Pretty Reckless
That what we’re doing is wrong.
I wrote my first ever entry in my little black book the day we did what we did to Via. The day I realized I wasn’t just a mischievous kid, I was a mean girl. Since then, the notebook has become jammed-packed with entries.
I take it with me everywhere like a dark cloud over my sunshine hair, and at night, I sleep with it under my pillow. It harbors my not-so-Instagram-worthy moments. Things only Principal Prichard and I know. How I cut Esme’s Disney princess hair in her sleep when we were fifteen at a sleepover. How I had my mom adopt the stray cat Luna wanted just to make her jealous.
How I ruined Via’s life.
“Back so soon?” His tone is ruthlessly bored. It anchors me to the ground, reminding me of how little and unworthy I am.
Instead of answering, I turn around and lock his door. Behind my back, I hear the soft thud of his pen hitting the document and know he is setting his reading glasses down where the pages meet because I’ve seen this movie a thousand times before.
A chill runs down my spine.
Principal Prichard is attractive in the way powerful men usually are. In a symmetrical, clinical way. His hair is velvet black—almost bluish—and his nose is as sharp as a knife. A constant scowl knots his forehead like Professor Snape, and although he is not particularly tall or muscular, he is slender and well-dressed enough to pull off the James Bond look.
Prichard and I, we go back. Our first encounter occurred a few days after Via disappeared when I was still in middle school. Our counselor was on her honeymoon, so when I broke down in tears, my teacher directed me to the principal’s office. Prichard was attentive, and nice, and young. He gave me tissues and water and a free pass from PE on cardio day.
I told him I made a terrible mistake, and I didn’t know how to tell my mom. When he asked me what happened, I handed him my journal and twiddled my thumbs as he read it. Confessing it aloud would have made it too real.
After he read my first entry, he put the notebook down.
“Do your parents punish you, Daria?”
“No,” I said honestly. What did that have to do with Via? She was missing, and it was all because of me. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops and take it to my grave in the same breath. I was hoping he’d push me in the right direction.
“Do you have any house rules?” He drummed his fingers on his desk.
I guessed I couldn’t puke in my sister’s shoes, but nothing was written or anything. I blinked at him, confused.
“No.”
“I think what you need more than anything else”—he stopped drumming, leaning forward—“is to be disciplined.”
That’s how our story began. The Years of Daria and Principal Prichard. When I moved to All Saints High, he moved with me. For him, it was a promotion. For me, it was a relief. Principal Prichard—dubbed Prince Preach at All Saints for his regal handsomeness—is the person I turn to for my atonements.
Every time I feel guilty, he makes me pay, and the pain goes away.
“Turn around and face me.” His metallic voice rolls down my spine now.
I do.
“On your knees.”
I lower myself.
“Bend your head and say it.”
“I am Daria Followhill, and this is my church. You are my priest, and to you, I confess all my sins and atone for them.”
After my visit to the principal’s office, I splash cold water on my face in the bathroom and wonder what my chances are of looking like nothing happened.
Finding out I was assigned to the class my mother taught at All Saints High was the whole reason I ran to him in the first place. It creeps me out that I wouldn’t exist if my parents hadn’t met in this place. And it makes my skin crawl that everyone around me can practically imagine my parents getting it on over Miss Linde’s desk.
I don’t remember when I started nurturing the rumors about Principal Prichard and me, but I sure remember why.
“Aren’t you the result of a sordid affair between a student and a teacher? Your dad knocked your mom up when he was a senior, and his mom forced him to marry her?”
A senior girl who looked like Regina George cornered me in the restrooms on the first day of my freshman year. She was armed with three other goons who looked like carbon copies of the least good-looking Kmart catalog model.
One of them shoved me against the wall.
“Bitch, I don’t care who you think you are. Here, you’re just an accident with a skirt, and if you’re gonna walk these halls thinking you’re all that, we’ll make sure everyone knows it,” she spat out.
I tilted my chin up, wiping the traces of her saliva from my face.
“My parents got married before I was conceived. My grandma actually hated the idea of my mom and dad being together. In fact, she still does, and we’re not close with her. I only see her once a year even though we live in the same town. I’m telling you this, not because I think you care, but because if you’re going to be a bitch, better not be a dumb one. When talking shit, at least be factual. Not that it’s going to help you. I came here to run this place, and guess what? You’re already feeling threatened.”
That earned me a slap in the face. I smiled, keeping my tears at bay. I got it. I was about to take their place. I was going to make the cheer team, whether they liked it or not, because even though I was a crappy ballerina, I was a damn good dancer. I would date their boyfriends, wear their dresses better, and drive a fancier car. No one likes to come face to face with their 2.0 version. It’s always fancier and includes all the upgrades.