Pretty Reckless (All Saints High)

by L.J. Shen

  I drag my feet to the bathroom and start a bath before noticing Mel’s phone is lighting up with a new message.

  Hello, Melody. Grace here. I was wondering if we could reschedule our meeting from tomorrow at 2pm to today at 2pm? Our HR director has to leave town this evening and won’t be able to go through the fine print with you.

  I stare at the words. My hands are shaking, and each breath feels like I’m gulping lava into my lungs. All the anger and frustration I’ve been feeling for the past few months bubble inside my chest.

  First, she took Penn in.

  Then she decided to homeschool Bailey.

  Then she took Via in.

  Then Penn broke my heart.

  And Via stole both her and Bailey from me.

  I know I’m only here because Mel couldn’t not invite me. A sense of overwhelming vindictiveness washes over me. I try to tell myself not to do it when my fingers float of their own accord over her phone screen.

  Actually, I appreciate the opportunity, but I decided we will not be a good fit after all.

  I shoot the message across to Grace.

  I regret it immediately, but confessing what I did is only going to make it worse. Mel already hates me. She doesn’t need any more excuses to want to disown me.

  I am so very sorry to hear. Please let us know if that ever changes.

  What have I done?

  What have I done?

  I delete the entire chain of messages and block and erase Grace from my mother’s contacts, then put the phone exactly where she left it before she went out with the girls.

  Burying myself under the blankets of the queen-size bed, I don’t come up for air.

  Behind every untrusting girl is a boy who made her that way

  Mel looking frantically for her phone.

  Mel searching for Grace’s number in it.

  Mel sniffing, whispering shit, shit, shit as the pieces fall together. She is not getting this job. She is not fulfilling her dream.

  My fingers quiver around the pen as I stare at my last entry in my journal and the memories of the exact moment she found out slam into me. By the time she reached Grace, the position had already been filled by the runner-up for the job.

  When I started the little black book, I never thought I’d reach the level of evilness I did with Via again. But not only did I repeat the grave mistake of preventing someone from an opportunity of a lifetime because of my jealousy—but I did it to my own mother.

  I roll on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Recently, especially since Penn and I started hanging out, I’ve been thinking of breaking things off with Principal Prichard. I don’t need him anymore. Now, it burns in me to see him tomorrow and share this with him.

  I pad downstairs to get a glass of water. It’s probably close to midnight. All the lights in the house are out, and the only audible sounds are the thermostat humming and the coffee machine, which bubbles water automatically.

  I grab a glass of water and make my way back to my room when the front door pushes open. I turn around on instinct. Stumbling in is a banged-up looking Penn. His face is bruised, cut, and downright purple. He limps toward the kitchen, dragging his left leg, his shoulders crashing into walls, a Greek statue, and a massive plant. He is obviously shitfaced on top of being injured.

  I open my mouth to ask him if he was at the snake pit, then clamp it shut when I remind myself that it’s not my business. His baby mama can take care of him. He made it perfectly clear. If anything, I should stop humiliating myself by caring for the boy who so ruthlessly played me. Who took my virginity while promising himself to another girl. At least this time he wore a condom.

  Perhaps you’re not a worthy longtime mistake to make.

  I turn around and start climbing the stairs.

  “Scullys,” he croaks. I keep my pace steady. Up, up, up to my room. I can do it. If I don’t turn around. If I don’t get lost in his light eyes and dark soul. “Skull…Eyes,” he amends.

  A hand jerks at the hem of my shirt, and he yanks me the two stairs down, back to the landing. He pins me to the wall in an alcove between the kitchen and the living room in one ruthless shove. I wince when I smell the alcohol and coppery blood on his breath.

  His eye is swollen, and his lower lip drips blood onto his shoes. Drunken Penn is a sight I didn’t think I’d see on a school night. He usually wakes up at the same time, rain or shine, for his morning strength training, always looking like a million bucks in a tattered ten-buck outfit.

  “What do you want?” I hiss. I feel so breakable in his arms.

