Pretty Reckless (All Saints High #1)(21)

Penn slides into our lives effortlessly, and no one notices how uncomfortable it makes me feel. Or how he still hasn’t acknowledged my existence since we sat down.

He takes a sip of his water.

“Are you accepting applicants?”

I roll my eyes so hard, I’m afraid they’ll end up on my plate. His smile widens behind his glass.

“Job’s yours.” Bailey’s eyes light up. “We could go bowling!”

“We could, but we won’t because it’s lame,” Penn deadpans.

“Totally lame.” She snickers, breathless.

“But I see you’re a reader.” He gestures with his chin to the stack of books piled on the coffee table in the living room. Bailey is a bookworm. She loves poetry. Another reason she is my personal 2.0 version.

“There’s an open mic place in San Diego where people read their poems. It’s pretty rad, and they serve a sick apple pie there. We could go. Your parents can come, too.”

Everyone grins as though they’re starring in a toothpaste commercial. No one realizes he failed to extend the invitation to me. I slam my water glass on the table. I am ignored. Maybe I’m like the boy who cried wolf. So snappy and short all the time that when I actually have a reason to be pissed, no one gives a damn.

“This is the best,” Bailey says at the same time Mel jumps into practicalities.

“You don’t have a car, Penn. Since you’ll need to commute to San Diego every day, you’re not going to argue with me about this next thing.”

Penn shoots her a look I don’t think I’d ever be able to get away with. Part murderous, all infuriated.

“Is this the part where you’re getting me a car? Because I’m not a toy boy.”

“Already did.” Dad shrugs, popping a piece of steak into his mouth. “It’s nothing fancy, and I forgot to extend my warning about not touching my daughters to my wife, too—that toy boy remark almost cost you your nose.”

“Fine. Correction: I’m not a charity case.” Penn stabs his steak so hard, the dead cow is almost groaning in pain.

“Are you sure about that?” I drone, swirling the water in my glass. “Because you look and dress like one.”

“Daria,” Mel snaps.

Bailey shakes her head at me.

I hate this. I hate him. And I hate that I’m showing off my fake colors, the bitchy ones, in all their insecure glory when he’s around.

Penn pretends he didn’t hear me and steals a Brussels sprout from Bailey’s plate.

“Thank Marx.” She laughs. “I hate them. Do you know you have a hole in your shirt?”

I want to tell her that it’s intentional. Symbolic. Because he always has one, no matter when and where I see him or what he’s wearing. Instead, I count the pepper bits on my piece of chicken.

My sister and I aren’t close.

“There’s a story behind it,” he says.

“A good story?” she asks.

“I don’t have any other types of stories.”

“Let me show you your new car, son,” Dad says. Son.

I roll my eyes to keep from crying.

Marx, this is going to be a long freaking year.





You are beautiful like a song

Ugly like a scream

But beneath your pretty bones

You’re lost from deep within

I want to dig inside the fissures of your soul

Pull out all your secrets

Dump them at your feet

Then devour your expression

For your pain shall taste so sweet





In the morning, I find a green apple with one discolored bite taken out of it on my desk when I wake up. It sits on my open history textbook where a passage has been highlighted, the yellow marker beside it.



The Romans brought apples with them when they invaded Britain.



I want to rip down the walls in the house and scream until I faint.

I settle, however, for skipping breakfast and going straight to school.

Now, in the cafeteria, I’m mostly trying to breathe regularly and survive.

“Artists aren’t team players. Only a true individualist can give birth to something of their own. You need to be both the egg and the sperm to create a masterpiece.” Blythe stands on a cafeteria bench, delivering a theatrical speech. Across the room sits Vaughn, the unaware subject of her lecture. Sitting all by himself, he sketches his next statue on a pad.

“Shit, Blythe, you even make sex sound sad.” Knight yawns.

Vaughn doesn’t eat. Like, ever. I mean, he obviously does—otherwise, he wouldn’t exist—but not in front of people. He doesn’t seem to do a lot of stuff other people do to exist. I think that’s what makes him legendary between these walls. He never goes into the restrooms at school. He doesn’t participate in PE classes. If he hangs out with a girl, you only know about it after he breaks up with her because the crazy bitch vandalizes his locker or desk or mansion. That’s the other thing—Vaughn can hang out with perfectly sane girls and turn them into bunny boilers. But the fact Vaughn refuses to choose a table and affiliate himself with a crowd? I think that’s the cherry on his popularity cake. He can sit anywhere. It’s like the world is his oyster, but he doesn’t do seafood.