Pretty Reckless (All Saints High #1)(29)

“Do you want to talk about the game?” Mel slides into the stream of Bailey’s words as the latter explains to us how New Amsterdam became New York. Daria shifts in her seat beside Bailey, who is on the hump between us in Jaime’s Tesla. Rich people love Teslas. They’re clinical, impersonal, and futuristic. Anything to make them forget they take a shit and pick their nose like everyone else.

I grunt, giving her less than words but more than nothing.

“We’re here for you,” she pipes.

“Thanks for the pep talk. Where’d you get it, AA for Dummies?”

“I’m so sorry, Penn. I just blabbed and blabbed. Do you even want to hear more about history?” Bailey catches her lower lip in her braced teeth.

God, no.

“Sure. History’s fine.” I nudge her shoulder with mine, and she launches into another lengthy explanation about how the British claimed New Amsterdam. They were brutal, she explains, and Daria says that cruelty is underrated. Sometimes you “gotta do what you gotta do” to make your point. Then Jaime says that diplomacy is the best weapon and killing people with kindness leaves no evidence or legal consequences behind.

“Doesn’t matter which way you conquer a place as long as you do,” I hiss, producing an apple I brought from lunch from my duffel bag and tossing it in Daria’s hands. She knows what I mean by it and groans.

When we get to Gelato Heaven, Mel claims that the type of ice cream you order says a lot about your personality. “It’s a fact. I read it in Cosmo.”

Daria rolls her eyes. I think it’s a reflexive movement for her by now. Like breathing. “Old much, Melody?”

“Reading magazines is old now?” Mel’s eyes widen, and she looks back and forth between her daughters, pretending to be scandalized. She is trying too hard, but Daria is still oblivious. It’s like being on a first date with your all-time crush and trying too hard to impress. That’s Daria and Mel. Constantly dancing awkwardly around each other.

“Might as well read hieroglyphics on Egyptian walls.” Daria snorts.

Mel proceeds to ask the chick behind the glass counter for one scoop of low-fat vanilla ice cream in a cup.

Jaime shoves his fists into his front pockets and whistles.

“Cosmo is definitely wrong. Nothing vanilla about you, baby.”

Daria makes a gagging sound, and this time, I’m in her camp. People behind us snicker, and I know she wants the floor to open and swallow her whole. My mama and Rhett, they would embarrass the shit outta me in countless, creative ways, but I’ll give them one thing—you could never accuse them of PDA.

Jaime tells the teenage girl behind the counter to choose any two scoops she thinks would complement each other for him.

“Adventurous and trusting,” Bails mulls over his choice.

This family is so first world and rich, I bet they shit potpourri.

Bailey orders one chocolate scoop and one strawberry in a cone.

“A conventional genius,” Mel exclaims.

Kill me.

Daria shifts her gaze to me, then to the row of ice creams, and then to me again. We’re both hyperaware of what the other one will order. I hate her ass, it’s true, but that ain’t gonna stop me from fucking her. It’ll be poetic justice at its finest. She took my sister, so I’ll take her vanity.

“Blue moon, green tea, and cheesecake, please. With sprinkles and a dash of caramel in a cone. And can I have a cherry on top?”

“Sure can.” The girl piles all this mess into a cone and turns to me. As do the Followhills.

“What’s the most disgusting flavor you got?” I lean forward, parking my elbows on the glass.

The girl turns a nice shade of maroon, her eyes darting to the yellow-green pile on the far right.

“That’d be the Key lime pie. People say it’s so sour it makes them sick. But it’s the owner’s daughter’s favorite, so we keep it.”

“I’ll take a scoop in a cone.”

“Are you sure?” The girl gasps.

She melts into a puddle when I wink at her. Easy prey. My favorite snack.

I ask for her number. Straight up.

“I…isn’t she your girlfriend?” she stutters, her eyes shifting to Daria, seemingly for permission. I tsk.

“Foster sister and a real bitch.”

“Penn!” Melody booms. “Oh, my Marx!”

“Sorry, ma’am. Sorry, sir,” I tell Jaime and cover Bailey’s ears, muttering, “You didn’t hear that.”

The girl starts shooting out the number quickly. I pretend to program them into my phone while playing Fortnite. No chance of me ever calling her, but sticking it to Daria feels good. I’d throw Adriana in her face, but she is too good for those kiddie games. Besides, I’ll save the best reveal for last.

We all settle at a round table on the parlor’s balcony overlooking the beach. The sun is setting, the sky is pink and orange, and people saunter on the boardwalk hand in hand, the perfect postcard of SoCal. The sound of laughter and waves breaking on the shore and kids yelling fills the air. They recently added a Ferris wheel, mini golf, a carousel, and a roller coaster to attract more tourists. It made Todos Santos even more packed and touristy. I miss San Diego. Miss real ass people and real ass places and views that don’t look like they’ve been filtered to death by some chick who thinks she’s a professional photographer just because she has an Instagram account.