by Shen, L. J.
While you were worried about me
I fucked your friend from cheer
She gave me a BJ and a beer
I still hate you, make no mistake
And would love nothing more than to see your pretty neck break
I kick the small pile of cigarette butts aside and light a new one.
Technically, I was supposed to quit smoking by the beginning of senior year. Coach Higgins threatened to kill me if he found out I broke that promise. But technically, I will no longer be playing football or get to lead my team as captain, seeing as I have nowhere to live—not even a car—so school is definitely not a top priority right now. Getting a full-time job, on the other hand, is. Now it’s just a matter of finding out which bridge I can crash under until I scrape together enough to pay for a motel.
Happy fucking birthday to me.
The thing about living on the wrong side of the tracks is that your friends live there, too, and they all have a good excuse why they can’t take you in. They’re too poor, their places are too small, or their stepdads are also dicks. Boo-fucking-hoo. Still beats my current situation as I sit on a stair leading to Rhett’s front porch with my duffel bag, in which he packed all my worldly possessions.
I shove my bag to the side. Light as a feather.
I let the lit cigarette dangle between my lips as I scroll through the contacts on my phone. Glass half full: I’m so worried about where I’ll sleep tonight, I don’t even feel my swollen face, cut lip, most likely fractured rib, and growling stomach.
It’s the little things in life and so forth.
Crashing at the Ortiz girl’s place again tonight is a big, fat no. For one thing, her parents are coming back from their Caribbean vacation. For another, sleeping my way to a roof over my head is bullshit. Not the actual fucking part, obviously. Just the feeling like a whore portion.
I’m just about to hit the call button on Kannon’s name—his parents have a backyard shed—when a brand-new Range Rover rolls to the curb and stops in front of me. I don’t lift my head. It’s probably Rhett’s boss collecting drug money. I hear the driver’s door open, and five seconds later, a woman in a floral sundress and mud-colored hair is standing above me, staring at me through huge sunglasses. The kind that makes chicks look like flies.
“Can I help you?” I squint up, billowing a cloud of smoke directly in her face just to be a little fuck. It’s high time I justify the pet name Rhett gave me.
“Unlikely, but I can help you. Grab your things. You’re coming with me.” She takes her sunglasses off and looks at me as if she’s been waiting for this moment her entire life or something.
I slant my head, gliding my eyes along her body. What the fuck is her deal? I probably ask it out loud because she actually answers.
“We met once. My name is Melody Followhill. I was your sister’s ballet teacher. My daughter told me your mother passed away yesterday.”
She then tells me that she is sorry for my loss. That she understands it seems out of left field, but she always loved my twin like she was her own kid, blah, blah, blah. Bottom line: she lost Via, and she doesn’t want another Scully kid to fall through the cracks.
What a fucking saint. Mother Teresa—right behind you.
A lot of things are going through my head. The first one being I don’t need her pity. The second one is that, technically, I do. The third one is I hate her daughter and taking anything from her family would feel a lot like selling my soul to the devil. The fourth is living under no roof is going to suck even more ass than sharing a house with Satan. Fighting shit is my MO right now. It’s in my system. I trust adults just a little less than I trust a drunken, crystal meth-using gambler. When given an offer or opportunity, I always look for the minefields. This woman can’t blaze into my life with her expensive ride and save my ass without expecting something.
“Mrs. Followhill, have your children ever gone missing at the mall or in a park?” I call her Mrs. Followhill because if I inherited one thing from my runaway crazy-ass grandma, it’s good manners.
“Of course.”
“How long did it take you to find them?”
She pauses before she answers because she knows where this is going. I lift a questioning eyebrow.
“Twenty-five minutes,” she admits. “The worst half hour of my life.”
“Then it suffices to say you didn’t love my sister like she was your own. She’s been missing for nearly four years now, and your ass showed up only two minutes ago, making grand announcements like a presidential candidate.”
