by Shen, L. J.
I roll my eyes, stabbing a piece of chicken and dragging it in white sauce.
“So since we’re addressing the subject,” Mel says, carefully placing her utensils on her plate, “Daria, Bailey. Penn’s been going through some dark moments recently. We thought it would be a good idea to have him here during his senior year before he goes off to college.”
“His senior year? It’s my senior year! And don’t you mean if he goes to college,” I add, throwing all caution to the wind. He’s been horrible to me, so why shouldn’t I be horrible to him? I get that I hurt him. That we both did something terrible four years ago. But he didn’t even give me a chance to apologize or explain. All eyes snap to my face, other than Penn’s. He digs into his steak, chewing on a juicy piece.
“Based on his grades and performance on the football field, I can assure you that Penn is on his way to Notre Dame on a scholarship.” Melody sends me a tight, this-is-not-how-Followhills-conduct-themselves smile. She hates it when I’m Hulky and spiteful.
“What happened?” Bailey makes a face to Penn.
“My mom passed away,” he explains. Bailey shoots her gaze to me as though I’m the one who killed her. Consequently, I want to die.
“At any rate”—Dad’s eyes narrow on me—“should you girls like to voice any concerns or issues, our door is always open.”
Bailey looks over at Penn, then down at her lap.
“I always wanted a big brother. Is that what you’ll be?”
I choke on my water, spitting some of it onto my plate. Is she freaking kidding me? She is thirteen. Who talks like that? Bailey. Bailey talks like that. She’s goodness and sunshine wrapped in a pink bow. A straight-A student and her mommy’s beloved ballerina. She and Luna volunteer to clean beaches and fold secondhand clothes for charities every summer break.
Penn slides into our lives effortlessly, and no one notices how uncomfortable it makes me feel. Or how he still hasn’t acknowledged my existence since we sat down.
He takes a sip of his water.
“Are you accepting applicants?”
I roll my eyes so hard, I’m afraid they’ll end up on my plate. His smile widens behind his glass.
“Job’s yours.” Bailey’s eyes light up. “We could go bowling!”
“We could, but we won’t because it’s lame,” Penn deadpans.
“Totally lame.” She snickers, breathless.
“But I see you’re a reader.” He gestures with his chin to the stack of books piled on the coffee table in the living room. Bailey is a bookworm. She loves poetry. Another reason she is my personal 2.0 version.
“There’s an open mic place in San Diego where people read their poems. It’s pretty rad, and they serve a sick apple pie there. We could go. Your parents can come, too.”
Everyone grins as though they’re starring in a toothpaste commercial. No one realizes he failed to extend the invitation to me. I slam my water glass on the table. I am ignored. Maybe I’m like the boy who cried wolf. So snappy and short all the time that when I actually have a reason to be pissed, no one gives a damn.
“This is the best,” Bailey says at the same time Mel jumps into practicalities.
“You don’t have a car, Penn. Since you’ll need to commute to San Diego every day, you’re not going to argue with me about this next thing.”
Penn shoots her a look I don’t think I’d ever be able to get away with. Part murderous, all infuriated.
“Is this the part where you’re getting me a car? Because I’m not a toy boy.”
“Already did.” Dad shrugs, popping a piece of steak into his mouth. “It’s nothing fancy, and I forgot to extend my warning about not touching my daughters to my wife, too—that toy boy remark almost cost you your nose.”
“Fine. Correction: I’m not a charity case.” Penn stabs his steak so hard, the dead cow is almost groaning in pain.
“Are you sure about that?” I drone, swirling the water in my glass. “Because you look and dress like one.”
“Daria,” Mel snaps.
Bailey shakes her head at me.
I hate this. I hate him. And I hate that I’m showing off my fake colors, the bitchy ones, in all their insecure glory when he’s around.
Penn pretends he didn’t hear me and steals a Brussels sprout from Bailey’s plate.
“Thank Marx.” She laughs. “I hate them. Do you know you have a hole in your shirt?”
I want to tell her that it’s intentional. Symbolic. Because he always has one, no matter when and where I see him or what he’s wearing. Instead, I count the pepper bits on my piece of chicken.
