by Shen, L. J.
“I’ve been calling her five times a day and leaving messages,” she whispers hotly in my face. “I wanted to let her know she’d been accepted to the Royal Academy. When the letter never arrived, I called them to check. Everything is in motion now. As I said before, you needn’t worry about the tuition. I’ll be paying the fee.”
My nostrils flare. All this in her future, and she could be lying in a ditch right now. Goddamn Via. Goddamn all pretty, volatile fourteen-year-old girls.
“Well, ma’am, thank you for the gift she’ll never be able to cash in on since we can’t find her,” I respectfully mock her. But we is just me. Mom is out of it—she never really bothered bouncing out of her first drug binge some years ago—and Rhett is probably happy he has one less mouth to feed. When the truancy officer called from school earlier, I told him Via went to my aunt’s, something my mother later confirmed when he showed up on our doorstep. Mom, wild-haired and sucking on a cigarette as if it were an oxygen mask, never once asked if it was true. If I call the police, they’ll dump both our asses in foster care. Maybe together, but probably not. I can’t let that happen. I can’t be separated from Via.
Mrs. Followhill stares at me with an expression as if she just realized she caught a stomach bug. She is probably wondering how I dare speak to her like that. Usually, I’m a bit more user-friendly. Then again, I don’t usually have to deal with a missing sister. I clean my mother’s puke from the walls and close the bathroom door on Rhett when he falls asleep on the toilet seat. I don’t look at grown-ups with the same air of reverence her daughter does.
“Whoa.” That’s all Mrs. Followhill says.
“Thanks for the insight. Have a nice life.” I stand and swagger toward the street. She catches my arm and yanks me back. I twist around to face her.
“My daughter…” She licks her lips, then looks down, looks guilty. The girl is leaning against the Rover, staring at us, chewing on her thumbnail. “My daughter and Via haven’t been getting along. I tried to encourage them to communicate, but the more I pushed them together, the more they seemed to dislike one another. I think I had a letter go missing last week. A letter that could have been…important. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.” She lets out a breath, shaking her head. “I guess I just…I don’t want to know, you know? I hate the fact that my mind is even going there.”
But maybe it should.
The flashback crashes into my memory.
The paper that hissed in her little fist.
Me taking it from her.
Tearing it apart.
Throwing it into the trash can, watching her face blossom into bliss.
Pouring the lemonade on the remains for good measure when her blue eyes twinkled the request.
Setting my sister’s dreams on fire.
Kicking this entire nightmare into motion.
My jaw flexes, and I take a step back. I throw one last glance at the chick, filing her into memory.
Archive under: Shit List.
Revisit document: When I’m able to ruin her.
“So Via’s not with you?” My voice hardens around the words. Like tin. I’m desperate. I have no lead. I want to rip the world apart to find her, but the world is not mine to destroy. The world just continues turning at the same pace, because kids like Via and me? We disappear all the time, and no one notices.
Mrs. Followhill shakes her head. She hesitates, touching my arm. “Hey, why don’t you come with me? I’ll drop Daria off at home, and we can look for her.”
Daria.
I turn around and stalk toward the bus stop, feeling stupid and hateful and alive. More alive than I’ve ever felt. Because I want to kill Daria. Daria made everything fade into the background the first time I saw her, and while I was busy admiring, everything around us burned.
You look like you could use a friend, I told her. Stupid boyish faith. I mentally throw it onto the ground and stomp on it on my way to the bus as it slides to the curb.
Daria was right. I was pathetic. Stupid. Blinded by her hair and lips and sweet melancholy.
Making a beeline to the bus stop, I hear Mrs. Followhill yelling my name behind me in the distance. She knows my name. She knows me. Us. I don’t know why it disturbs me. I don’t know why I still give a fuck that this girl knows I’m poor.
I hop on the first available bus, not sure where it will take me.
As far away from the girl, but not far enough from myself.
The burn in my chest intensifies, the hole around my heart growing bigger, and my grandmother whispers in the back of my mind.
Skull Eyes.