“Four years.” She looks around her, drinking in the torn chain-link fences, cracked concrete, and boarded windows. “You still don’t know where she is?”
After the truancy officer poked Mom, Rhett finally came up with a story about Via moving in with my dad. It’s an interesting angle, considering no one knows where he is, least of all Via. Rhett went as far as faking a shit-ton of paperwork. Then he proceeded to beat my semi-unconscious mother for recklessly giving birth to kids she had no intention of raising. “As motherly as a stray cat,” he spat in her face while tromping his way out the door. The fact was, Via disappeared with zero repercussions from the system, thanks to Mrs. Followhill’s daughter. And me.
“Take a wild guess.” I flash her a sardonic smile.
She squares her shoulders, narrowing her eyes at me. “All right. Get up, Penn.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“You’re anything but.” She shoves her outreached hand in my face. “Stand up.”
I laugh at that because I can. Because I’m eighteen years old and no one but a complete stranger wants to claim my ass. Because my mother died yesterday of an overdose (I’ll give her one thing—perfect timing), yet I feel absolutely nothing. She hasn’t been present in my life for as long as I can remember. Over the past two years, we’ve barely exchanged six sentences in total. Rhett didn’t shed a tear. Just told me to pack my two and a half belongings and leave, adding that he hadn’t screwed her in a year, and I should be grateful he let me stay beyond her expiration date.
“Penn, you need to come with me.” Melody is snapping her fingers in my face now. I blanked. Guess that happens when you don’t sleep for two nights straight.
“I do, huh?” I don’t know why I’m smiling. I’m in so much shit even her manicured hand can’t pull me out of it. “Remind me why?”
“The alternative is couch-surfing and slipping at school. By the way, today is the first day of class. If everything were fine, you’d be there. And you’re officially not the state’s problem. Even if you do find temporary places to stay, you’ll move around constantly, which will make it difficult to practice or even get a job. You will have no funds to sustain your football career—that is, if you move somewhere where they have a football team, and if they’ll even let you try out for a position. Not to mention, according to your file, you’re the team captain. Why lose your position? You’re going to get drafted to a D1 college if you keep it up. Complete your senior year while staying with us, and we’ll go our separate ways if that’s what you want. But at least give yourself the chance to succeed. Don’t turn this opportunity down because of your pride.”
She knows a lot about my life, but it doesn’t surprise me. Being a kid from around here, your file gets tossed around like beer pong.
“You and your sister both have more athletic talent in your pinkies than I’ve ever seen,” she adds.
“So, what, I’m going to live at your place, and we’re going to play fucking house for a year?” I crack my knuckles.
“We’re not going to play anything. We are a family. And you are welcome into it.”
“Put a lid on it, ma’am. You sound like a This Is Us episode.”
I should stop. That much I know. I’m throwing away a golden opportunity. My stupid ego will make sure I end up without a scholarship and a roof, but I’m not ready to cave in yet. I have nothing against Melody Followhill. Her daughter, on the other hand, is a differe
nt story.
“We’ll make it work.” She offers me her hand again. I don’t take it. Again.
She nudges her hand an inch closer to my face.
“Whatever your reservations are, we can work them out. I’d like to help you find your sister.”
My sister is dead, I’m tempted to say, but hell if I need another dose of pity. It’s only an assumption but an educated one. No way Via is alive and hasn’t sent me a letter, or a text, or picked up the goddamn phone in four years.
“Good luck with that.”
“I don’t need luck. I have money.”
I inspect her to see if she is for real. She doesn’t make any apologies for being rich. I see where her daughter got the superiority complex. It stinks on Mrs. Followhill, but it positively reeks on her baby girl.
“Get your duffel bag,” she commands.
When I stay put, she grabs it herself and heads to her Rover. After tossing it in her back seat, she throws the passenger door open.
“Fine. Stay here. You’re not getting your things back. You officially own nothing.”
