Pretty Reckless (All Saints High) Page 8
“Forget it, Bauer.” Penn shakes his head, pushing off his car. He’s leaving. He is leaving angry. Because of me. He slides into his car, and it’s all in slow motion.
I want to cry and scream, but I hit my quota of public meltdowns for this semester at the snake pit. Gus bangs his roof twice, parting ways with my new housemate with one last dig.
“Sick ride, dude. Did you steal it from a philanthropic divorcee?”
“Stole it from your ma, Gus. Although she likes a different type of ride, doesn’t she?”
Gus goes red. I don’t know why. I don’t care why. They’re both jerks.
I turn around and run back into the school. I can’t stand here. I can’t stay put. I can’t breathe.
Gus is yelling behind me that I’m becoming a freak and I should stop hanging out with the Luna girl. Not that I ever do. Luna and Knight and Vaughn and Bailey and Lev are a tight-knit group that doesn’t give a damn about what anyone thinks and have each other’s backs—and then there’s me. I give a whole bag of damns. It’s ironic since I’m one of the most feared and loathed people in school.
I run to the girls’ locker room across the football field. Since I’m late for practice, no one is there now. I swing the door open and lock myself inside a shower-changing stall. Collapsing against its wall, I drag my back along the ugly graffiti of slut-shaming words, some of them written by me, and rake my fingers down my face. Shit. Why did I have to bring Via up? Why am I such a jerk? The Hulk pounded his fists against my chest when we were out there, telling me not to show weakness.
So why do I feel so weak?
I wipe my face, down a bottle of water, and unlock the door. When I step out, I rid myself of my dress, yank my locker open, take out my cheer uniform, and slam it shut. Behind the locker, a familiar face pops into my vision.
“Fight or flight?”
I jump back, slamming my spine against the lockers.
Penn.
“What the hell, Scully?”
He’s in the girls’ locker room at a school he doesn’t even attend. He’s got the word trouble written all over him, and if my dad ever finds out we were in here alone, he is going to hang him by the balls on All Saints’ flagpole and let his broken legs flap in the wind.
Not to mention—he is seeing me close to naked. Again.
“Answer me.”
“Fight. I always fight. So, does your girlfriend know you slept with Blythe Ortiz and kissed me?” I smile sweetly, trying to look unaffected, but I immediately regret my question. I’m not supposed to know about Blythe, and I’m not supposed to care he kissed me.
Penn whistles, nodding. “Keeping tabs, Daria? I just kissed you to prove I could have you whenever I wanted you. But it doesn’t matter what she knows or doesn’t know because I don’t want you. My turn to ask a question.” He takes a step toward me, crowding me against the metal cabinets. The place is spacious, if not embarrassingly luxurious. The lockers are the color of our uniforms—blue and black—and our rich parents shelled out thousands for the fancy chrome sinks, glass showers, and upholstered navy benches.
Penn’s gaze is so penetrating, my skin blossoms into goose bumps. As though he can see beneath my skin. 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.
Of course, I would die before giving him a real answer. I run my cold gaze over his healing face. Perfectly troubled and gorgeously flawed, like Johnny Depp in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. I’d flip my hair if he gave me room, but with his body flush against mine—much closer than he was when we were in my bathroom yesterday—if I move, I’ll touch him. I want to touch him. Which is exactly why I won’t.
“When it comes to you?” I run my eyes over his face. “I’m a natural, baby.”
When he continues to ooze stoic boredom, I elaborate on a scoff.
“You started it, okay? Gus thought we were peeps, so he wanted me to play mediator. But you couldn’t stop throwing digs at me. Was I supposed to just stand there and take it?”
“Isn’t that what All Saints cheerleaders are for?” He smirks.
“You’re a jerk.”
“And you’re a liar. You ambushed my ass.”
“Why would I ambush you?” I stomp, and my knee brushes his leg. His jeans are torn at the knees, and I caught a glimpse of the dusting of light hair on his tan legs when we were outside. I’m sure all of him is glorious, and it pisses me off that I don’t have the entire mental picture of him naked. The same one he has of me.
“Because you’re the cool kids’ puppet? Because you think you’re some bullshit queen bee who has to shove her nose into shit? Because I hate your—”
I crash my lips on his with a furious kiss that shuts him up. I know I’m a chicken shit and just don’t want to hear the truth. What surprises me is that he relents. His hands cup my face, and his lips mold with mine. I don’t understand any of this. I don’t kiss boys I hardly know. I don’t even kiss boys I do know. Kissing is a huge deal for me. Yet Penn is not exactly a stranger. It’s as though I carried him the entire time he was gone in that sea glass necklace, and now that he took it from me, the only way to satisfy this craving is with his attention.
