Pretty Reckless (All Saints High) Read online

  Pretty Reckless

  Copyright © 2019 L.J. Shen

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Synopsis

  Music

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Books by L.J. Shen

  Connect with L.J. Shen

  Preview of Defy

  To first loves and to famous last words

  And to Sarah Grim Sentz, who fell in love with Penn and Daria before they had the chance to fall with each other, and Ariadna Basulto, the real California Girl.

  We were supposed to be best friends

  But turned out to be worst enemies…

  They say revenge is a dish best served cold.

  I’d had four years to stew on what Daria Followhill did to me, and now my heart was completely iced.

  I took her first kiss.

  She took the only thing I loved.

  I was poor.

  She was rich.

  The good thing about circumstances? They can change. Fast.

  Now, I’m her parents’ latest shiny project.

  Her housemate. Her tormentor. The captain of the rival football team she hates so much.

  Yeah, baby girl, say it—I’m your foster brother.

  There’s a price to pay for ruining the only good thing in my life, and she’s about to shell out some serious tears.

  Daria Followhill thinks she is THE queen. I’m about to prove to her that she’s nothing but a spoiled princess.

  Everyone loves a good old unapologetic punk.

  But being a bitch? Oh, you get slammed for every snarky comment, cynical eye roll, and foot you put in your adversaries’ way.

  The thing about stiletto heels is that they make a hell of a dent when you walk all over the people who try to hurt you.

  In Penn Scully’s case, I pierced his heart until he bled out, then left it in a trash can on a bright summer day.

  Four years ago, he asked me to save all my firsts for him.

  Now he lives across the hall, and I want nothing more than to be his last everything.

  His parting words when he gave me his heart were that nothing in this world is free.

  Now? Now he is making me pay.

  “I feel like I’m drowning”—Two Feet

  “Too Young”—Zeds Dead

  “Cute Without the ‘E’”—Taking Back Sunday

  “Who Knew”—Pink

  “Solo Amigos”—Maniako

  “Right Above it”—Lil Wayne

  “Killing in the Name”—Rage Against the Machine

  “If You’re Feeling Sinister”—Belle and Sebastian

  “Tainted Love”—Soft Cell

  It started with a lemonade

  And ended with my heart

  This, my pretty reckless rival, is how our screwed-up story starts

  Age Fourteen.

  The tiles under my feet shake as a herd of ballerinas blazes past me, their feet pounding like artillery in the distance.

  Brown hair. Black hair. Straight hair. Red hair. Curly hair. They blur into a rainbow of trims and scrunchies. My eyes are searching for the blond head I’d like to bash against the well-worn floor.

  Feel free not to be here today, Queen Bitch.

  I stand frozen on the threshold of my mother’s ballet studio, my pale pink leotard sticking to my ribs. My white duffel bag dangles from my shoulder. My tight bun makes my scalp burn. Whenever I let my hair down, my golden locks fall off in chunks on the bathroom floor. I tell Mom it’s from messing with my hair too much, but that’s BS. And if she gave a damn—really gave one, not just pretended to—she’d know this, too.

  I wiggle my banged-up toes in my pointe shoes, swallowing the ball of anxiety in my throat. Via isn’t here. Thank you, Marx.

  Girls torpedo past me, bumping into my shoulders. I feel their giggles in my empty stomach. My duffel bag falls with a thud. My classmates are leaner, longer, and more flexible with rod-straight backs like an exclamation mark. Me? I’m small and muscular like a question mark. Always unsure and on the verge of snapping. My face is not stoic and regal; it’s traitorous and unpredictable. Some wear their hearts on their sleeves—I wear mine on my mouth. I smile with my teeth when I’m happy, and when my mom looks at me, I’m always happy.

  “You should really take gymnastics or cheer, Lovebug. It suits you so much better than ballet.”

  But Mom sometimes says things that dig at my self-esteem. There’s a rounded dent on its surface now, the shape of her words, and that’s where I keep my anger.

  Melody Green-Followhill is a former ballerina who broke her leg during her first week at Juilliard when she was eighteen. Ballet has been expected of me since the day I was born. And—just my luck—I happen to be exceptionally bad at it.

  Enter Via Scully.

  Also fourteen, Via is everything I strive to be. Taller, blonder, and skinnier. Worst of all, her natural talent makes my dancing look like an insult to leotards all over the world.

  Three months ago, Via received a letter from the Royal Ballet Academy asking her to audition. Four weeks ago—she did. Her hotshot parents couldn’t get the time off work, so my mom jumped at the chance to fly her on a weeklong trip to London. Now the entire class is waiting to hear if Via is going to study at the Royal Ballet Academy. Word around the studio is she has it in the bag. Even the Ukrainian danseur Alexei Petrov—a sixteen-year-old prodigy who is like the Justin Bieber of ballet—posted an IG story with her after the audition.

