Pretty Reckless (All Saints High)

by L.J. Shen

  All eyes dart to me. Penn, who is already pacing slow, stops completely, tearing his helmet off and dumping it on the field, his hard eyes colliding with mine.

  “Number twenty-two!” The referee throws the yellow penalty flag for unsportsmanlike conduct. “Your team loses fifteen yards.”

  “Scully!” His coach barks, “I will bench you.”

  “Be my fucking guest.” Penn’s lips curl in amusement, our gaze never breaking.

  I feel naked and raw and judged. The world continues spinning, and the game carries on. The ball went over on downs, and now Knight has it. Las Juntas are on the defense, but Penn is still glued to his spot, mesmerized by the pleas in my eyes. The cheerleaders stop dancing on the sidelines and throw me a pitying look. I know what they think.

  It finally happened. Bitch has lost her mind.

  I smile, free-falling into being someone different. Someone imperfect. Someone real. Unchaining myself from what people think of me, of how they see me, of what they will say after the game.

  “I want you to bury these assholes in the ground.” My lungs burn as I scream the words, a deranged smile threatening to cut my cheeks in half, but I’m not even remotely happy. I’m going against my team—against the Saints, whom I cheered on for four years. I can hear footfalls coming. Two of All Saints High’s teachers who act as security—Miss Linde and Mr. Hathaway—take me by my wrists and usher me away from the field. Daddy jumps over the fence, lithe and athletic like one of the football players, and tears Mr. Hathaway’s hand from mine.

  “Touch my daughter against her will one more time, and I will bury you with legal shit until your retirement day.”

  “Twenty-two!” I hear whistling, and Penn’s coach is practically storming onto the field, but our eyes never waver. “Twenty-goddamn-two! Put your damn helmet on, boy!”

  “Penn!” I cry out.

  He is breaking approximately five thousand rules by talking to me in the middle of the game, and now everyone stops. Gus kicks the grass, cursing. He puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head. Dad’s arms wrap around my waist, dragging me away from the field and back up to the bleachers.

  “Can you do something for me?” I scream at Penn. My legs are not moving, but I’m laughing manically. Penn nods. “Make them eat dirt!”

  The whole crowd boos at me as Daddy grabs Melody and Bailey, and we all make a hurried exit before I get burned at the stake. Dad hooks his arm around my shoulder as we stumble out the gates, drawing me close and kissing my head.

  “My crazy, out-of-this-world daughter. And you thought you were anything less than fierce.”

  People are apples. Good apples. Bad apples. Too ripe or too raw. Hard or soft. Sweet or sour. And in every apple, there’s a core. A heart. Something that makes them uniquely themselves.

  My mother once told me that she wasn’t worried for Via because my core is security. I’m the protector. I sheltered Via when no one else wanted to, and now, when Daria is begging me to take what is mine—this win, this game, the championship—and my teammates are spitting out sweat and blood to try to make it happen, and Knight Cole gets pasted to save my skin, I can’t do it.

  Protecting Via was a duty. Protecting Daria is an honor.

  I pretend to trip on my own feet yet again after Daria and her family leave the stadium. The cheers and catcalls turn to boos and cusses. Then it’s halftime. In other words: Time for Coach to rip me a new one. We get off the field with a stellar lead—28 to 14, but it’s nothing I can’t screw up if I try even harder.

  “Scully!” Coach Higgins roars so loud, his voice bounces off the huge projectors. “Get your ass over here right now!” He points at the ground.

  I swagger toward him as slowly as humanly possible, tearing the helmet off my head and brushing past him as I continue to the locker room. He tugs at the back of my jersey and pulls me back to him. Everyone else drifts through the tunnel and into the lockers, and he motions for them to continue as he plasters me against the tunnel wall, snarling.

  “Are you losing my game on purpose, son?”

  Any other guy would take what Daria so generously offered and show up to the game the next half and kick ass. Not me. I don’t care what Daria wants, and I don’t care that she won’t be there on Monday to see the pages of her journal plastered on every locker and square inch of the school. She doesn’t deserve this shit.