I finally get up and get in, not looking back at Rhett’s house. My hand hovers over the leather seats, not touching.
Fuck.
“You’ll kick me out in an hour,” I comment dryly.
“Try me, Scully.”
I dig my fingernails into the leather seats, fascinated with how beautiful the imperfect indents of my nails look on them. When she starts the engine, I light a cigarette and roll the window down.
One last chance to change your mind, lady.
“Those cigarettes are going to kill you.” She pushes her sunglasses up her nose and raises her chin. She’s bold, this one.
“Good. The fuck are they waiting for?”
I don’t know what I’m expecting. A lecture, a scowl. A punishment? Maybe some yelling. It’s been a while since I’ve been parented.
But what I see in my periphery amuses me. A smile tugs at her lips.
“You have sass. You and my daughter, Daria, will get along just fine.”
She has no idea how wrong she is, but she sure is about to find out.
You poured misery into me
Let it simmer for a while
And now it is time for you to taste
What you’ve created
I slide my journal on the edge of Principal Prichard’s desk and step back. He doesn’t raise his head from the documents he is reading, a frown stamped on his face. I rub my sweaty palms along my skirt. He licks his forefinger and flips a page in the brochure he’s reading. It’s a grown-up quirk that reminds me he is twenty years my senior.
That what we’re doing is wrong.
I wrote my first ever entry in my little black book the day we did what we did to Via. The day I realized I wasn’t just a mischievous kid, I was a mean girl. Since then, the notebook has become jammed-packed with entries.
I take it with me everywhere like a dark cloud over my sunshine hair, and at night, I sleep with it under my pillow. It harbors my not-so-Instagram-worthy moments. Things only Principal Prichard and I know. How I cut Esme’s Disney princess hair in her sleep when we were fifteen at a sleepover. How I had my mom adopt the stray cat Luna wanted just to make her jealous.
How I ruined Via’s life.
“Back so soon?” His tone is ruthlessly bored. It anchors me to the ground, reminding me of how little and unworthy I am.
Instead of answering, I turn around and lock his door. Behind my back, I hear the soft thud of his pen hitting the document and know he is setting his reading glasses down where the pages meet because I’ve seen this movie a thousand times before.
A chill runs down my spine.
Principal Prichard is attractive in the way powerful men usually are. In a symmetrical, clinical way. His hair is velvet black—almost bluish—and his nose is as sharp as a knife. A constant scowl knots his forehead like Professor Snape, and although he is not particularly tall or muscular, he is slender and well-dressed enough to pull off the James Bond look.
Prichard and I, we go back. Our first encounter occurred a few days after Via disappeared when I was still in middle school. Our counselor was on her honeymoon, so when I broke down in tears, my teacher directed me to the principal’s office. Prichard was attentive, and nice, and young. He gave me tissues and water and a free pass from PE on cardio day.
I told him I made a terrible mistake, and I didn’t know how to tell my mom. When he asked me what happened, I handed him my journal and twiddled my thumbs as he read it. Confessing it aloud would have made it too real.
After he read my first entry, he put the notebook down.
“Do your parents punish you, Daria?”
“No,” I said honestly. What did that have to do with Via? She was missing, and it was all because of me. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops and take it to my grave in the same breath. I was hoping he’d push me in the right direction.
“Do you have any house rules?” He drummed his fingers on his desk.
I guessed I couldn’t puke in my sister’s shoes, but nothing was written or anything. I blinked at him, confused.
“No.”
“I think what you need more than anything else”—he stopped drumming, leaning forward—“is to be disciplined.”
That’s how our story began. The Years of Daria and Principal Prichard. When I moved to All Saints High, he moved with me. For him, it was a promotion. For me, it was a relief. Principal Prichard—dubbed Prince Preach at All Saints for his regal handsomeness—is the person I turn to for my atonements.
Every time I feel guilty, he makes me pay, and the pain goes away.