The night before senior year
I spotted you on those bleachers
You looked adorable
Your heart cracking for a guy
Who would love to smash a foot in it and crush it into pieces
Almost Eighteen.
The snake pit is crowded tonight.
It always is when Vaughn fights, and Vaughn always fights. He breaks noses almost as well as he breaks hearts. Breaking hearts, in case you’re wondering, is his second-favorite art. At least six girls have moved to different private schools just to run away from the misery of seeing him gliding through the hallways since he got into All Saints High. He has three more years here, and parents across town are locking their daughters up and shaking with fear.
Every popular guy at All Saints High and our rival school, Las Juntas, in San Diego fights at the snake pit as a rite of passage. This is not my usual scene, but Blythe, Alisha, and Esme dragged me here on the night before school starts. They’re avid Vaughn observers. The jerk spent summer vacation in a studio in Italy sculpting and returned two days ago, so now they need their fix of his beautiful, listless face.
The truth is, Vaughn is too cruel to fall in love, in lust, or even in like. This, however, is a lesson they’ll learn the hard way. I’ll have plenty of fun watching even though I’ll do the whole OMG-sweetie-he-is-so-not-worth-it act.
Side note? He totally is.
“How can someone so violent create such delicate art? He is fuckable to a fault.” Blythe munches on her Little Mermaid red hair as she stares down at Vaughn, who is pacing back and forth on the field, his tattered black clothes clinging to his lean muscles.
Legend claims the snake pit, a deserted football field on the outskirts of San Diego, got its name after a snake plague caused it to be abandoned. The faded, chipped blue bleachers are where the guys are slumped drinking beer. We, the girls, sit with our legs crossed, sipping expensive wine from the bottle and vaping. The Las Juntas crowd sits on the bleachers opposite of us. They don’t wear Swiss brands and drive German cars. They pass half-empty bottles of tequila and rolled-up cigarettes.
“Gross, Blythe, he’s a sophomore.” Alisha, part African-American, part Dutch, and all gorgeous, makes gagging noises beside me.
“Shut up, you would take a full-time job as his reusable condom if he’d have you. You didn’t come here to watch sweaty nobodies get whipped.”
“Who is he fighting, anyway?” I pop my fruity bubblegum, rearranging my dark green velvet minidress on my thighs. My ten shades of shiny blond hair is half-tied into a silky black bow, and I look Pinterest-ready. My winged eyeliner is on point, and my pout is red and matte, creating the perfect film noir effect.
I’m Daria Followhill.
Cheer Captain.
Rich Bitch.
Little Miss Popular.
See something you like? Too bad. I don’t do boys. Men, on the other hand…
“No idea, but I don’t envy him. The fights today have been brutal so far, and Vaughn is the best fighter in the pit, so they usually save him for last.” Alisha examines her manicured fingernails.
“Here comes the meat,” someone hollers three rows down, and we all stand and crane our necks to check out the unfortunate soul going against the Vaughn Spencer. I rise on my tiptoes as the crowd on both sides erupts in barks, pumping their fists. The scent of sweat, alcohol, and dried
blood from the previous fights lingers in the air like a cloud. The twang of human desperation hits my tongue.
I see a tall, well-built figure zigzagging toward Vaughn on the dead field. He is clutching a bottle of what looks like something alcoholic, and his ear-length dark blond hair—or is it light brown? —falls across his forehead. I can’t see his face, but I don’t need to. There’s a hole in his red shirt, right where his heart is, and my hand goes straight to the small piece of sea glass hanging at my throat.
Don’t faint, bitch. You’re wearing a super-short dress.
For the past four years, I’ve become a pro at avoiding Penn Scully. A miracle, considering he is a star football player and I am a cheer captain at schools of the same size and in the same county. So far, we’ve played against each other twice each year. Our teams always make the play-offs, and All Saints is always on the losing end.
I couldn’t face him after everything blew up with Via. Every time we had a game against Las Juntas, I either faked period cramps or slipped into my car before the game was over.
“Someone pinch me.” Blythe claps her hands excitedly. She is wearing a nude-colored cropped shirt to match her pointy nude-pink nails. “Penn Scully, Las Juntas’ wide receiver, is the hottest thing in SoCal. I’ve been wanting to sit on his face for a while now, too. Tonight’s my lucky night.”
