by Shen, L. J.
I don’t shit where I eat, and I don’t mix with the All Saints crowd. Blythe was a one-off. An indulgence saved for a night in which I made Vaughn piss red and couldn’t move my face. Besides, as Gus pointed out, I have a piece of tail—a girlfriend, if you will—and I should probably stop messing around with other girls in public.
“Pass.”
“She asked about you.”
“Maybe he gave her chlamydia, and she wants him to pay for the treatment.” Colin, ASH’s linebacker, hiccups, and everyone but Knight erupts in laughter.
“That’s rich from someone whose face looks like genital herpes,” I pipe out.
“Come at me, bro!” Colin bangs his chest with his fist.
“I would, but I don’t hit chicks,” I drawl.
When we get on the field, we “accidentally” tear through the Go Saints! sign made by the cheerleaders. Daria growls as I push through the fabric she is holding and shit all over her effort. The blinding bright lights and the fresh grass promise a big, green opportunity. The only one I’ve ever had. Rhett used to say that it’s not coincidental that grass is the same color as money—top athletes swim in it.
It’s the only semi-clever thing I’ve ever heard him say.
The game starts, and All Saints gets the ball. At first, I’m focused and loose. But by ten minutes in, I know something is off. That something is my defense. My useless, crappy, nonexistent defense. Seems like Josh, Kannon, Nelson, and the rest didn’t bother showing up to the game. Physically, they’re here, but they’re dragging their feet, missing the ball, spacing out, and averting their gazes to the bleachers as though they’re waiting for something bad to happen. I’m getting zero play time while Gus is going at it like a frat boy at a whorehouse. Coach Higgins is having a coronary on the sidelines and tries hard to balance his screaming so people won’t think he’s going to commit murder at halftime. He’s making changes to both the offense and the defense, running some adjustments, but his orders fall on deaf ears. Even the kicker looks pissed, and Daria is on the sidelines, cheering on ASH the entire time.
When halftime finally rolls around, I tear off my helmet before we even get to the locker room, trudging toward it. My teammates know better than to approach me. Once we get inside, I crash my helmet on a bench with a snarl.
“What in the actual fucking fuck is happening?” I yell at them, straining my vocal cords before Coach darts in.
“I don’t know, but something’s up.” Camilo raises his helmet slightly to pinch one nostril and shoot snot through the other one on their locker room floor. Everyone grows eerily silent. Coach walks in, and the guys immediately look down at their feet. They know they suck. Fuck, UFOs from other planets can see how hard we suck.
“This is the worst I’ve ever seen you,” he grumbles, quiet and stern, and I think it’s because he doesn’t want to have a heart attack.
“Those people out there?” He points at the door. “You don’t have their respect. You need to hustle. To bring ’em hell. Yet you’re completely out of sync. You’re lying there letting them screw you over. You need to wake up. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Coach,” we all say in unison, eyes on the floor.
“You need to compete, hit them, destroy them. Then everything else falls into place. Somebody needs to fix this for me. You need to play fast, play hard, and most importantly, play for each other. The offense is getting no play time because. Of. You. Those kids out there?” Higgins laughs, slamming his open palm on a locker. “They don’t need this. This is fun for them. The shit they’re gonna show their kids in a few years in fancy photo albums. They have trust funds and colleges secured for them. You? You depend on this. For your college applications. For your scholarships. Hell, for your pride.”
I see the goose bumps raised on people’s arms and hope like hell he managed to get through to them.
When we leave the locker room, bumping fists and barking, “Yes, Coach, Yes, Coach, Yes, Coach,” I think we’ve got this.
I’m wrong.
The game ends with the scoreboard reading 38-14. We lose, and all fourteen points are because of touchdowns I scored. To say I’m crushed would be the understatement of the century. We’re starting the season with a huge loss to a bunch of preppy douchebags we haven’t lost to in five years. On my watch.
So this is what death feels like.
The coaches meet on the field to talk. Before the buses pull up to take us back to school, I take Coach Higgins aside and ask him if I can bum a ride with Knight Cole.
“Just wanna see what happened here,” I lie.
