I know it, music starts playing through the loudspeakers and Paco is nowhere in sight.
Gritting my teeth, I walk to chemistry with my books strategically placed in front of my crotch, with two minutes to spare. I slide onto the stool and push it as close to the lab table as possible, hiding the stain. Brittany walks into the room, her sunshine hair falling down the front of her chest, ending in perfect little curls that bounce when she walks. Instead of that perfection turning me on, it makes me want to mess it all up.
I wink at her when she glances at me. She huffs and pulls her stool as far away from me as possible. Remembering Mrs. Then I turn to the pom-pom chick sitting next to me. No thanks, Alex. You want to interview for the position? She curls her pink-frosted top lip and sneers at me. Tease her into wanting you. She turns away from me. Peterson calls the class to attention. Peterson says as she stands in front of our table and holds out the hat. The thought of Alex controlling the grade I receive in this class is overwhelming me.
Grades to my parents are a reflection of your worth. I reach into the hat and pull out a little white slip of paper. I open it slowly while I bite my lower lip in anticipation. Alex leans over and reads the paper with a confused look on his face. Peterson shoots Alex a warning glare. Now, either ask the question again without using foul language or join me after school. What exactly are hand warmers? We use them to warm our hands.
Through the window, his friend is waving to him. Alex grabs his books and stands. Peterson turns around. Put them back on the lab table. She holds out her hand. Zero tolerance. You want a suspension?
Scowling, he slowly places the bandanna in her hand. Peterson sucks in her breath when she snatches the bandanna from his fingers. The students, one by one, start laughing. Colin laughs the loudest. My greatgrandma has the same problem. I stand up, my stool scraping the floor. Alex is about to say something to me when Mrs.
While Mrs. Peterson is trying to calm the rest of the class, I think about my short-lived success in avoiding Carmen Sanchez. Aguirre clears his throat. The guy is an absolute genius. She glares at Brittany and Colin. Oh, but she was perfectly content watching Mrs. And although it's a complete lie, I've worked my butt off to keep up the appearance that I have it all. The truth, if it were to come out, would destroy my entire picture-perfect image.
Standing in front of my bathroom mirror while music blares from my speakers, I wipe away the third crooked line I've drawn beneath my eye. My hands are shaking, damn it. Starting senior year of high school and seeing my boyfriend after a summer apart shouldn't be so nerve-racking, but I've gotten off to a disastrous start.
First, my curling iron sent up smoke signals and died. Then the button on my favorite shirt popped off. Now, my eyeliner decides it has a mind of its own. If I had any choice in the matter, I'd stay in my comfy bed and eat warm chocolate chip cookies all day.
My first instinct is to ignore her, but that never gets me anything but arguments, headaches, and more yelling.
Finally getting it right, I toss the eyeliner tube on the counter, double and triple check myself in the mirror, turn off my stereo, and hurry down the hallway. My mom is standing at the bottom of our grand staircase, scanning my outfit. I straighten. I know, I know. I'm eighteen and shouldn't care what my mom thinks. But you haven't lived in the Ellis house. My mom has anxiety. Not the kind easily controlled with little blue pills. And when my mom is stressed, everyone living with her suffers.
I think that's why my dad goes to work before she gets up in the morning, so he doesn't have to deal with, well, her. Thank goodness it's off. The smell of my mom's strong perfume stings my nostrils the closer I get. She already looks like a million bucks in her Ralph Lauren Blue Label tennis dress.
No one can point a finger and criticize her outfit, that's for sure. She's coming in an hour. And that she pulls hair? Pulling hair is her new thing, and it has caused a few disasters. Disasters in my house are about as pretty as a car wreck, so avoiding them is crucial. And yes.
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