  “A kiss.”

  I push on his chest. He is not making any sense.

  “Drop dead, Scully.” It actually looks like he might.

  I turn back around toward the stairs. He tugs my wrist again. His eyes are pleading. His eyebrows pulled together. He looks…pathetic, and the old Daria would take great pleasure in basking in this sight. But the new one wants to die knowing he hurts. Even worse than that, that he is hurting. That Via reentering his life was not everything he hoped it to be.

  “Clean yourself up,” I say quietly. “Or you’ll get seriously infected.”

  “Help me?” he croaks, his voice throaty, laced with pain.

  “Why don’t you ask your girlfriend to do it?”

  “Because she lives two towns over.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  “Because I don’t want her help. I want yours.”

  I close my eyes. I tell myself that I’m just helping him clean up, not getting in bed with him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Penn so messed up. Physically—maybe. He’s a physical player. But emotionally…for the first time since I’ve met him, I see him feel. The walls are soaked with his emotions, the air dense with them.

  I make my way to the cabinet above the sink and take out a first-aid kit, motioning for him with my head to come closer. He hops onto the kitchen island and gulps me in as I wash his face with a warm cloth I’m pretty sure our cleaners use to wipe the tiles. Then I clean up his bruises with antiseptic wipes and put a Band-Aid on a gash on his forehead that probably needs some stitches. I don’t ask him what happened. He tells me anyway.

  “I fought three guys at the snake pit.”

  “That’s dumb,” I whisper.

  “Simultaneously.”

  “That’s seriously dumb.”

  He tries to chuckle, but it splits the cut on his lip again.

  “There.” I take a step back. “Bet you’re feeling brand new.”

  “How was New York?” he asks.

  I can’t even think about that city without wanting to throw up. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to set foot in it again.

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t pretend we’re friends.” I close the first-aid kit, push it back into the cabinet, and make my way upstairs to finish my entry.

  When I get to my bed, the little black book is not there anymore.

  Listen to the chaos

  Brewing in your head

  This, my pretty reckless lover

  Is how our story ends

  The next day, I’m a dead girl walking.

  When I see Via in the hallway, I pass her wordlessly. I’m scared that if I say something, I might go apeshit, and my situation is very delicate. I’ve lost so much in the past few weeks, and I don’t trust myself to react anymore.

  I’m passive. Timid. Scared.

  Exactly as she wanted me. Precisely what she pretends to be.

  Cheer practice is the only thing I have left, so when I put my uniform on in the locker room, I try to take a deep breath and enjoy the nothingness around me. Everyone is waiting for me outside. It’s time to shine. To be the old me. Whoever that may be.

  I gather my hair into a ponytail, turning around to make my way to the door at the same time it bangs shut. I look up and see Esme leaning against it, arms folded. She is wearing her skimpy cheer outfit and a triumphant smile.

  “Can I tell you a
secret?” Her voice is sugary sweet, and my hackles immediately rise. I tilt my chin upward.

  “Sure. I’m getting good at keeping them.”

  She pushes off the door and saunters deeper into the room until we are face to face.

  “I always knew you would be your own downfall. You were so pretty and perfect with your shiny hair and long lashes. So conceited and entitled with your crazy lineage, ex-teacher mom, and Hothole father. Sometimes, at night, I had to cry myself to sleep, convincing myself that you would fall, because it didn’t look like you ever would. And let’s admit it.” She chuckles. “The cheer captain title always belonged to me. I’m the better dancer. I’m a better leader, better mediator, the better human being.”

  I stand straighter. She is talking about me in the past tense, and I don’t like that. I elevate my nose, reminding her who’s the boss. Though, truth be told, I haven’t felt in control for a really long time.

  “You can’t strip my title, Esme. That’s not how things work, no matter how much you want them to.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” She puts two fingers to her mouth and whistles. The door opens and in trickles the cheer team in all their glory, complete with their uniforms. And at the end of the perfect line is Sylvia Scully, wearing a uniform she must’ve stolen. From me.