  “Sir, I lost focus. For that, I apologize.” I tell him whatever he needs to hear to keep me on the field.

  “Because of the pretty blonde?” he spits out.

  “Because of an asshole blond guy,” I correct, jerking my chin toward Gus, who is making his way to ASH’s locker room. “Fucker has been shoving Josh’s pads into his throat. Dude still tapes quarters to his knuckles like it’s the fucking nineties.” I let out a bitter cough of laughter.

  “Language!” he yells. “And I don’t care what you feel toward Bauer. If you let him get to you, you will never get drafted. You will never make it big. You will never be NFL ready. Just another poor boy with a lot of potential and no brains who is throwing a game because someone said something about his girlfriend. You think she’s gonna stick around after the jock glory wears off? When y’all go to college? You think she’s worth your future? Your team’s future? My future?”

  Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And yes.

  I shake my head, shouldering past him. He chases me down the tunnel, his voice carrying the echo of the cave-like place.

  “Answer me, son!”

  I storm to the locker room. I’m done explaining myself. Especially to the man who told me to stay away from my girlfriend so that Prichard could abuse her.

  Ex-girlfriend. Fuck.

  Lowering myself to a bench and releasing my breath, I watch as Coach Higgins enters the room and slams his fist into a locker, making a huge dent. When he withdraws his hand, his knuckles are bruised and bloody.

  “Every single one of you rowdy idiots is like my own kid. Someone needs to step forward and tell me what happened to your captain, or I’m benching the hell out of him and making sure every single phone call I get from colleges about any of y’all will be met with the same response: he is not good enough. He is not ready. Don’t give him the scholarship. In other words, if you don’t rat out Penn and tell me what his problem is, you go down with him, understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” everyone answers in unison. I chew on my mouthguard and stare at the floor. Maybe they know. Maybe they’ll rat me out, and that’ll be the end of my career. All I know is that I’ve never been more sure of anything my entire life as I am sure of this—I’m not bringing Daria down, with or without her blessing.

  “So,” Higgins screams, “what happened to Penn Scully?”

  “Nothing, sir!”

  “What happened?” he screams.

  “Nothing, sir!” they all bark at the same time. I should feel proud. Touched. Something. Anything. I don’t. I fucking don’t. It’s too late.

  “I will ruin your goddamn football careers, boys!” He punches the lockers again. And again. And again.

  “Penn Scully is our captain, sir.”

  For the first time in weeks, I smile.

  I have Daria’s back.

  And my team’s got mine.

  Loving you is like

  Listening to a song

  For the first time

  And somehow knowing all the lyrics

  The game ends with 42-17 after much hard work from me trying to lose. Our scrawny quarterback ended up having an arm like Brett Favre, and the defense played their hearts out and forced fumbles that they recovered. Las Juntas Bulldogs win, anyway. Kannon gets the ball, but we both know who deserves it.

  I leave before the after-game prayer. Stalking toward the locker room, I take a quick shower, throw my duffel bag over my shoulder, and burst into All Saints’ unlocked showers. Most of the players are inside, lathered in soap, sporting bruises on their foreheads and chests. Gus is sitting on a bench, a towel wrapped around his waist
, holding his head in his hands. He is still dry as a bone.

  Kicking his shin with my toes, I snap my fingers before him. He looks up. He looks like death. His eyes bloodshot, his cheeks sunken. People are whining about my being there as though I came in with a ruler to compare our dicks. I ignore the protests and requests to see myself the hell out.

  “Your girlfriend’s dead.” He smirks darkly.

  “Meet me at the pit tonight, Bauer. And this time, you’re not in charge of the fucking paperwork. You’re fighting. With me.”

  Daria asked that no one know she was leaving. She preferred it that way, not trusting Gus with the information. But I don’t put it past my sister to tell him, and I have to make sure he doesn’t get to Daria tonight.