His stares. His wrath. His lips.
“My dad is going to kill you.” I grin into his mouth, and his tongue wrestles its way between my lips again.
“You can’t put cream in front of a starving cat and expect it to look the other way.”
His breath is ragged, and his hands are big and callused, rough and warm and familiar. His fingers trace my face and neck and hair, tugging it back to arch my neck, and he sucks on the spot beneath my jaw until I yelp as he marks me. 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. Our tongues are dancing together. I’m no longer sure if I’m sad or happy, but whatever I am—I’m feeling it. I’m living it. I’m alive.
His erection presses against my stomach, and I’m beginning to grind myself against it when reality trickles into my brain. I hear the whine of the door as it opens. At first, I think a teammate must’ve walked in on us, but when Penn plasters himself against me, covering my semi-naked body, and I find myself chasing his touch with my hips and lips, I realize he doesn’t want to make out with me—he is shielding me.
I blink, desperately trying to sober up.
“…much explaining to do.” A metallic voice seeps into the room like chemical warfare, causing my eyes to pop open.
Oh, Marx.
When I twist my head, I see Principal Prichard standing in the doorway, filling it with his intimidating frame. He is alone, but I’d rather the entire school watch me making out with Las Juntas Bulldogs captain than him. Penn steps in front of me and tilts his body fully toward Principal Prichard so I’m still covered. Instead of apologizing or explaining himself, he rummages in his back pocket for gum, unwraps it, and tosses it into his mouth. The wrapper falls to the floor.
I think he just unlocked a badass level I’ve only seen Vaughn and Knight ever reach.
“Principal Prichard.” My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. He stares at my face behind Penn with raw anger that makes my cheeks burn. I shouldn’t feel like a cheater—Prichard and I are not like that—but something about the scene feels wrong. Disloyal.
“Penn Scully.” He clucks his tongue. “When I invited you to join our team, I meant the football one, not cheer, and I definitely did not count on you taking a tour in our facilities unannounced.”
“Should’ve clarified.” Penn pops his gum, running his fingers through his hair.
“Step away from Miss Followhill.”
; “Not before you look the other way,” Penn shoots back.
To my shock, Principal Prichard averts his gaze to the lockers on the other side. Mr. Prichard doesn’t do nice very well, so I need to fix this. Fast.
“This one’s on me.” I jump in front of Penn before he has the chance to escalate the situation any further. “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’s here because he wanted to come here. He has full motor control of his two legs,” Mr. Prichard snaps.
“Three, if you count the important one, sir.” Penn rubs his cheek, indifferent boredom dripping from his voice.
He is sticking it to Prichard. This punk is unreal.
“Actually, he is here because I lost a bet and needed to kiss a thug. We’re done here, anyway.” I snort, slipping into my cheer skirt and cropped shirt. I don’t dare lift my gaze to see their reaction. It’s a lie, but it’s one that would pacify Prichard and make him understand that Penn is not my boyfriend. That way, Penn won’t get in trouble.
Prichard narrows his eyes at Penn.
“I don’t appreciate you talking back to me, young man.”
Penn rolls his eyes as though the man’s dramatics have exasperated him.
“Penn,” I whisper-shout. I clutch the fabric of his shirt next to the hole, and he shakes me off, still staring at my principal. He is fearless. That’s when I realize I’m not only attracted to him. I envy him, too.
“If I see you on my school grounds one more time, I’ll inform the authorities.” Principal Prichard turns around, his whole body rigid. I chase after him on an impulse. Penn grabs my wrist, pressing his thumb to my vein.
His snake eyes ask me a question I haven’t given anyone a straight answer to.
What the fuck?
“I got what I needed from you.” I wiggle free of his touch, yawning. “If you’re here to clean the lockers, the mops are in the maintenance room across the field.”
The walk to Principal Prichard’s office is silent and long. When we reach his door, he tells me to forget about making it to cheer practice today.
“Esme can cover for you. She’s quite clever when it comes to getting what she wants. Besides, we have some business to attend to.”
He locks the door. My heart races.
A click never sounded so final in my life.
You
Make me
Want to grow
Even though you act so small
I want to put you in my pocket and save you from yourself
“Yo, Penn, heard your balls are softer than Tom Brady’s. Maybe you could use them as stress relievers.”
Some tool from All Saints High burps behind me, crushing an empty bottle of Gatorade in his fist and throwing it in my team’s direction. We’re standing in the tunnel leading to their football field because All Saints High has a fucking tunnel like it’s the NFL. Their entire facility is top-notch and cost the parents a pretty penny. Yet the locker rooms for our use, the guest team, are closed due to flooding (read: Gus being his usual dickhead self). So we’re in one tunnel. Together.