  I see red.

  I take a step back, twisting my mouth. Esme takes a step toward me, cleaning invisible lint from my crop top.

  “You’ve been spacey, out of focus, and MIA when we needed you. Not to mention, poor Via told us about what you did to her four years ago with the letter,” she pouts.

  Shooting an accusing glance at Via, I see that she not only meets my gaze, but she smiles, too. She got a new pixie haircut, stylish and expensive, and new studded earrings to go with it. She is already reinventing herself, and no one is stopping her from ruining my life. Melody is compensating for our lack of connection by showering Via and Bailey with everything I won’t accept from her anymore, and for whatever reason, Penn is firmly in her camp. The only person I still matter to is Dad, but even I know he is isolating himself in his quest to be there for me.

  “You won’t get away with this.” I bare my teeth to Esme, getting in her face.

  “What’ll you do?” She cocks her head at me, smiling.

  For one thing, tell Blythe, your BFF, that you’ve been sleeping with Vaughn. Then, I’ll tell Vaughn to drop you, and make no mistake, the boy doesn’t have a modicum of emotion in his body. He will do so without even mourning the lost blowjobs.

  But I can’t say this. At least publicly. The acts of the Hulk are to be done in secret.

  “I’m guessing it’s settled, then?” I ask, twisting my head toward the rest of the team. They all look down, backs against the lockers in a row. Everyone other than Via. I laugh hysterically, shaking my head and waving at them dismissively.

  “You guys are pathetic. You hate Esme.”

  No response.

  “Good luck living off Diet Coke and air for the next semester.”

  I’m losing it, and I’m losing my place in the world, fast. The worst part is, I can’t even fight for what’s mine. Not when Via holds my journal. Dangling my life, future, and reputation above my head.

  “Did you even mean it when you voted for me? Do you mean anything you do anymore? How fake can you be?”

  Blythe takes a sharp breath, shaking her head. A tear escapes her eye, and I know Esme’s pushed her, but I still hate her for not growing a spine. Looking around at their faces—grave, guilty, uncomfortable—I don’t even know what to think anymore.

  Everything I have is crumbling.

  Everything I’ve worked for is perishing.

  Via promised she’d end me, and so far, she’s kept her word.

  I stalk outside, back to the school, before the tears fall. Maybe Penn is right. Maybe I cry all the time and make scenes. But here’s a scene I’d never forget:

  The day Via and Esme took my cheer captain badge, which I earned fair and square, is the day I found out I wasn’t the only girl born with a green Hulk inside her. They have one, too. And it just burst through their bones and skin and chased me away.

  My stomach lurches.

  At least I managed to put mine on a leash.

  “And lookie who we have here.”

  Gus slams my open blue locker with a bang when I get my books out and gives me a playful shove. The hallway is empty. I’m ten minutes late because I’m running on no sleep, two cups of coffee, and anxiety. And there are cameras around, but he’s the football captain, so he can get away with murder. Probably literally.

  I don’t move to pick up the scattered textbooks that fell when he ambushed me.

  “Sure it’s a good idea for you to skip classes? You’re not the sharpest tool in the shed as it is.” I feign disinterest and nonchalance, but I’m not feeling it anymore. I’m so drained, I’m surprised I’m still standing.

  “Too funny, Followhill. I wonder…” He gets in my face, tilting his head with a manic smile on his lips. “Would you still be so funny when I show you what I have?”

  He raises his arm, and it’s my little black book. My mouth goes dry. I’m going to faint. Shit. Via really did it this time.

  I plaster my back to the lockers and try to breathe, but the oxygen doesn’t hit my lungs. I think I’m having a panic attack. A real one.

  “You look a little pale, Queen Daria. Where are your minions to bronze your face back into fake perfection?” He laughs boisterously.