  “Give me one good reason to do anything you ask, you fucking lowlife. I have every right to—”

  I punch him in the face, knocking him back. He falls backward, and Colin—I’m not done with you, either, Colin—manages to catch him before his head hits the floor.

  “You’ll come because I know where you live, and if you make me come to you, I will, and without witnesses, you will fare so much worse. You too, Stimatzky.” I look up to meet Colin’s gaze. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

  I storm out, hearing Knight yell, “I knew it,” and lockers slamming in the distance.

  Not all the All Saints High team are fuckers. But their captain is.

  War is a universal language. Christian, Jew, Buddhist, or a Muslim. Beautiful or ugly. Rich or poor.

  They’re about to find out that it is especially vicious when you’re the underdog.

  “I need to tell you something, bro.” Kannon bounces his knee fast and furious while we drive back from the hospital and toward the snake pit. We had to make a stop at Cam’s bedside to give him the football we used for the win, signed by all of us, and while we were at it, we took him some greasy-ass food he’d never be able to get from the gross canteen.

  “Spit it out.” I roll my window and spit out phlegm. My mind’s not on the fight I’m about to walk into. My mind is back in the Followhill mansion, where Daria is packing her bags to fly fuck knows where. Jaime and Mel are going to drive her to the airport tomorrow, and they already made it clear that this is one family function the Scullys are not invited to.

  Daria was a rock star today, telling me to save my own ass because hers was already on fire. But when she stood there and yelled at me, her hair up and her neck exposed, the only thing I could focus on was the fact the sea glass necklace was no longer there.

  I punch the steering wheel.

  “Whoa. What’s wrong with you?” Kannon asks.

  Everything. Every-fucking-thing is wrong with me.

  “Just say what you gotta say, K.”

  “First, I want to know what was up on that field, Penn.”

  “Nothing. And if you don’t say what you have to say right now, I’m throwing you out of the car,” I inform him matter-of-factly without missing a beat.

  “Well, shit, I was kind of hoping you’d be in a better mood but better late than never, I guess. So remember the first game of the season? Against the Saints?”

  “How could anyone forget?” I throw the car into park in front of the snake pit. The lights are already on, and there’s more commotion than usual. In fact, it looks like my entire school is heading toward it. All Saints High, too. Dozens of kids are marching through the gates that have been busted open somehow, and a cold sweat finds its way to the back of my neck.

  “We threw the game,” Kannon says.

  I twist my head toward him. “Repeat that.”

  “We threw the game.” He looks down at his hands. “The whole team did. Well, other than you and Camilo. Gus didn’t even think to approach you. We figured we looked so good, we could handle losing one game. Gus paid us five hundred bucks each. You know how it is, bro. Turning down money is not in the cards for most of us. Whether it’s for gear, shoes, or to help our folks with the rent…or, hell, you know? Just to eat at Lenny’s and live. Even those of us who didn’t need the money didn’t wanna ruin it for those who did.”

  “You sold the game?” I can feel the tics in my eyelids. Never a good fucking sign.

  He groans, throwing his head against his headrest. “We took State, man, and not thanks to you, so don’t give me this shit.”

  Wordlessly, I step out of the vehicle and round it, opening Kannon’s door and throwing him out on the ground. I’m now oblivious to the growing crowd streaming into the snake pit. The only thing I can see is his face when he realizes he shouldn’t have confided in me.

  I straighten him up against the car and squat down to his eye level.

  “You try to throw any other games this season?” I park my elbows on my knees, squinting.

  He shakes his head. “But I know Gus bought pretty much all of ASH’s games.”

  “With what money?”

  “The betting ring. He makes money there, then uses it to pay off players from other teams.”

  “That’s thousands of dollars.”

  “Vaughn loves to fight, and people love to think others have a fucking chance against him.” Kannon shrugs.

  “What happened tonight, then?”

  Kannon shakes his head. “He came to Josh the other night—Josh is the one who’s been listening to him since he has nothing to lose, and all. Gus tried to up his price. A thousand per head. And…until yesterday, people were going to do it. I wasn’t going to anymore, bro, I swear, but I couldn’t snitch on the others. Hell, people need this money for medicine for their parents and diapers for their baby siblings, and I’m no snitch.”