My sister and I aren’t close.
“There’s a story behind it,” he says.
“A good story?” she asks.
“I don’t have any other types of stories.”
“Let me show you your new car, son,” Dad says. Son.
I roll my eyes to keep from crying.
Marx, this is going to be a long freaking year.
You are beautiful like a song
Ugly like a scream
But beneath your pretty bones
You’re lost from deep within
I want to dig inside the fissures of your soul
Pull out all your secrets
Dump them at your feet
Then devour your expression
For your pain shall taste so sweet
In the morning, I find a green apple with one discolored bite taken out of it on my desk when I wake up. It sits on my open history textbook where a passage has been highlighted, the yellow marker beside it.
The Romans brought apples with them when they invaded Britain.
I want to rip down the walls in the house and scream until I faint.
I settle, however, for skipping breakfast and going straight to school.
Now, in the cafeteria, I’m mostly trying to breathe regularly and survive.
“Artists aren’t team players. Only a true individualist can give birth to something of their own. You need to be both the egg and the sperm to create a masterpiece.” Blythe stands on a cafeteria bench, delivering a theatrical speech. Across the room sits Vaughn, the unaware subject of her lecture. Sitting all by himself, he sketches his next statue on a pad.
“Shit, Blythe, you even make sex sound sad.” Knight yawns.
Vaughn doesn’t eat. Like, ever. I mean, he obviously does—otherwise, he wouldn’t exist—but not in front of people. He doesn’t seem to do a lot of stuff other people do to exist. I think that’s what makes him legendary between these walls. He never goes into the restrooms at school. He doesn’t participate in PE classes. If he hangs out with a girl, you only know about it after he breaks up with her because the crazy bitch vandalizes his locker or desk or mansion. That’s the other thing—Vaughn can hang out with perfectly sane girls and turn them into bunny boilers. But the fact Vaughn refuses to choose a table and affiliate himself with a crowd? I think that’s the cherry on his popularity cake. He can sit anywhere. It’s like the world is his oyster, but he doesn’t do seafood.
“What do you know about artists?” Gus snorts, tossing half his egg and tuna sandwich at Blythe. He’s sitting on the table with his feet on the bench. It’s gross and unnecessary, but I’m not in the mood for an argument.
Blythe catches the sandwich and plops down with a grin, tearing apart the plastic wrap.
“I know they’re good with their hands. Something you’re not.”
She rips a bite off the sandwich and rolls her eyes. “Hmm, so good.”
Esme curls her long raven hair over her finger, popping her gum.
“Not to be impolite, but you guys bore me to death. Cole, go tell Vaughn to come here.”
Busy scanning the room for Luna, Knight’s neck is still craned as he answers her.
“Damn.” He pats the pockets of his jeans, then checks the pockets of his golden Gucci jacket. “I can’t find it.”
“Can’t find what?” Esme blinks.
“The memo wher
e I start taking orders from your sorry ass.”
Everyone laughs. Even I have a smile on my face.
“C’mon, Knighty. We just want to hear about Vaughn’s summer in Italy.” Blythe tosses her hair and bats her eyelashes. I swear she would flirt with the priest officiating her funeral. Bitch is unreal.
“Please, girl. Miles from the chess club could take a trip to outer space and make a historical stop on the sun, and you still wouldn’t give him a minute of your time.” Esme laughs. She and Blythe are best friends, and she knows how much Ortiz adores Vaughn Spencer.
“Yo, Daria,” Gus hollers, and my head snaps from the salad I’ve been abusing with my plastic fork for the past ten minutes. “You’re quiet.”
And you’re surprisingly observant for once in your miserable life.
“Miss Linde is all up in my grill.” I shrug.
It’s not even a lie. Bitch hates my guts. And I loathe sitting in her class, where my parents started screwing each other. I’d ask to move, but I would have to go through the guidance counselor, and she’s already trying to corner me to investigate the Principal Prichard rumor. I don’t want Prichard to get in trouble. Then I have Penn, public enemy number one, living under the same roof. This year was supposed to be my last hurrah before going off to college, and it started as a disaster.