“Sure. Sure, sure,” Higgins says. He allows me this one-off because Camilo and I were the only functioning players on the field in red.
The Followhills descend the stands, and I snatch my duffel bag and meet them on the sidelines. The only reason I’m hanging out with them in public is I know no rich motherfucker would ever think the Followhills are stupid enough to take a hood rat under their roof. Most people see me and think of how I’d tarnish their daughters.
They’d be right, too.
“Tough game.” Baron Spencer runs his arctic eyes over my face. He is tall and good-looking in a Dracula sort of way. Pastier than a freshly painted wall. I know that he used to play for ASH at some point. I also know he wasn’t any good, so I don’t even bother smiling at him.
“No shit,” I mutter, and now I have his attention.
“Shit indeed, but you were damn good.” Another man with lighter hair and green eyes—Knight’s dad, Dean, I suppose—nods. He was a football player, too. They all were. Cocky bastards with their photoshopped wives and impeccable clothes and padded bank accounts.
“I’m sorry. Were you watching another game? They dry-fucked our asses so hard I won’t be able to sit down the entire semester.” I wipe my forehead, my gaze darting toward the locker room.
Baron arches an eyebrow. Dean suppresses a closemouthed laugh.
“Doesn’t matter how your team played. You were good, and that’s worth something.” Jaime tousles my hair and pulls me in for a hug. I don’t know where this is coming from. Maybe I look as bad as I feel.
Knight saunters to us, freshly showered, in one of his over-the-top outfits. He is wearing some sort of a pilot’s khaki jacket and oversized shades. He’s the definition of a fashion victim. Somewhere in New York, a designer’s snorting sixteen lines of coke his daddy has paid for. Next to him is a girl with dark brown curls and big gray eyes. You can tell she’s not the typical All Saints princess. She is wearing jeans two sizes too big and an oversized Lazy hoodie. The opposite of her flashy boyfriend. She looks like a tough cookie, and he looks like a smashed birthday cake.
“This is Luna.” Knight slants his chin to her, taking her hand in his and squeezing hard, pissing all over his territory. Daria groans next to me, and I ignore her, reaching for a handshake. Luna flashes me a lopsided grin. Her shake is firm, but her skin is velvety and warm. I can see why Knight likes her. I can see why Daria doesn’t, too.
“Penn,” I say.
She doesn’t say anything, just offers me a noncommittal half-shrug. There’s a lot of gaze shifting going on among everyone before Knight clears his throat, and says, “Luna’s not big on talking.”
“Good. Most people only have stupid things to say, anyway.”
Luna salutes me. Baron smirks at Jaime.
“Keeper.” Baron jerks his finger in my direction. Jaime nods.
“He reminds me of your miserable asses when we were kids and helps with the yard work.”
They all look at me, hoping to find some joy or gratitude on my face, but I’m mostly annoyed the fuckers are talking about my living there so openly. I spit phlegm onto the grass and check the time on my phone.
“So you’re sure about Blythe’s party?” Knight shoulder-bumps me.
After getting my ass kicked on the field? Yeah. Not about to come to an ASH party and become a human piñata.
“Hard pass.”
“All right. Good game.”<
br />
Knight shakes my hand and pulls me into a bro-hug.
We make a quick stop at the house so Daria can shower too, then head to the pier. I analyze the game in my head the entire way there. Bailey is talking nonstop. The kid’s cute, but man, she can talk your ears off. She was the one who decided we must celebrate my birthday—even if a week late—by getting ice cream at the best parlor on the Todos Santos promenade. I’m not big on ice cream, and I’m even less of a fan when it comes to celebrating birthdays since Via disappeared. Not that they were tolerable before, but at least we had the tradition of making each other shitty cards and stealing candy from the street vendors.
“Do you want to talk about the game?” Mel slides into the stream of Bailey’s words as the latter explains to us how New Amsterdam became New York. Daria shifts in her seat beside Bailey, who is on the hump between us in Jaime’s Tesla. Rich people love Teslas. They’re clinical, impersonal, and futuristic. Anything to make them forget they take a shit and pick their nose like everyone else.