  “What changed?”

  “When they did what they did to Camilo…when he didn’t want to take part in this…I guess that’s when we officially lost our shit and decided enough was enough. It just didn’t sit right with us anymore. Him screwing around with your twin and trying to ruin your team.”

  Anger bubbles in my blood, and I grab the collar of his shirt and raise my fist, about to put a hole in his face, when he looks me in the eye, dead calm, and says, “You have bigger fish to fry than me, brother.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look behind you.”

  I twist my head and see the pink Jeep my sister has been using, parked across from where we are. I watch Via pouring out of it, hand in hand with none other than Daria herself. My fist drops as I gravitate toward them, my legs carrying me there without even meaning to, mesmerized.

  “…I’m so glad we had a chance to start fresh. The entire cheer team would like to apologize. I know you’re moving away, but we wanted to straighten things out before you do. You know, not to leave things awkward,” Via explains to Daria, who looks like a ghost. About five pounds lighter than when the school year started, her eyes dead. She is still gorgeous, put together, and looks like a model, but her heart’s not in it anymore. Into flaunting her beauty like she earned it, somehow. I recognize Via’s lilt of fakeness. It’s the one she often used when she was still her old self.

  I race across the parking lot, determined to protect Daria from whatever my sister has in store for her.

  Praying I’m not too late.

  The minute I step into the snake pit, I chuckle at my own stupid mistake.

  This is not a last-ditch effort to try to make me stay. It’s not even a peace offering. I came here because Via begged me to stop the fight between Gus and Penn.

  “Penn’s future is on the line. If you truly love him like you say you do, you’ll come and tell him not to fight Gus.”

  It’s a trap. I should have known the minute Via knocked on my bedroom door. She seemed too hysterical. Too nervous. But her reasons for seeking a ceasefire were too logical to overlook. Teary-eyed, she explained that she was tired of the hateful looks her brother gave her. I truly thought she wanted to cover her ass and get my blessing before I move away.

  I forgot one important thing—Via cares more about ruining me than saving herself.

/>   It’s entrenched in her DNA and has been for years now. She already knows what it feels like to lose everything because it happened to her when she was fourteen. Because of me. She’ll never be the prima ballerina she could have been. She knows that, too. Too much time without proper training has passed. My mother can hole her up in the ballet studio fifteen hours a day, but youth shapes art, and she’s been artless for so long, her craft has wilted.

  Her dream is an empty shell. The pearl that’s supposed to be inside is nowhere to be found. That’s why she keeps ripping into what’s mine. She knows we both lost, but I have the means to still live a comfortable life. She’s screwed. Maybe forever.

  My eyes swallow the scene unfolding in front of me. The world moves in slow motion as hundreds—no, thousands—of flyers rain down on the dead field. They volley on the bleachers and brown, muddy ground and are speared to the chain-linked fence and handed over between people who are whispering and laughing. The cheer team stands on the top row of the bleachers, and all the cheerleaders are throwing them around with Esme laughing so loud, I swear they can hear her in Japan. One of the pages sticks to my shin as dozens of its friends fly past me, and I bend down and pick it up. The paper was printed so hurriedly, there are smidges of ink from people touching it before it had time to dry.

  Entry #842:

  Sin: Opened a fake dating profile on a website I knew Miss Linde was a member of and had virtual sex with her. Screenshotted everything and sent it to her ex-boyfriend.

  Reason: She gave me two Cs just because she is jealous of Principal Prichard and me but too scared to rat us out.

  Entry #843:

  Sin: Ordered Esme full-fat lattes from Starbucks every Thursday for an entire semester when it was my turn to do the coffee round before practice in hopes she’ll gain weight.

  Reason: Bitch always fat-shames everyone.

  Entry #844:

  Sin: Frenched Colin Stimatzky and let him cop a feel.