  “What do you want?” I grit out. I already know whatever it is, I’m going to give it to him. No one can get their hands on my diary. The prospect of people knowing what I did to my classmates or with Principal Prichard is paralyzing, but the real kicker is Mel. If she finds out I killed both her dream and Via’s, I will lose her forever.

  I would lose my everything.

  Gus taps his chin, tilting his head skyward, my journal still held high in the air above his head. I glare at it, willing for it to fly across the narrow space between us into my hand like in a Harry Potter book.

  “Let’s see. What do I want? Oh, I know! I want for Las Juntas to throw the play-off game and give me what I deserve—a victory.”

  To that, I actually laugh. It’s a hysterical laugh, but it bubbles from my throat all the same. I drag a hand over my collarbone and neck, wiping away cold sweat.

  “Shouldn’t you be asking for something I can actually give you?”

  “You’re fucking the captain. It’s in the journal. Surely, you have power over him.”

  I wince. “It happened once, and he doesn’t care about me.” It’s a brutal admission, but he has to know I can’t make this happen.

  He rolls his eyes at me. “Popped your cherry, huh? Lucky bastard. Anyway, you asked for the price, and I gave it to you. It’s your problem now. Not mine.”

  “I can’t do that,” I croak. I’m losing grip of my indifference. My mask is falling. I can’t give him what I don’t have. “He’ll never do anything for me. He’s with Adriana.”

  “For all I care, threaten to tell Adriana he’s been fucking you all along to make him do it. Whatever it takes to make his team shitty come Friday. Otherwise…” He waves my journal around as if it doesn’t harbor all my secrets and insecurities and vulnerability. As if the Hulk doesn’t live there. “This shit is going to be printed out—every single page of it—into thousands of copies and stuck on every single locker and inch of the bathroom, art room, lab, and locker rooms. I’ll post it on every social media site, and I’ll make sure you can never escape it, no matter how fucking far you go. And don’t even try to pull the parents’ angle, Followhill, because the entire school would kill you for ruining the state championship for us.”

  He turns around and stalks down the empty hall. I chase him, choking on my own saliva. I’m too stunned to produce tears. My life as I know it is about to be over. I trip over my own legs, grasping his backpack so I don’t hit the ground. He turns around shar
ply, growling.

  “Hands off, Followhill.”

  “You can’t do this to me.” My knees hit the floor. How fitting. From this angle, I can finally see the view for what it is. All my mistakes, the people I chose to affiliate myself with—the jocks, the fakers, the popular kids—are ricocheting back at me. Gus holds my future—my reputation—between his sausage fingers.

  “Please,” I say, stripping off my remaining pride. “I beg you. I will do anything else. Tell me what to do. I can’t get to Penn. No one can get to Penn.”

  Penn is the tin man.

  Gus smiles politely, grabbing the collar of my dress and yanking me up to my feet.

  “I actually think you’re a very resourceful girl, Daria. Figure it out. Or I will bury you.”

  “We need to talk.”

  These are the words I could have imagined myself telling my mother, my future boyfriends, my friends, my family…not my principal. Yet here I am standing in front of Principal Prichard, telling him just that. I just threw up my nonexistent breakfast into a toilet bowl and cried my eyes out, and I probably look like just as much of a mess from the outside as I am on the inside.

  When I walked in, I closed the door without his explicit order to do so, the first sign that something was off. Normally, I submit to him, awaiting specific instructions. That’s how it’s been since my first entry. The Via entry. When I walked into his office in middle school, I expected him to call my parents, set off a chain reaction, and fix my error. Fix me.

  Instead, he tipped a jar of M&Ms he kept on his desk over the edge, his eyes never wavering from mine. Colorful chocolate pieces rained down the floor, rolling at my feet like marbles.

  “Pick them all up, Miss Followhill. On your knees, as I read your sins to you.”

  It became our ritual.

  Over the years, he barked at me to rearrange the shelves in his office, clean his carpets, shine his shoes, and more recently, after Penn entered the picture, he’d strike the inside of my hands with a ruler. Where the red welts could be explained away by my grueling cheer workouts.