  Looking forward to creating magic together.

  It wouldn’t surprise me to learn Via can do magic. She’s always been a witch.

  “Lovebug, stop fretting by the door. You’re blocking everyone’s way,” my mother singsongs with her back to me. I can see her reflection through the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She’s frowning at the attendance sheet and glancing at the door, hoping to see Via.

  Sorry, Mom. Just your spawn over here.

  Via is always late, and my mother,
who never tolerates tardiness, lets her get away with it.

  I bend down to pick up my duffel bag and pad into the studio. A shiny barre frames the room, and a floor-to-ceiling window displays downtown Todos Santos in all its photogenic, upper-crust glory. Peach-colored benches grace tree-lined streets, and crystal blue towers sparkle like the thin line where the ocean kisses the sky.

  I hear the door squeaking open and squeeze my eyes shut.

  Please don’t be here.

  “Via! We’ve been waiting for you,” Mom’s chirp is like a BB gun shooting me in the back, and I tumble over my own feet from the shockwave. Snorts explode all over the room. I manage to grip the barre, pulling myself up a second before my knees hit the floor. Flushed, I grasp it in one hand and slide into a sloppy plié.

  “Lovebug, be a darling and make some room for Via,” Mom purrs.

  Symbolically, Mother, I’d love for Via to make my ass some room, too.

  Of course, her precious prodigy isn’t wearing her ballet gear today even though she owns Italian-imported leotards other girls can only dream of. Via clearly comes from money because even rich people don’t like shelling out two hundred bucks for a basic leotard. Other than Mom—who probably figures I’ll never be a true ballerina so the least she can do is dress me up like one.

  Today, Via is wearing a cropped yellow Tweety Bird shirt and ripped leggings. Her eyes are red, and her hair is a mess. Does she even make an effort?

  She throws me a patronizing smirk. “Lovebug.”

  “Puppy,” I retort.

  “Puppy?” She snorts.

  “I’d call you a bitch, but let’s admit it, your bite doesn’t really have teeth.”

  I readjust my shoes, pretending that I’m over her. I’m not over her. She monopolizes my mother’s time, and she’s been on my case way before I started talking back. Via attends another school in San Diego. She claims it’s because her parents think the kids in Todos Santos are too sheltered and spoiled. Her parents want her to grow up with real people.

  Know what else is fake? Pretending to be something you’re not. I own up to the fact I’m a prissy princess. Sue me (Please do. I can afford really good legal defense).

  “Meet me after class, Vi,” Mom quips, then turns back around to the stereo. Vi (Vi!) uses the opportunity to stretch her leg, stomping on my toes in the process.

  “Oops. Looks like you’re not the only clumsy person around here, Daria.”

  “I would tell you to drop dead, but I’m afraid my mom would force me to go to your funeral, and you legit aren’t worth my time.”

  “I would tell you to kiss my ass, but your mom already does that. If she only liked you half as much as she likes me. It’s cool, though; at least you have money for therapy. And a nose job.” She pats my back with a smirk, and I hate, hate, hate that she is prettier.

  I can’t concentrate for the rest of the hour. I’m not stupid. Even though I know my mother loves me more than Via, I also know it’s because she’s genetically programmed to do so.

  Centuries tick by, but the class is finally dismissed. All the girls sashay to the elevator in pairs.

  “Daria darling, do me a favor and get us drinks from Starbucks. I’m going to the little girls’ room, then wrapping something up real quick with Vi.” Mom pats my shoulder, then saunters out of the studio, leaving a trail of her perfume like fairy dust. My mom would donate all her organs to save one of her students’ fingernails. She smothers her ballerinas with love, leaving me saddled me with jealousy.

  I grab Mom’s bag and turn around before I have a chance to exchange what Daddy calls “unpleasantries” with Via.

  “You should’ve seen her face when I auditioned.” Via stretches in front of the mirror behind me. She’s as agile as a contortionist. Sometimes I think she could wrap herself around my neck and choke me to death.

  “We had a blast. She told me that by the looks of it, not only am I in, but I’m also going to be their star student. It felt kind of…” She snaps her fingers, looking for the word. I see her in the reflection of the mirror but don’t turn around. Tears are hanging on my lower lashes for their dear lives. “A redemption, or something. Like you can’t be a ballerina because you’re so, you know, you. But then there’s me. So at least she’ll get to see someone she loves make it.”

  Daddy says a green Hulk lives inside me, and he gets bigger and bigger when I get jealous, and sometimes, the Hulk blasts through my skin and does things the Daria he knows and loves would never do. He says jealousy is the tribute mediocrity pays to genius, and I’m no mediocre girl.

  Let’s just say I disagree.

