Occasionally cops came for some other reason. One time a kid brought a switchblade to school and was waving it around like Luke Skywalker with his trusty light saber. Sometimes it was drugs. The teachers didn’t care if kids were using—they knew most of them were. But they would call the police if they saw someone dealing. So yeah, they weren’t there every week, but often enough.
On this particular day, the cop du jour was standing on the edge of the quad with our cowboy-hippie principal, Mr. Price, watching us as we scurried to our classes. Passing period was only six minutes—barely time to stop at your locker and change your books. I had geometry next, and I needed my calculator, so was huffing it down one of the crisscrossing concrete walkways that connected our classrooms. No policeman ever paid attention to me, and I happily returned the favor.
As I was rummaging through my locker, the kids around me suddenly scattered, like fish at the sight of a shark. I thought that was weird, so I turned to look. Cowboy Price was standing five feet from me, eyes cast down like he was looking for his belly button. The cop stood a few steps behind him, looking similarly glum.
Driving around with my mom and dad, if one of them saw a police car, they’d say something like, Careful! There’s a cop ahead! Like he was some kind of dangerous animal. And yeah, some cops are animals. But I never felt nervous around them. Until the day one showed up at my locker.
“Hi, Savannah,” Mr. Price said, hands clasped in front of his fly like an altar boy at church. “Could you come with me to my office?” he said kindly.
“I’m going to be late to second period,” I warned, as if he didn’t know.
“That’s OK,” he said. I didn’t like the way the cop was looking at me, so I asked, “Did I do something wrong?”
Principal Price pressed his lips together, like I had asked him a really difficult question. It was the cop who answered it. “No, Miss. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Then why do they want to talk to me? I suddenly felt the urge to run, but where would I go? Our campus was enclosed by gates with spikes on top, no way in and no way out.
“It’s about your parents,” Principal Price said softly, and the butterflies in my stomach turned to boulders.
“What about my parents?” I asked.
He pressed his lips together again. Then the policeman took off his hat. And I knew that the worst thing that could ever happen to a girl was happening to me.
My calculator clacked to the ground as my knees buckled.
I lurched forward, like I’d been walloped from behind.
Two sets of hands caught me as I fell.
Principal Price knelt down beside me, and then held me as I screamed.
CHAPTER 10
I’ve never had much luck with boys. It’s pretty obvious why. I didn’t get the kind of body that nabs their attention. My mom hit the genetic jackpot with her doubleD’s and twenty-four-inch waist, but me? At sixteen I looked like Slender Man—tall with Barbie-doll arms, no hips, and ice cream scoops for boobs. Yes, Slender Man was a legend in his own time, but no one in their right mind would want to date him.
There was another reason why I never dated. The boys at my old school were lame. Most of them were high all the time. The ones who wanted to be in school—needed to be in school—went straight home, where they spoke Korean or Armenian with their families, and were likely forbidden to so much as talk to me.
So imagine my surprise when a super cute boy on his gap year between high school and going to Harvard （yes, the Harvard） hit me up for my Instagram username after track tryouts. I was a hurdler. I kind of fell into it because of my long legs and freakish flexibility. I started out as a dancer, but my parents couldn’t afford to keep me in ballet lessons, and they didn’t have dance at my old school. So I joined the track team. And to everyone’s surprise—including mine—I kind of became a star.
Calabasas High had a good track team. In gymnastics and dance, if you want to win competitions, you have to do private lessons with bitchy prima ballerinas who poke at your belly （Ribs in!） and stretch your feet until you cry. That costs money. And we never had much of that. But you don’t need pretty feet to win races—you just need to be fast. And speed is free. Sure, you can get stronger legs by doing extra reps in the gym, but we all had access to the gym, and you don’t need Svetlana-who-danced-with-the-Bolshoi to teach you how to power squat. Living on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator gave me daily opportunities to develop my quads, and being perpetually late meant I often took the stairs two or three at a time. Rich girls don’t have to run for the bus. Which once again meant, advantage: me.