“From what I hear, you’re in the business of parking your ass on anything it fits on. Just a heads-up, Vaughn doesn’t like his food fast.” Knight chuckles behind me. I twist my head to face him, arching a brow. I’m just trying to pretend seeing Penn doesn’t make my heart twist in my chest, unchaining itself from its arteries.
A chick I don’t know is sitting in Knight’s lap, trying to hoover his ear into her mouth with her arms slung over his broad shoulders. His legs are spread lazily, and he is wearing a vintage Gucci jacket and white Air Jordans. His jeans are tailor-made for him, and his haircut costs more than my upmarket tote bag.
Knight is gorgeous, and not only does he know it, but he would also advertise it on a billboard if it were possible. Hooded green eyes, dimples as deep as his Casanova gaze, pouty red lips, and a jaw you could cut cheese with. His chestnut brown hair is softer than medieval-themed porn, and everything about him screams hedonism.
We all live on the same cul-de-sac in the same neighborhood, and our parents are best friends. Knight and Vaughn are the closest to each other, practically brothers, which is weird because they are also like fire and ice. Vaughn is a crazy artist with psychotic tendencies, and Knight is the definition of a popular jock.
One is Edward Scissorhands; the other is Zac Efron’s prettier long-lost brother.
“Is your girlfriend going to get pissy when she realizes you came home with crabs? They make pretty useless pets.” I bat my eyelashes sweetly at him. Luna is not his girlfriend although he would die trying. That’s why I never really liked Luna Rexroth. She is the original Via. The girl who created the Hulk inside me. The girl who Vaughn always smiled at and Knight followed blindly. Daddy once laughed that Luna is like a Sicilian nun. Once a year, the nuns appear behind lifted curtains so their families can see and adore them because they miss them so.
“That’s Luna. When she appears, everything stops.”
Yup. And I cease to exist.
“Suck a saggy cock, Dar.” He clamps his joint between his teeth, cupping his hand over it to light it, then blows a chain of gray smoke straight into my face.
“Is that an invitation? Because there’s a pill for your Q-tip of a dick.” I jerk my chin up.
“Baby, my cock is too hard for you to take. The only pills you’ll be needing are three Advil to handle the aftermath of having me inside you.”
“Inside me? In your dreams, Knight Cole.”
“Hard no. In my dreams, I have Luna’s legs wrapped around my waist, and the rest is NC-17. No offense, Tiffanie.” He pats the girl’s ass with the hand holding his Zippo.
“Stephanie.”
“Don’t make it awkward, babe. I forgot you were in my lap until Elsa here pointed it out.” Knight motions to me and laughs.
“Too bad you’re a sophomore, and Luna is a junior. She’ll never date you.” I’m just egging him on. I mean, Luna probably wouldn’t date him, but it’s not because of his age. She’s trapped in her own little universe. She is the sun, and he is the Earth. Always circling around her and getting an inch closer every lifetime even though the burn could ruin him.
He cocks his head to the side, his smile so wolfish, his teeth look pointier than usual.
“Oh brother, if you knew how many of your senior friends gave my cock mouth-to-mouth when they were juniors, you’d have a heart attack.”
A loud, shrieking, “Whoa!” interrupts our banter.
The crowd winces in unison, and we all snap our heads back to the field, watching Penn fall to the ground on his way to the center of the pit. My Marx. They haven’t even fought, and he’s already knocked down on his ass. He looks super drunk. Vaughn is going to kill him before he realizes where he is.
I turn my attention back to Knight.
“You need to tell Vaughn the fight is off.”
“Look who’s got her thong in a twist. Why? You placed a bet with Gus tonight?” Knight is rubbing the girl’s ass, but he’s not into it. He never is. I go crimson, my head so hot it might explode. My hands ball into fists beside my body. I don’t want Penn to end up in a hospital tonight even though he hates me and probably wouldn’t want my concern. Guilt swirls in my stomach as the memory of him tearing up his sister’s acceptance letter plays in my mind.
