I don’t know whether to laugh of gag. Create a better future? What kind of hippie, touchy-feely nonsense is that? No principal just forgets a student’s criminal past.

“Now.” Principal Ben pushes back from his desk, stands, and grabs my folder. “Let’s get your class schedule from Agnes.”

As he crosses to the door, Mom leans over to me. “He’s giving you a chance, Sloane.” She pushes to her feet. “Don’t blow it.”

Way to be encouraging, Mom.

I follow them into the main office, where Principal Ben is handing my folder to a young man behind the reception desk, and a middle-aged woman with dreadlocks is pulling something off the printer.

“Pssst.”

I turn at the sound and see Tru sitting in a red knockoff Mies van der Rohe chair by the door. Unlike the tee and jeans he wore last night for his rooftop acrobatics, today he looks like he’s auditioning for a J-Pop boy band. Black pants and blazer, white dress shirt with the top three buttons undone, and a skinny black tie that hangs loose and low over his chest. I can’t fault him for his color palette.

His hair still looks like it proudly defies all grooming attempts.

Seeing him only confirms what I suspected last night: he is too attractive for his own good. As if his ego needs the boost. Where last night’s moonlight threw his features into sharp geometry, the light of day softens the edges. Transforms dark and edgy into movie star perfect. Like he should be in Hollywood, filming the latest teen-book-into-movie instead of whatever he’s doing in the NextGen office.

Even the harsh glare of the fluorescents doesn’t diminish his beauty.

The earnest look on his face almost makes me smile. Almost.

But then an image of Brice flashes in my mind, of his face with that same earnest expression that made me believe in him, that suckered me in. I won’t fall for that act again.

Besides, the last thing I need, just when Principal Ben is giving me a clean slate and Mom is giving me a chance to earn my way back to New York, is to be seen talking to Tru.

I spin to face the counter, showing him my back.

“Whitaker,” he hisses.

I discretely flash him the finger.

“Here you go,” Principal Ben says, handing me a freshly printed paper. “Your class schedule.”

I scan the lineup. Most of the classes are expected. Core subjects, like modern lit, chemistry and trig, and my art specialties, advanced graphic design and 3D rendering.

Classes at NextGen are on a block schedule, with the basic core classes meeting Monday-Wednesday-Friday and the art classes on Tuesday-Thursday with a big free block for studio time or study help.

“What’s this?” I ask, pointing at the last class on my core day schedule.

“Ah, senior seminar,” Principal Ben says, grinning. “That is our experimental class. Taught by a different teacher each year, every class is created collaboratively and unique to the student makeup.”

I blink at him, trying not to wince.

“Trust me,” he says, patting me on the shoulder. “You’ll love it.”

Mom grins bigger than Principal Ben. “It sounds wonderful.”

“Here’s a map,” Agnes, the woman with dreadlocks, says, slipping a green paper over my schedule. “I’ve marked all of your classrooms.”

“Thanks.”

“And your locker is here,” she says, pointing to a star on the map. Then at a sequence of numbers at the bottom. “That’s your combination.”

I nod. “Looks like I have everything I need.”

Principal Ben pats me on the shoulder. “Kyle, let’s see if we can find someone to show Sloane around,” he says to the guy behind the counter.

Kyle glances at the clock. “The office assistants should be here any minute.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I say, not wanting to be shackled with the welcoming committee. “I’m good with maps. I’m sure I can—”

“I can give Sloane the grand tour,” Tru says, suddenly appearing at my side.

My entire body tenses.

Mom scowls as she takes in the rumpled clothes, the messy tie, the careless hair. He must be her picture-perfect example of a bad seed.

Principal Ben doesn’t seem to have the same qualms. “Thank you, Truman,” he tells Tru. Then to me, “You’re in good hands. No one knows the school better.”

Tru’s smile is even more blinding in the daylight.

I see how it is. Tru is one of those guys who has all the adults—except his parents, obviously, and mine—eating out of the palm of his hand. Uses his charm and good looks to make sure no one sees beneath the surface. Principal Ben looks like he wants to give him a medal of honor.

“Great,” I say with no enthusiasm.

Tru bends in a half bow, his arm extended dramatically toward the hall. “After you, neighbor.”

I roll my eyes and start for the door.

Mom grabs my elbow. “Don’t forget our deal,” she whispers.

“I won’t.” My only chance of getting back to New York before college? I’m definitely not blowing that.

Chapter Three

The moment we are past the glass walls of the office—aka out of sight from Mom and Principal Ben—Tru grabs the schedule out of my hand. When I try to snatch it back, he wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me close on one side while holding the schedule away to the other.

“Jackass,” I mutter as I elbow him in the ribs.

“Let’s see,” he says, ignoring both my physical and verbal jabs. “Advanced graphic design and 3D rendering on art day. Modern lit with— oh, Lufkin is a total windbag, but he’s a pushover on grading.”

Since Tru has several inches on me, and clearly my elbow assault is having no effect, I twist myself out of his arm and let him have the damn schedule. I don’t need it to get to my first class. It’s Tuesday, which means art block, and I start in advanced graphic design.

I scan the map Agnes gave me. Several buildings make up the campus, all arranged around a central lawn. It feels more like a small college than a high school.

I’m looking for something that indicates where my first class might meet.

“Trig with Martinez will be the hardest class of your life,” Tru continues as if I’m paying attention. “Danziger loves chemistry far more than any human should, and senior seminar is a bunch of touchy-feely find-yourself bullshit, but at least it’s a cakewalk.”

He hands back my schedule and then oh-so-casually jumps up to smack the exit sign hanging from the ceiling as we pass by a door that leads to a concrete courtyard.

“Visual arts are in Sushi Hall.”

“Sushi Hall?”

What kind of building name is that? I don’t see it listed anywhere on the map.

“Building C,” Tru explains. “They all have nicknames.”

Building C. I find it on the map. The last building on the right, in the southeast corner of the campus.

“The six academic buildings are officially Buildings A through F,” he says. “But we Austinites could never conform to something so pedestrian as alphabetical naming.“

I shake my head as we keep walking.

“Good morning, Mr. Dorsey,” a middle-aged woman says. Black chopsticks poke out of her blue and green dyed hair.

“Morning Ms. Getty.” He leans in to give her a quick peck on the cheek. “I dig the new colors.”

Ms. Getty blushes and makes a shooing gesture. “I’ll see you in cinematography this afternoon.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

We round a corner into another hallway, and I can’t help but be a little bit in awe of the charmer beside me. After everything Mom said about Tru, I expected an unrepentant troublemaker who was on every teacher’s and administrator’s shit list. Is it possible that the unrepentant troublemaker has actually reformed into an honest-to-goodness good guy?

No way. I’ve known enough bad boys in my life to know that they never change their ways.