“Do you want to make yourself useful?” Gus licks his lips. Did I mention he’s gross? Oh. Right. Literally a second ago.
“To you?” I give him a slow once-over, stroking my chin. “Only if it involves a huge makeover followed by a nice feast of humble pie.”
Gus is a beefy, blond, all-American dudebro with a superhero jaw and wide-set, generic blue eyes, making him look like a shaved alpaca. If this were a ’90s movie, he would be the villain. Come to think about it, he already is. In addition to managing the betting ring at the snake pit, he also has a strict bed ’em and dump ’em policy that landed him in hot water with some of the parents here. And while I’m a porcupine—mean when provoked—he is a kangaroo. A straight-up bully with no direction or reason. I remember when my parents took us on a trip to Australia, and we were warned about driving at night in open areas because the kangaroos jumped onto the road to scare off vehicles. That’s Gus. Aggressive and stupid.
The only people he’s nice to are Knight, his shining quarterback hero who saves most of our games, and Vaughn, the golden egg laying hen who shows up at the pit every weekend ready to be jumped by three gang members and an F-22 Raptor.
People snicker at my comment. The table is full of football players and cheerleaders. Knight finally spots Luna across the room and slides out of our bench.
“See you later, assholes. It’s been real. Well, other than Esme’s tits.” He ambles away. Esme’s mouth goes slack, and she cups her boobs, clad in a colorful D&G dress, shifting her gaze from them to him.
Luna Rexroth refuses to sit with us. One time, when Knight was away, Gus made fun of her at the table for not talking. I didn’t stop him, and I still feel bad about that. She’s a persona non grata and isn’t worth fighting over, but she still didn’t deserve his wrath.
“Useful how, Gus?” Esme munches on the tip of a carrot, shifting the conversation from her fake tits, her eighteenth birthday gift from her parents, back to me.
“Word is Penn Scully’s paying us a visit after school to warn us off from pulling any shenanigans ahead of the game. Last year, All Saints killed the grass in Las Juntas’ field, and the broke ass pussies didn’t have anywhere to play for weeks. I figured Daria can play Judge Judy since she wants to tap it.”
My heart starts pounding so hard and fast, I feel it in my toes. Behind my eyeballs.
Marx, Marx, Marx.
“Scully?” I snort. “Hmm, no thanks.”
“Is that why you screamed when Vaughn knocked his ass to the ground?” Gus cocks his head.
“He was piss drunk. I was just worried about Vaughn getting in trouble.”
Gus runs his pale eyes over my face, his smirk unwavering. He leans forward and taps my nose with his finger.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Good thing I don’t exist to live up to your expectations.” I open an invisible mirror, giving him my middle finger. More laughter. It might look as if I’m in my element, but I’m totally flustered underneath my cute sundress and lacy black pumps.
“Prove it today at three.”
“Pass, jackass. I have cheer practice. Also, a life.”
“The whole point of cheer is to help the football team,” Esme argues, simply to defy me. She’s still butthurt about me getting cheer captain. But the thing about Esme is she fat-shames everyone into believing they can’t consume anything more than Diet Coke. Nobody wants her to be in charge of the homecoming snack menu, let alone the cheer team.
“No can do, señor douchebag.” I grab an apple from his tray and take a bite before I realize what I’m doing.
“Cheer practice is at three thirty. You’ll make it.” Blythe munches on her lower lip. Marx, I hope teenage girls grow out of the need to form alliances with The Boys Club.
“Fine. Whatever.” I stand, grabbing my red plastic tray. Sauntering out of the cafeteria, I swallow the ball of tears in my throat. I don’t want to face Penn. I know it’s stupid because we live together now, and it’s inevitable, but I hate the look on his face when his eyes land on mine. He sees past my exterior and that scares me.
The rest of the school day is a dud even though I keep my head up and my smile extra glossy. It doesn’t help that Blythe and I show up in the same Reformation dress, and all I could think was that we also share the same taste in guys.
Only Penn was never in my bed.
He kissed me just to show me that he can. Then he ripped the sea glass necklace from my throat and told me he didn’t want my firsts.
