Spider Tattoo quickens his pace to match mine.

I throw my hand up, hailing the cab, but it doesn’t slow. Bracing myself for this kid to hurl himself at me from behind, I break into an awkward run as the cab passes the front entrance of our school. The Escalade picks up speed.

“Hey!” I scream, my throat burning as I round the brick pillars that lead to the sidewalk.

I glance behind me. Spider Tattoo is closing the gap between us, glaring at me like a bull about to charge. And then, from the corner of my eye, I see red brake lights. The cab stops. I chase after it. Foot throbbing, lungs constricting, I wrench open the back door and plunge inside.

“Where to?” the driver asks, casting a deadpan glance at the frenetic high school escapee in his back seat.

I dig through my purse for my inhaler and give him my address. I peek out the window. Spider Tattoo walks down the sidewalk with his head down, his hands in his pockets like that’s been his plan all along. I’m about to sit back when the Escalade pulls up beside him. Spider Tattoo glances up and glares at me for several prolonged seconds before getting in.

The cab takes off. I collapse against the seat. My breathing is quick and short. Keeping my head low, I risk a peek out the back window. The Escalade turns down a side street and speeds off.

I sink into the faded upholstery and inhale my medication before I have a panic attack and stop breathing altogether.

The cab loops my block a few times as I watch for the Escalade, but the only noticeable cars are two news vans parked outside my house. Hoping it’s left me alone for the time being, I have the driver drop me off near the back alley. Despite the pulsing ache in my foot, I hurry past the first two houses, furtively glancing in all directions with each step. When I reach the fence to my backyard, I lean on its wooden gate and roll my ankle around.

Charlie starts barking. Just as I’m about to scream at him to shut up, a woman’s voice from the other side of the fence says, “Charlie, sit.” She snaps her fingers twice, and the dog is silenced.

Our neighbors never try to quiet Charlie. Or do they have the authority over their own dog to make him stop on command like that.

I lift the latch to our wooden gate and ease it open a tiny slit, ready to turn and run if I see another teenager waiting for me. Instead, sitting on the top of the stairs just outside the French doors to our living room is Emi Vega.