I grunt, giving her less than words but more than nothing.
“We’re here for you,” she pipes.
“Thanks for the pep talk. Where’d you get it, AA for Dummies?”
“I’m so sorry, Penn. I just blabbed and blabbed. Do you even want to hear more about history?” Bailey catches her lower lip in her braced teeth.
God, no.
“Sure. History’s fine.” I nudge her shoulder with mine, and she launches into another lengthy explanation about how the British claimed New Amsterdam. They were brutal, she explains, and Daria says that cruelty is underrated. Sometimes you “gotta do what you gotta do” to make your point. Then Jaime says that diplomacy is the best weapon and killing people with kindness leaves no evidence or legal consequences behind.
“Doesn’t matter which way you conquer a place as long as you do,” I hiss, producing an apple I brought from lunch from my duffel bag and tossing it in Daria’s hands. She knows what I mean by it and groans.
When we get to Gelato Heaven, Mel claims that the type of ice cream you order says a lot about your personality. “It’s a fact. I read it in Cosmo.”
Daria rolls her eyes. I think it’s a reflexive movement for her by now. Like breathing. “Old much, Melody?”
“Reading magazines is old now?” Mel’s eyes widen, and she looks back and forth between her daughters, pretending to be scandalized. She is trying too hard, but Daria is still oblivious. It’s like being on a first date with your all-time crush and trying too hard to impress. That’s Daria and Mel. Constantly dancing awkwardly around each other.
“Might as well read hieroglyphics on Egyptian walls.” Daria snorts.
Mel proceeds to ask the chick behind the glass counter for one scoop of low-fat vanilla ice cream in a cup.
Jaime shoves his fists into his front pockets and whistles.
“Cosmo is definitely wrong. Nothing vanilla about you, baby.”
Daria makes a gagging sound, and this time, I’m in her camp. People behind us snicker, and I know she wants the floor to open and swallow her whole. My mama and Rhett, they would embarrass the shit outta me in countless, creative ways, but I’ll give them one thing—you could never accuse them of PDA.
Jaime tells the teenage girl behind the counter to choose any two scoops she thinks would complement each other for him.
“Adventurous and trusting,” Bails mulls over his choice.
This family is so first world and rich, I bet they shit potpourri.
Bailey orders one chocolate scoop and one strawberry in a cone.
“A conventional genius,” Mel exclaims.
Kill me.
Daria shifts her gaze to me, then to the row of ice creams, and then to me again. We’re both hyperaware of what the other one will order. I hate her ass, it’s true, but that ain’t gonna stop me from fucking her. It’ll be poetic justice at its finest. She took my sister, so I’ll take her vanity.
“Blue moon, green tea, and cheesecake, please. With sprinkles and a dash of caramel in a cone. And can I have a cherry on top?”
“Sure can.” The girl piles all this mess into a cone and turns to me. As do the Followhills.
“What’s the most disgusting flavor you got?” I lean forward, parking my elbows on the glass.
The girl turns a nice shade of maroon, her eyes darting to the yellow-green pile on the far right.
“That’d be the Key lime pie. People say it’s so sour it makes them sick. But it’s the owner’s daughter’s favorite, so we keep it.”
“I’ll take a scoop in a cone.”
“Are you sure?” The girl gasps.
She melts into a puddle when I wink at her. Easy prey. My favorite snack.
I ask for her number. Straight up.
“I…isn’t she your girlfriend?” she stutters, her eyes shifting to Daria, seemingly for permission. I tsk.
“Foster sister and a real bitch.”
“Penn!” Melody booms. “Oh, my Marx!”
“Sorry, ma’am. Sorry, sir,” I tell Jaime and cover Bailey’s ears, muttering, “You didn’t hear that.”
The girl starts shooting out the number quickly. I pretend to program them into my phone while playing Fortnite. No chance of me ever calling her, but sticking it to Daria feels good. I’d throw Adriana in her face, but she is too good for those kiddie games. Besides, I’ll save the best reveal for last.
