Pretty Reckless

And Prichard? He doesn’t want me off Daria’s back because he’s concerned for her. He’s doing it because he wants her.

“Scully, give me your word,” Coach probes, his ten-month pregnant belly poking out of the edge of his red Coach shirt we got him for Christmas. “There’s too much on the line, and there’re a lot of pretty blondes out there. You’ll be drowning in them at any self-respecting D1 college. Besides, think about Adriana.”

I tip my head down, gesturing with my open arms.

“You have my word, Coach Higgins, that I won’t get suspended.”

He doesn’t catch the semantics.

Because to him, I’m just a dumb kid, and she’s just one blonde bimbo out of many.



I’m still clad in my gridiron football pants and varsity jacket when I kick the door to the Followhills’ mansion open, holding my duffel bag, school backpack, and a huge-ass Amazon Prime box Bailey ordered. Probably more poetry books we’ll burn through over the weekend. I don’t wanna know what the Followhills’ credit card bill looks like at the end of every month. Their daughters spend money like it’s a competitive sport.

“Bailey, I swear to fucking God, you consume words just as much as you speak them, and that’s somethin’,” I groan. No answer back, so I guess the house is empty.

I dump the box in the foyer and walk over to the kitchen to fix myself a nutritious meal consisting of six slices of pizza and shove them into the microwave. While I wait for them to heat, I gulp down an entire carton of orange juice. It’s crazy how quickly things change. When I moved here less than two weeks ago, everything in the fridge was so small and cute and mini.

Small cottage cheese. Tiny boutique personal bottles of juices. Individual cheese strings. Then I arrived. Melody got her Costco card two days later when she realized I’d eat the fucking counter if no one stopped me. Now everything here comes in bulk. There’s enough meat in the freezer to reassemble an entire farm.

I lean a hip against the counter and hoover the pizza slices. That’s my afternoon snack sorted. I wonder what Melody has in store for dinner. I have practice every day from three thirty to six o’clock, then I shower and do homework. I don’t have time to play house with the Followhills, but one thing I never pass on is their fucking dinner. They sure love their fancy meals, and when Jaime is in a good mood—which is basically always—he slips me a Bud Light, too.

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.

Harder than my own mother ever did, actually.

After I wash my plate, I go upstairs to dump my shit in my room, which used to be a guest room, but the Followhills have decorated it with Raiders merchandise, a flat-screen TV, an Xbox, and a guitar (more proof rich people love the whole show. I don’t play the guitar). There’s even a dark maroon pillow with my name and jersey number on it. Every day when I come home, I find more new personalized Penn shit. I already told Mel that if I catch her trying to put a diaper on me in the middle of the night, we’re done.

I turn around, about to head to the shower, when I see Daria on my threshold in her barely there cheer outfit. The tiny, cropped, tight black and blue top and miniskirt should be illegal anywhere that’s not a strip club or my bed.

Arching an eyebrow, I kick my shoes off, then throw my jacket on the floor. She folds her arms, leaning one shoulder against my doorframe. I know we’re alone, because if we weren’t, she wouldn’t be standing here, openly ogling me. Jaime doesn’t want us to be alone. Wouldn’t be surprised if there are new cameras in the house, too. My phone starts flashing with text messages. Adriana, having a sixth sense and wanting to remind me that she exists.

Addy: Miss you!

Addy: Come to Lenny’s.

Addy: When am I going to see you?

“Do continue.” Daria’s gaze drops to my crotch, where it stays. “You were in the middle of something, weren’t you?”

I grab the red pillow and throw it at her. She catches it and flings it back on my bed.

“Go play with your Barbies, Skull Eyes.”

Her smile widens, and she blushes. It occurs to me that I might have a hard-on. I look down. Half-mast and firmly covered. So why is she practically red?

“You haven’t called me Skull Eyes in forever.”

“It’s not a fucking pet name. Don’t send our wedding invitations just yet.”

“Mhm-hmm.” She nods, biting down on a pink fingernail.

“How’s your little boyfriend, Gus, doing? Still sucking ass for a living?”

“Penn Scully presents: When life gives you lemons, become a bitter jerk.”

“One game,” I stress. “You won one game. Life didn’t give me lemons. It gave me a good opportunity to get even.”

I need to make sure that Daria is a hobby, not an addiction. Adolescent hearts are trash and as loyal as a starving stray cat. They’ll take anything. Even scraps. I don’t want to feed my rusty tin heart junk. And Daria, she stomped on it hard enough for me to know she’s not even a greasy burger. She’s a Pop-Tarts covered in cyanide.