An All Saints player faints like a bitch—they mumble it’s too hot in here, but I bet his lady corset is probably too fucking tight—and both our coaches hurry to get him to an ambulance and find a replacement.
It’s the first game of the season, and it’s a fucking shitshow before we even get on the field.
We haven’t lost to All Saints High in five years. Let that shit sink in for a second.
Five. Fucking. Years.
Coach Higgins talked to the local news yesterday. He said if we concentrate, we have this in the bag. To our faces, though, Coach is anything but optimistic. He gives us less credit than he’d give a bunch of fainting goats in football uniforms. Which is total bullshit, seeing as we’re number one in the state (ASH is number two—commence eye roll).
Coach also says I should keep my head cold and my legs warm and not vice versa. He knows ASH has mastered the form of trash talking, but other than Knight, their sophomore quarterback, their defense is nonexistent, and their plays are pretty predictable. Coming to Gus to mend shit wasn’t my plan, but I did it because Higgins suggested we put an end to the rivalry off the field. Only I didn’t count on Gus bringing Skull Eyes with him.
I haven’t spoken to her since the kiss in the locker room yesterday.
We passed each other in the hallway, avoided eye contact at dinner, and then ignored each other while doing homework at the kitchen table, where Bailey broke a record of talking about absolutely nothing for two hours straight.
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 watch Daria on the field, doing her number with the cheer squad. Her little blue and black outfit barely covers her tits and crotch, and I know I’m not the only one who notices. It’s like looking at a scalloped picture, frayed at the edges. Everything blends in the background, and she stands out.
Las Juntas colors are red and white, so it’s easy to see that there’s less than zero attendance of our parents and friends on the bleachers. Todos Santos, on the other hand? Every second shop closes, hanging the same sign on the display windows:
Closed: Gone to the game
(You should, too. Go, Saints!)
Most people on our side of San Diego roll onto their busy night shifts on Friday nights. Hard work, however, is a concept most Todos Santos folks seem to be allergic to.
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.
“Sylvia and Penn, always come in twos.”
The All Saints version is a little less endearing. They call me Double Deuce—Twice the shit.
Last night, Mel took me aside and told me that she has people looking into Via’s whereabouts. She asked me if we have any relatives she should check with. I told her I have a father and a grandmother who have been traveling from city to city for the past decade, trying to start a crazy Christian cult, an aunt in Iowa I’ve already checked with, and a half-uncle in Ohio neither of us ever met.
The Followhills are not bad. My only issue is how they try courting my ass to a point they might blow my cover to the sky. They practically did everything to make people suspect I live with them other than flat-out tattooing the announcement on their foreheads. 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’s Scully smiling about? Reminiscing about his time with his favorite dildo?” Gus stretches behind me, and Camilo shifts from foot to foot, his shoulder brushing mine. He wants to answer. I bet they fucking want that, too.
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.
“We can’t afford the legal fees if we break their noses,” I clip loud enough for Gus to hear, pushing Camilo to the front of the tunnel. “Let them vent. We’ll crush them on the field, just like Gus’s friends crush his mama when they are drunk enough not to give a shit what they dip their dicks into.”
My players are bouncing and shifting next to me, ready to burst. The games with All Saints High are not only about points and stats and rankings. They’re about pride and socioeconomic justice and revenge. Historically, the two high schools have been known to prank each other on the hardcore side before and after games. From us burning down their mascot costumes to them putting dish soap in our fountains because we’re dirty, poor trash. We positively hate each other.
Josh, Malcolm, Kannon, Nelson, and the rest of my team have good chemistry on the field. I’m not gonna pull the whole “we’re family” crap, but we’re tight. Everyone’s got a story on this side of the tracks, and we’ve all helped one another at some point during high school. 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.
That’s why I’ve felt guilty these past few weeks. None of my teammates know I’ve moved. Not even Kannon and Camilo.
“Pennywise,” Knight hollers at me from the bowels of the tunnel. I twist my head, my body still facing the field. I don’t know what it is about him that makes me not hate him. He and Vaughn obviously know I moved in with the Followhills, and for some reason, I trust them with this information.
There’s a certain irony about assholes—they usually don’t give a shit. Knight and Vaughn are like that. They’re not good guys by any stretch of the imagination, but unless you actively piss them off, they’re not after your neck.
I jut my chin to him. We both wear war paint. But I swear, his looks like a makeup artist applied it. He grins.
“After the game. Party hard at Blythe’s?” He moves his hand back and forth as though he’s spanking an invisible girl.