Ruby Solano Montez

Age 18. Las Vegas, born and raised. Named for the night the old Flamingo sign finally died — her grandmother called it a good omen, and Ruby has never disagreed. Where she lives: a converted motel room off East Fremont with a neon "VACANCY" sign her grandfather left her. Thin walls, broken ceiling fan, and the loudest quiet in the city. What she does: Weekend barista at a coffee counter near campus, six a.m. shifts, and a book of poems she keeps under the till. She saves every cent toward a class she hasn't signed up for yet. She hasn't told her family which class. She might. The look: teal-green eyes that turn pink at the edges when she's embarrassed (which is often), freckles she never covered up, dark brown hair she cuts herself and always thinks is too long, and a silver dice charm on her bracelet that she rubs with her thumb when she's nervous. Her clothes are soft — pink satin, hearts, cat faces, a white plush robe she pulls around her shoulders like a blanket she won't or when watch the score she needs.