My heart clenches with every tick, tick, tick of the clock. It’s like a ticking bomb, and when it hits three, the ring of the bell explodes in my ears. Gus waits outside my class, his elbow slumped against the doorframe, his ball cap backward. He pops his gum in people’s ears as the pupils file out of class, and when I slip out, he peeks behind my shoulder and flicks his nose with his finger, sniffing.
“Isn’t that the classroom where your parents boned?”
How does everyone know that?
Because they all have parents who are alumni. People talk. People always talk.
“Let’s just get this over with.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pushes off the doorframe, and we both make our way toward the entrance and out the school gates. I try to tell myself that it is in Penn’s and my best interest to act as if we don’t know each other. This doesn’t have to be a disaster. If anything, it’s an opportunity to prove to Gus that nothing’s going on between us. I would die before ever admitting to dating a Las Juntas rat.
As we approach the gates, I spot Penn leaning against his brand-new silver-blue Prius. I bite down on my lip to suppress a snicker. Dad got him the car from a fair-trade coffee-sipping environmentalist who thinks white sugar is akin to pure heroin. Penn’s arms are knotted on his chest, and he is wearing a pair of Jax Teller Ray-Bans and a frown. His black shirt has a hole where the heart is, and his black skinny jeans highlight how tall and trim he is, especially for a wide receiver. Gus, in comparison, looks like a tank (and has about the same IQ as one).
Gus and I stop in front of Penn, far enough away to indicate this is not a social call on both ends. It feels like wielding a sword, and Gus hasn’t seen Penn’s yet, but it already has my blood on it from this morning when he promised to conquer my land and overthrow me.
“Howdy, asswipe.” Gus thrusts his hand Penn’s way for a fist bump.
“I see you brought some muscle,” Penn ridicules me. He leaves Gus’s fist to hang in the air until it drops. “Is she going to bore me to death talking about hair straighteners? Is that your strategy?”
Gus looks back and forth between us, whistling long and low.
“Oh,
shit. I thought you two were banging for sure when Daria showed an ounce of emotion when you got your ass kicked by a sophomore. This bitch’s icy heart wouldn’t melt in a desert.”
“We are in the desert, idiot.” I roll my eyes.
“Exactly!” Gus wiggles his eyebrows. “How’re things, Penn? How’s your girl?”
Penn has a girl? That makes no sense. He kissed me yesterday. My heart starts beating way too fast.
“Not your business,” he snaps.
“Let’s get to the point. I have cheer practice.” I wave my hand.
“I think the point is you don’t belong in this conversation,” Penn says in that lazy, unaffected way that drives me nuts. “Gate’s that way, use it.” He motions for the school entrance.
Gus snickers, clapping Penn’s shoulder.
Okay, that’s it. Being a dick at home is somewhat acceptable, but in public? It’s a declaration of war.
“I think I’ll stay.” It’s my turn to cross my arms over my chest. “To translate your language to Gus. He doesn’t speak fluent white trash.”
“And you do?” Penn curves a devastatingly sophisticated eyebrow.
“Burn!” Gus fists the air, laughing. “Shit, you two hate each other. That’s hot.”
No joke.
Before I can think about the meaning of my words or their effect, they rush out of my mouth in a desperate plea to defend my honor.
“Fluent, actually. Your sister taught me.” I smirk.
In my defense, I hate myself even before the words leave my mouth. After they do, it feels like my heart is a sieve and all the poison gushes out. I can’t believe I just said that. I’m not even surprised when Penn’s face morphs from bored to fuming. His nostrils flare, and he removes his shades, his eyes narrowed into hooded slits.
My hand flies to my mouth. Penn’s expression turns volatile. It makes me think of the storms that rip through roofs and uproot trees.
“My, my, my…” Gus pops his gum, raising his ball cap and running his fingers through his blond hair. It’s so shiny and straight, it looks like dunes of sand flying in the wind. “Penn Scully is making enemies in high places, but I can’t say I’m surprised in the least. You were saying, Scully? I haven’t got all day. Some of us need to practice. The first game of the season isn’t one I want to lose.” He winks.