Pretty Reckless

“Also, they’re going to take off my braces next week!” she announces, and she and Penn fist-bump across the table. I tell her I’m happy for her because I am, and then she says, “I know, right? Just in time for New York.”

“New York?” I scrunch my nose, confused.

“Mom is taking me to New York!”

I drop my fork onto my plate. The room goes silent, and everyone is staring at me. I need to say something. Something positive. And I want to—I love Bailey, I do—but I can’t. It’s not even the Hulk that’s pissed. Melody is right. It’s me.

Bailey looks around nervously, and I hate that she is in the middle of this.

“It’s an early birthday present. It…it was my idea,” she stutters. “I…hmm. I wanted it to be a whole week, but Mom only agreed to four days.”

My birthday is before hers, but I don’t point that out. Now I know why Mel wanted us to look at a Chanel catalog. Funny, she failed to mention a trip to New York is my dream. I’ve been twice, but once was a layover and doesn’t count.

“It’s for a business meeting.” Melody clears her throat, dabbing her napkin on the corners of her mouth. “And of course, I was going to ask you to come.”

Dad changes the subject before I can reply.

“I’ve been looking at colleges for you, Penn.” He coughs into his fist. “Made a real dent in this project. I’ve got a list of at least six I want us to see.”

“I’ve only gotten three invites so far from D1s.” Penn shoves a forkful of casserole into his mouth, his eyes focused on his plate. I think he’s pissed, and I don’t know why. I’m the one who should be angry. I’m the one constantly ignored. “Coach told me to choose wisely because, at this point, it’s a formality. Once they pay for your flight and accommodation, you’re expected to accept it.”

“No son of mine is going to the wrong college just because they’re shelling out an economy class plane ticket,” Jaime says.

“Guess it’s a good thing I’m not your son because I can’t be picky. Sir.”

I wonder how Adriana feels about her athlete boyfriend and the father of her child moving away. Maybe he plans to take them with him. I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Your talent and good looks say differently,” Dad banters.

“Really, Dad? His good looks?” Bailey releases nervous laughter.

I wish my parents would stop calling Penn son, so I wouldn’t feel ultra gross about kissing him and rubbing my thighs and stomach and the thing between them all over his cock through our clothes.

“You’re like our son.” Melody smiles across the table to Penn, who doesn’t smile back.

“Which puts your number of children back to two after you dumped me,” I mumble into my glass of water.

“Thank you, Daria,” Mel bites out, cutting viciously into her casserole, her eyes sparkling. “We can always count on you to dampen the mood.”

Penn frowns. I think he is starting to see that I’m not the only one to blame for this whole mess. He opens his mouth, but then my mother says, “Penn, sweetheart, we have something to discuss. Privately.”

“Before or after you speak to Bailey about New York?” I inquire, tossing my napkin on the table and standing up. “And what about me? Do you need to talk to me about anything? Maybe about cheer? School? Who I’m hanging out with these days? College applications? Anything, Melody? Any-freaking-thing that’s not Chanel?”

Silence.

“Whatever.” I flip my hair. “Casserole’s a dud, anyway. Enjoy your carb-fest, losers.” I plaster my fingers into an L-shape on my forehead before retiring upstairs on a huff. I don’t know why I’m leaving in such a hurry. No one is going to come after me. Melody used to before the thing with Via happened. Then she realized I was never going to confide in her about what was bothering me. Bailey tries to talk to me sometimes. It majorly sucks when that happens. Bails is so sweet, but she has zero life experience, and everything freaks her out. Dad…Dad will always be there for me, but I can’t tell him anything about his precious wife. He loves her too much to see past the blinding glow she casts on him.

I slam the door, but the walls are thin, and I hear a chair scraping across the floor. It pains me that I know who it is without looking. Only one person in this house hasn’t given up on me, and that’s because he never believed in me in the first place.

“Leave it, Penn,” I hear my mother say, and I can practically envision her taking a generous sip of her wine. “That’s just Daria being Daria.”



In the book Survivor by Chuck Palahniuk, there’s a scene where the narrator realizes, after eating most of a lobster, that its heart is still beating. Living under the same roof with the Followhills is a little like that. You’re being eaten and picked apart, but your pulse is still there.



Talk.



I frown at the unanswered message I sent her an hour and a half ago.

I’m lying in my perfect bed, in my perfect room, in this perfect gingerbread house, where everyone is so deeply flawed, they can’t even stand each other. Who would have thought pristine, gorgeous Daria Followhill was the black sheep of her family?

The worst part wasn’t that Mel ignored Daria’s existence. It was that she was casual as fuck about it. As if her daughter was an annoying fly.