We all settle at a round table on the parlor’s balcony overlooking the beach. The sun is setting, the sky is pink and orange, and people saunter on the boardwalk hand in hand, the perfect postcard of SoCal. The sound of laughter and waves breaking on the shore and kids yelling fills the air. They recently added a Ferris wheel, mini golf, a carousel, and a roller coaster to attract more tourists. It made Todos Santos even more packed and touristy. I miss San Diego. Miss real ass people and real ass places and views that don’t look like they’ve been filtered to death by some chick who thinks she’s a professional photographer just because she has an Instagram account.
Melody complains about my slip of the tongue in the background, but I block her out. I take a lick of my ice cream.
“That’s awful,” I say flatly.
Daria takes the bait, just as I knew she would.
“Shocker.”
“Play nice.” Mel stabs her plastic spoon in her ice cream, swirling it around methodically. Bailey is a lick-it-straight-from-the-cone type of girl. Daria probably won’t touch hers. My guess is she doesn’t do real feelings or refined sugar.
Who the fuck are you to talk? You’re the tin man.
“Would you like mine?” Bailey volunteers.
Two sisters. Same genes. Same blood. Different hearts.
“Actually, Daria’s looks good.” I grin at my opponent.
Daria stares at me, her gigantic ice cream still in her hand, unlicked. She thrusts it in my direction.
“Jerk,” she mutters under her breath.
“Marx, you are going to regret it when I ground you both for eternity.” Mel sighs. Jaime chuckles. I noticed they replaced the word God with Marx. That’s…I don’t even know what the fuck that is. Quirky. Weird. Trying too fucking hard.
I take her ice cream and give it a good lick, handing her my Key lime ice cream.
“Please,” I say, forcing her to eye contact. “It would mean a lot to me if you eat it.” I’m not talking about the ice cream, and we both know it.
“I’m on a diet,” she snaps.
“Consider it my belated birthday gift.” I cock my head, feigning virtue. There’s loaded silence and a whole lotta staring. Then she sits back down, acutely aware of the fact her parents are watching. She takes a lick of the ice cream. Winces. Our eyes are still locked, and I wonder if she makes the same connection I’m making.
Us. Licking each other’s ice creams.
She is tasting my sourness.
As I devour her sweetness.
“So what do you think happened on the field?” Jaime turns to
me.
“They cheated,” I say.
“You think?”
“I know.”
“Ever heard of being gracious in defeat?” Daria folds her legs on her chair. She is getting used to my ice cream. Doesn’t even make a face anymore after each lick. I take a bite of her ice cream, swallowing it without tasting it. Her throat bobs with the meaning of what I want to do to her.
Part of me wants to chase her. To watch in slow motion as she collapses underneath me and I rip her to shreds. The other wants her to stand toe to toe with me so we can battle it out until we’re both bloody and exhausted.
“Wise words, Daria. How about you live by them when someone you’re jealous of gets something they don’t deserve?”
“Kids,” Mel warns for the third time. I like that Jaime and Mel don’t put us on leashes and expect us to behave. Part of me suspects they brought me here to set her straight. She is a spoiled little princess who always gets her way. And me? I’m the exact opposite.
“I’ll look into it.” Jaime wipes the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin, slam-dunking the rest of his ice cream into the trash can. Not that he hasn’t been nice to me so far, but he is also smart enough to remind me daily that if I touch Daria, he will kill me (“literally. And, yes, I literally mean the word literally”). I wish he knew his daughter was banging her principal. My tapping her ass would be a vast improvement. A public service, really. Jaime should thank me.
“I’ll figure it out. Thanks,” I say.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Has it ever occurred to you we might’ve played better? Just because Penn says something doesn’t make it true.”
“It doesn’t make it untrue either,” Jaime points out.
“You should show more loyalty to All Saints, Dad. You’re an alumnus. And you”—she turns to Mel for the first time this evening—“you were a teacher. Before you got fired for sleeping with your student.” Daria licks the last of her ice cream and tries dumping it into the trash can, like her dad. She misses, and it falls on the floor.
“Daria, you’re being Hulky again.” Jaime pins her with a look, like she knows what the hell that means.