  I’ve always been popular, and I’ve always fought hard for a place in the food chain where I can enjoy the view. But I think I’m ordinary. Via is extraordinary and glows so bright, she burns everything in her vicinity. I’m the dust beneath her feet, and I’m crushed, and bitter, and Hulky.

  Nobody wants to be a bad person. But some people—like me—just can’t help themselves. A tear rolls down my cheek, and I’m thankful we’re alone. I turn around to face her.

  “What the hell is your problem?”

  “What isn’t?” She sighs. “You are a spoiled princess, a shallow idiot, and a terrible dancer. How can someone so untalented be born to the Melody Green-Followhill?”

  I don’t know! I want to scream. No one wants to be born to a genius. Marx, bless Sean Lennon for surviving his own existence.

  I eye her pricey pointe shoes and arch a mocking eyebrow. “Don’t pretend I’m the only princess here.”

  “You’re an airhead, Daria.” She shakes her head.

  “At least I’m not a spaz.” I pretend to be blasé, but my whole body is shaking.

  “You can’t even get into a decent first position.” She throws her hands in the air. She isn’t wrong, and that enrages me.

  “Again—why. Do. You. Care!” I roar.

  “Because you’re a waste of fucking space, that’s why! While I’m busting my ass, you get a place in this class just because your mother is the teacher,.”

  This is my chance to tell her the truth.

  That I’m busting mine even harder, precisely because I wasn’t born a ballerina. Instead, my heart shatters like glass. I spin on my heel and dart down the fire escape, taking the stairs two at a time. I pour myself out into the blazing California heat. Any other girl would take a left and disappear inside Liberty Park, but I take a right and enter Starbucks because I can’t—won’t—disappoint my mom more than I already have. I look left and right to make sure the coast is clear, then release the sob that has weighed on my chest for the past hour. I get into line, tugging open Mom’s purse from her bag as I wipe my tears away with my sleeve. Something falls to the floor, so I pick it up.

  It’s a crisp letter with my home address on it, but the name gives me pause.

  Sylvia Scully.

  Sniffing, I rip the letter open. I don’t stop to think that it isn’t mine to open. Seeing Via’s mere name above my address makes me want to scream until the walls in this place fall. The first thing that registers is the symbol at the top.

  The Royal Ballet Academy.

  My eyes are like a wonky mixed tape. They keep rewinding to the same words.

  Acceptance Letter.

  Acceptance Letter.

  Acceptance Letter.

  Via got accepted. I should be thrilled she’ll be out of my hair in a few months, but instead, the acidic taste of envy bursts inside my mouth.

  She has everything.

  The parents. The money. The fame. The talent. Most of all—my mother’s undivided attention.

  She has everything, and I have nothing, and the Hulk inside me grows larger. His body so huge it presses against my diaphragm.

  A whole new life in one envelope. Via’s life hanging by a paper. A paper that’s in my hand.

  “Sweetie? Honey?” The barista snaps me out of my trance with a tone that suggests I’m not a sweetie nor a honey. “What would you like?”
/>   For Via to die.

  I place my order and shuffle to the corner of the room so I can read the letter for the thousandth time. As if the words will change by some miracle.

  Five minutes later, I take both drinks and exit on to the sidewalk. I dart to the nearest trash can to dispose of my iced tea lemonade so I can hold the letter without dampening it. Mom probably wanted to open it with Via, and I just took away their little moment.

  Sorry to interrupt your bonding sesh.

  “Put the drink down, and nobody gets hurt,” booms a voice behind me, like liquid honey, as my hand hovers over the trash can. It’s male, but he’s young. I spin in place, not sure I heard him right. His chin dipped low, I can’t see his face clearly because of a Raiders ball cap that’s been worn to death. He’s tall and scrawny—almost scarily so—but he glides toward me like a Bengal tiger. As if he’s found a way to walk on air and can’t be bothered with mundane things like muscle tone.

  “Are we throwing this away?” He points at the lemonade.

  We? Bitch, at this point, there’s not even a you to me.

  I motion to him with the drink. He can have the stupid iced tea lemonade. Gosh. He is interrupting my meltdown for a lemonade.

  “Nothing’s free in this world, Skull Eyes.”

  I blink, willing him to evaporate from my vision. Did this jackass really just call me Skull Eyes? At least I don’t look like a skeleton. My mind is upstairs with Via. Why does Mom receive letters on her behalf? Why couldn’t they send it directly to Via’s house? Is Mom adopting her ass now?

  I think about my sister, Bailey. At only nine, she already shows promise as a gifted dancer. Via moving to London might encourage Mom to put Bailey in the Royal Ballet Academy, too. Mom had talked about me applying there before it became clear that I could be a Panera bagel before I’d become a professional ballerina. I begin to glue the pieces of my screwed-up reality together.