“Whatever. As if I’d ever talk to Gus voluntarily. But this loser is obviously drunk. Vaughn’s going to slaughter him.”
“He is a huge-ass football player on a team consisting of straight-up gangsters. He can hold his own,” Knight shoots back darkly.
As the starting quarterback of All Saints High, Knight’s had the dubious pleasure of playing against Scully. Rumor has it, Penn is the best in the county. Maybe even the state. Principal Prichard has tried to offer him a scholarship several times so he could join our team, but lucky for me, Penn is the loyal type.
“Knight.” My voice breaks, falling off the cliff of indifference. I’m begging. The girl in his lap shoots daggers at me with her gaze. “Vaughn could get into real shit if this goes south.”
His face morphs from bored to annoyed. He pushes the girl off his lap and hands her the remainder of his joint.
“I’m not going to break it apart because you’re being a vagina, but I’ll go downstairs to make sure these two dicks keep it clean.” He swipes his tongue over his lips, and his tongue ring pokes out.
I look back at the field, and both guys have taken off their shirts. Knight is right. Penn is a far cry from the emaciated boy who gave me the most precious thing in the world four years ago. Muscled, sinewy, and imperial, he has zero percent body fat and bulging arms. A prominent V points down to his holy grail, and by the way my fellow cheerleaders sigh beside me, they’ve noticed it, too. Vaughn is skinnier in comparison. Not that it matters. He has a feline patience you cannot help but admire, and when he’s in his element, I’ve seen him take down guys triple his size without breaking a sweat.
They circle each other, quiet and deadly and serious. Vaughn is expressionless, as per usual. Stoic and calm. Penn looks out of focus, wearing a loony smile on his lips. The glass bottle slips from between his fingers and rolls on the ground, and people burst out with laughter that echoes in my heart.
“Does he fight here often?” I ask no one in particular.
“Nope.” Gus, our football captain who sits two rows down, takes a pull of his beer. His friends beside him are passing a clipboard with names written on it between them. They’ve been placing bets on the fights all night, and this one takes the cake. Gus snatches the clipboard and pushes it into his duffel bag, balling his varsity jacket and stuffing it on top to conceal it. Guess he still thinks it’s a secret that he runs a bettin
g ring. Rumor has it, he makes a small fortune running these bets, and Vaughn—the guy who hates money and everything it represents—gets a cut. Everyone knows what he does with it. Saving so he can open his own studio without touching a dime of his parents’ wealth.
“Penn’s not the get-drunk-and-fight type of dude, and I’ve partied with his school plenty. Something’s up.” He finishes his bottle and rubs his hands together.
Something’s up.
I need to stop this guilt-fest. I’m not responsible for his problems. A different girl—a brave girl—would have faced him by now. Not me. He knows what we did that day and how it led to his sister’s disappearance. I never asked for his forgiveness because—let’s be real—I don’t deserve it.
My breath catches deep inside my throat as the two measure each other on the dead field, their body language a perfect mirror. Vaughn is the first to throw a punch in Penn’s face. It’s a heavy blow, and Penn’s nose bursts with blood. People shriek and suck in a collective breath. Penn stumbles backward, laughing and shaking his head as if he dodged the hit. He licks the blood on the corner of his upper lip, then pounces on Vaughn in a way I’ve never seen before.
Bengal tiger.
I almost forgot how quick and graceful he was. Is. Just like his sister.
Penn jams Vaughn to the ground, locking his knees on either side of Vaughn’s torso, then rains sloppy fists down on his face. Some hit. Some miss. I want to throw up. The crowd is screaming. This hasn’t happened before. Vaughn has taken some serious beatings over the past couple of years, but he’s never been thrown to the ground. Vaughn knows better than to squirm and waste his energy. He learned jiujitsu before he was kicked out of three different classes for being disobedient.
“Spencer! Spencer! Spencer! Spencer!” All Saints High students chant from our side of the bleachers, throwing empty cans of beer to the sidelines. Students from Las Juntas, the other school, remain silent but no less intimidating. They are less prone to public gestures, but I know better than to think they’re any less loyal to their football star.