Pretty Reckless

My hand flies to my mouth. Penn’s expression turns volatile. It makes me think of the storms that rip through roofs and uproot trees.

“My, my, my…” Gus pops his gum, raising his ball cap and running his fingers through his blond hair. It’s so shiny and straight, it looks like dunes of sand flying in the wind. “Penn Scully is making enemies in high places, but I can’t say I’m surprised in the least. You were saying, Scully? I haven’t got all day. Some of us need to practice. The first game of the season isn’t one I want to lose.” He winks.

“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.