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“Fluent, actually. Your sister taught me.” I smirk. In my defense, I hate myself even before the words leave my mouth. After
“Keeping tabs, Daria? I just kissed you to prove I could have you whenever I wanted you.
Power move but toxic lol
I’m ugly behind the tan and makeup and mascara. All flesh and inner organs and blood vessels and hate. Marx, why am I so hateful?
“Are you actively trying to be a bitch, or does it just come naturally?” A little bit of both, the Hulk inside me explains. I’m naturally envious and petty, but being a bitch is a knee-jerk reaction when I feel threatened.
Joy explodes in my chest. Penn’s taste in my mouth is heaven. Sweet and dangerous, like a man. I taste cut grass and the California sunshine and a bit of sweat and toothpaste and heat.
Yeah sure thing he tastes like cut grass hahahaha spit it out you ain’t no rabbit
“I dragged him here. It was my idea.” They both stare at me, stunned. I don’t mind taking the fall for this since my reputation is already toast with Principal Prichard, what with the way I let him use me. Plus, I genuinely feel crappy about what happened with Via. I want to atone for what I did to Penn’s sister. I’m not a monster.
He is fearless. That’s when I realize I’m not only attracted to him. I envy him, too.
He locks the door. My heart races. A click never sounded so final in my life.
But Daria stood up for me against Prichard—something no one else has ever done—and at this point, I know she talks shit to cover her good deeds, so I was unfazed by her excuse for why it happened. She’s a little pathetic, though, what with the way she thinks I have a girlfriend and still lets me have my way with her. Then again, rich, spoiled girls are self-indulgent. Why shouldn’t I take advantage of that?
I look up into the bleachers and spot Jaime, Mel, and Bailey. Sitting next to their neighborhood friends, they’re wearing All Saints High blue caps and burgundy shirts. The shirts are inside out so nobody knows what’s on the other side. But I do. I know because they’re my shirts. With my number—22.
I mean, red shirts? For real? Luckily, they just purchased uniforms and gear for my entire team for the season, so this could pass as them being their pretentious, charitable selves.
What I’m smiling about is the fact Daria just did a pike and her abs and ass looked so fine while she did it, my dick almost broke free from my football pants and ran across the field to say hello.
Where we come from, there are two surefire ways to get rich: become a rapper or an athlete. None of us can sing for shit, so we might as well try for the other route together.
I don’t shit where I eat, and I don’t mix with the All Saints crowd.
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.
“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.”
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’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.”
order says a lot about your personality. “It’s a fact. I read it in Cosmo.”
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.
This family is so first world and rich, I bet they shit potpourri.
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.
She melts into a puddle when I wink at her. Easy prey. My favorite snack.
I ask for her number. Straight up.
The girl starts shooting out the number quickly. I pretend to program them into my phone while playing Fortnite.
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.
Us. Licking each other’s ice creams. She is tasting my sourness. As I devour her sweetness.
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.
(“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.
“Why can’t you be a little more like your sister?” Daria’s physical reaction to those words suggests she’s been shot. She darts up from her chair, and it falls back from the momentum. Everyone around us snaps their heads to our table. Melody jumps up from her chair, too. “I didn’t—” “Don’t.” Daria lifts a finger. Her eyes are shining, but her face is stoic. She shakes her head. “Don’t say you didn’t mean it, Melody, because every fiber of you did. And maybe I should be more like Bailey. But you? You should be more of a mom.”
“Fuck you! This is Todos Santos. Your daddy will buy you a new one,” she screams.
I think she needs some tough love and to be grounded until the next decade. She needs to be asked some hard questions. Questions like: Are you fucking your principal? Is your foster brother fondling you in the locker room? Are your friends assholes who run betting rings in an illegal fight club? What in the actual fuck is Hulky?
Daria isn’t seen. Her mother barely talks to her, and when she does, it’s to tell her to stop being horrible. She’s normally left to her own devices, and other than a generic “How’s school?” I’ve never heard her mom ask about her friends or dates or cheer. It’s a vicious cycle because in order to get attention, Skull Eyes keeps on acting up. You’re only lonely if you’re not there for yourself.
“Cut the bullshit, Scully. What do you want?” “A rematch, greasy burger, and your cunt on my face. In that order exactly.”
She stares at me with the same wild gaze that made me give her the sea glass four years ago. As though I’m the most fascinating creature in the world. I want to pocket that look and save it for the next time the world lets me down. Which should be in the next twenty minutes.
Too smug to feel, too bitchy to be tolerated. They are so much yet so little. They have everything, but they earned nothing by themselves. It’s like winning the lottery and expecting to make wise investments on your own without any financial background.
Daria answers to no one and does whatever the hell she wants—except with me.
“Some fairy tales are screwed up,” she adds. She can’t shut up. She’s nervous. Her eyes are still closed. “All the good ones are, Skull Eyes,” I say softly.
It’s cool to see her like that. Vulnerable. Scared. She’s not the head cheerleader right now, and I’m not the football captain of the rival team. We’re just two teenagers who never stood a chance to be friends in this world, so we became what was expected of us. Enemies.
“I thought you said you didn’t want all my firsts.” “My mind changes according to my mood and how hot you look at that moment.” “How very stupid teenage jock of you,” she murmurs against my lips. “How very indeed.”
because whether she realizes it—they give a shit.
We pull away together. Everything about us is a power game, and no one wants to be the side that got rejected.
It was love at first sight Hate at second Lust at third But four is my lucky number So mine your ass shall be
If I head-butt him, I risk suspension. With my rich track record consisting of fighting people for food, cigarettes (done with that shit, BTW),
Dafuq?
I live with her. I want to laugh in his face. But since volunteering this information is a no-go, I smirk. If he’s expecting a thank you, or worse—any type of cooperation—he obviously hasn’t been paying attention.
Mrs. Followhill is a drill sergeant about being prompt. But since I moved in, Bailey said dinner on the nights Melody doesn’t teach has changed from six thirty sharp to seven fifteen when I get out of my shower. She’s all right, I guess, for doing that. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to resent her when she is trying so damn hard.
She’s a Pop-Tarts covered in cyanide.
