Pretty Reckless (All Saints High #1)(90)

“His funeral. Let’s go.”

I turn back to Cam. “What happened?”

But I think I already know. Gus didn’t think I’d throw the game, so he sent someone to make sure my quarterback wouldn’t be able to play. It was a calculated, cold move to get rid of Camilo and eliminate our chances of winning.

“Colin went straight for it. Tackled me down and jammed his foot to the side of my knee. Knight and Vaughn came two minutes too late and shoved him off me.”

By the casual way he tells me this, I understand that it still hasn’t sunk in.

No football.

No scholarship.

No future.

“You’re going to be fine,” I lie, elevating his upper body.

He laughs.

“I’m not an idiot, Scully. I know what’s up. You were right. Is that what you want to hear? Because you were.”

My team just lost one of its greatest players.

For nothing.





Falling in love is similar to déjà vu

It’s finding a home in a stranger

When I met you four and a half years ago, I saw who you were

I just had to figure out who I was

So I gave you something to make sure I could seek you out again

And that maybe, you’ll fall in love with whoever I was, too





I keep my head down as the cheer team storms onto the field, waving their pompoms in the air. Dad calls it a huge victory that I’m here. I call it asking for more trouble.

The huge, plastic smiles on the girls’ faces say it all. I’m out. Via’s in. Our blue and black uniform clings to her lithe body like a second skin. She dazzles so bright, Esme positioned her as far as possible from the center. Far away from her. I feel naked without my pompoms. I long to feel them in my hands but know it’s too late for me. My cheer days are over, at least in high school.

Mel pretends to rummage through her bag, but I know she just can’t look at Via. Surprisingly, it doesn’t make me feel good. Or at all. I’m a taco. A crisp, empty shell.

Melody doesn’t leave my side even though I refuse her love, care, and silent apologies. Bailey visits my room every morning with a tray containing a glass of OJ, a piece of toast with egg whites, and a cute inspirational quote she prints out from Pinterest, and Dad sweetens my nights by coming in and giving me a good night kiss to keep me going. He always peppers it with reminiscing about a good memory to remind me that good times are still to come.

Remember when Knight drew a rocket on your forehead when you were kids, and I almost murdered him thinking it was something else?

Remember when Vaughn walked around on the beach with a live jellyfish in his hand and declared it as his new pet?

Remember when Luna thought you were a princess because of your hair?

It is an unspoken truth that Melody can no longer give me good night kisses.

Daddy says it’s a good thing. That when things get destroyed, you can build a better version of them from scratch. But building takes strength and courage, and I don’t have either right now.

Esme is doing a toe touch, and Via follows by pulling a perfect Herkie. Mel clasps my skinny jean-clad thigh. I’m wearing a yellow top, no longer affiliated with either team. Things have been crazy since Principal Prichard stepped down abruptly, citing a morbidly sick relative he had to take care of on the East Coast. Word around town is I quit the cheer team because I’m nursing a broken heart. While it’s true, everyone thinks it’s Principal Prichard I am pining after.

No one suspects the boy who is about to get on the field today is the one who smashed my heart into dust, and now it’s drifting in the air, evaporating from me. No one knows what I’ve been through ever since that boy admitted his love to me, and I couldn’t take him back, no matter how much I want to. Being sorry for breaking something doesn’t make it whole again.

“Don’t look at them,” Mel whispers, squeezing my thigh. “They aren’t worth it.”

“Let go of my leg, Melody.”

She does. Dad is clapping when both teams get on the field even though I know he wants to snap Gus’s spine. Las Juntas is sporting a brand-new quarterback, who looks like a whopping one hundred pounds of bones, and people actually snicker from the bleachers. I feel bad for the kid. And I used to be the mean girl who’d be the first to point out that he isn’t built like a brick wall.

The game starts, and as soon as Penn goes on the field, it is clear he is shitting all over the game. Blatantly so. He doesn’t even do it gradually. My heart lurches in my chest as Penn pretends to struggle with dropped passes, dragging his feet from side to side. He is immobile and doesn’t catch the ball even when it hits him in the chest.

Literally.

He is lagging on the field, heavy and dense, the opposite of the talented player he is. His teammates yell in frustration, one of them kicking a mountain of mud. On the sidelines, his coach is on the verge of a heart attack, but Penn pretends not to listen. Tucked in his own universe, he keeps missing balls, looking the other way in confusion when he gets an opportunity, and stopping every few minutes to lean down on his knees as if he is out of breath.

Mid-game, Penn’s coach summons them, probably coming up with a new strategy, and Penn nods and looks attentive and determined. But then when he gets back on the field again—he is looking even worse.