“Turn around and face me.” His metallic voice rolls down my spine now.
I do.
“On your knees.”
I lower myself.
“Bend your head and say it.”
“I am Daria Followhill, and this is my church. You are my priest, and to you, I confess all my sins and atone for them.”
After my visit to the principal’s office, I splash cold water on my face in the bathroom and wonder what my chances are of looking like nothing happened.
Finding out I was assigned to the class my mother taught at All Saints High was the whole reason I ran to him in the first place. It creeps me out that I wouldn’t exist if my parents hadn’t met in this place. And it makes my skin crawl that everyone around me can practically imagine my parents getting it on over Miss Linde’s desk.
I don’t remember when I started nurturing the rumors about Principal Prichard and me, but I sure remember why.
“Aren’t you the result of a sordid affair between a student and a teacher? Your dad knocked your mom up when he was a senior, and his mom forced him to marry her?”
A senior girl who looked like Regina George cornered me in the restrooms on the first day of my freshman year. She was armed with three other goons who looked like carbon copies of the least good-looking Kmart catalog model.
One of them shoved me against the wall.
“Bitch, I don’t care who you think you are. Here, you’re just an accident with a skirt, and if you’re gonna walk these halls thinking you’re all that, we’ll make sure everyone knows it,” she spat out.
I tilted my chin up, wiping the traces of her saliva from my face.
“My parents got married before I was conceived. My grandma actually hated the idea of my mom and dad being together. In fact, she still does, and we’re not close with her. I only see her once a year even though we live in the same town. I’m telling you this, not because I think you care, but because if you’re going to be a bitch, better not be a dumb one. When talking shit, at least be factual. Not that it’s going to help you. I came here to run this place, and guess what? You’re already feeling threatened.”
That earned me a slap in the face. I smiled, keeping my tears at bay. I got it. I was about to take their place. I was going to make the cheer team, whether they liked it or not, because even though I was a
crappy ballerina, I was a damn good dancer. I would date their boyfriends, wear their dresses better, and drive a fancier car. No one likes to come face to face with their 2.0 version. It’s always fancier and includes all the upgrades.
“Better not get comfortable, Followhill. We’re after your ass.” The brunette spat phlegm onto my powder pink lace-up heels.
I realized early on that I needed armor against my parents’ reputation.
The only way I could protect myself from the fire was by creating a bigger blaze. If they thought I was untouchable, they’d fear me instead of taunt me. If they thought the hard-nosed principal had my back—or had me on my back, for that matter—I would not be messed with. So I nurtured the rumors, made them grow, gave them wings, and let them fly, like butterflies from a Mason jar.
I’m smart, cunning, and understated. I don’t actually tell anyone we’re dating. I just keep going to Principal Prichard’s office, and he always opens the door because whatever we are—he likes it.
He likes it a whole freaking lot.
Halfway through my journey down the hallway, I decide to cut myself some slack and ditch my last two periods. They’re electives, anyway. Fifteen minutes later, I park my cherry-red convertible BMW by the patio fountain in front of my house and head straight upstairs to the shower. I need to wash my hair and look presentable for dinner, during which I will feign shock when my parents tell me that Penn will be staying with us. If Mom can even convince him to live under the same roof as me. Then I’ll corner the bastard and lay down the rules. Guilty or not, I run this show. Mom’s Rover is nowhere in sight, which means the house is empty. Tiptoeing in, I confirm the coast is clear, then head to the bathroom. I dump my white mini skirt on the floor and let my baby blue cropped shirt follow suit. My phone lights up on the marble counter.
Blythe: Ditching school on the first day? #savage
Gus: Nice of you to stand up for the Scully kid. Wanna slum it up with a hood rat? How about try one who’s not TAKEN.
Esme: Dude, your thighs look hella thick in that skirt. I know you’re a base, but there’s a limit. Abort mission or abort tacos. Your pick. :/