“Good luck with that.”
“I don’t need luck. I have money.”
I inspect her to see if she is for real. She doesn’t make any apologies for being rich. I see where her daughter got the superiority complex. It stinks on Mrs. Followhill, but it positively reeks on her baby girl.
“Get your duffel bag,” she commands.
When I stay put, she grabs it herself and heads to her Rover. After tossing it in her back seat, she throws the passenger door open.
“Fine. Stay here. You’re not getting your things back. You officially own nothing.”
I finally get up and get in, not looking back at Rhett’s house. My hand hovers over the leather seats, not touching.
Fuck.
“You’ll kick me out in an hour,” I comment dryly.
“Try me, Scully.”
I dig my fingernails into the leather seats, fascinated with how beautiful the imperfect indents of my nails look on them. When she starts the engine, I light a cigarette and roll the window down.
One last chance to change your mind, lady.
“Those cigarettes are going to kill you.” She pushes her sunglasses up her nose and raises her chin. She’s bold, this one.
“Good. The fuck are they waiting for?”
I don’t know what I’m expecting. A lecture, a scowl. A punishment? Maybe some yelling. It’s been a while since I’ve been parented.
But what I see in my periphery amuses me. A smile tugs at her lips.
“You have sass. You and my daughter, Daria, will get along just fine.”
She has no idea how wrong she is, but she sure is about to find out.
You poured misery into me
Let it simmer for a while
And now it is time for you to taste
What you’ve created
I slide my journal on the edge of Principal Prichard’s desk and step back. He doesn’t raise his head from the documents he is reading, a frown stamped on his face. I rub my sweaty palms along my skirt. He licks his forefinger and flips a page in the brochure he’s reading. It’s a grown-up quirk that reminds me he is twenty years my senior.
That what we’re doing is wrong.
I wrote my first ever entry in my little black book the day we did what we did to Via. The day I realized I wasn’t just a mischievous kid, I was a mean girl. Since then, the notebook has become jammed-packed with entries.
I take it with me everywhere like a dark cloud over my sunshine hair, and at night, I sleep with it under my pillow. It harbors my not-so-Instagram-worthy moments. Things only Principal Prichard and I know. How I cut Esme’s Disney princess hair in her sleep when we were fifteen at a sleepover. How I had my mom adopt the stray cat Luna wanted just to make her jealous.
How I ruined Via’s life.
“Back so soon?” His tone is ruthlessly bored. It anchors me to the ground, reminding me of how little and unworthy I am.
Instead of answering, I turn around and lock his door. Behind my back, I hear the soft thud of his pen hitting the document and know he is setting his reading glasses down where the pages meet because I’ve seen this movie a thousand times before.
A chill runs down my spine.
Principal Prichard is attractive in the way powerful men usually are. In a symmetrical, clinical way. His hair is velvet black—almost bluish—and his nose is as sharp as a knife. A constant scowl knots his forehead like Professor Snape, and although he is not particularly tall or muscular, he is slender and well-dressed enough to pull off the James Bond look.
Prichard and I, we go back. Our first encounter occurred a few days after Via disappeared when I was still in middle school. Our counselor was on her honeymoon, so when I broke down in tears, my teacher directed me to the principal’s office. Prichard was attentive, and nice, and young. He gave me tissues and water and a free pass from PE on cardio day.
I told him I made a terrible mistake, and I didn’t know how to tell my mom. When he asked me what happened, I handed him my journal and twiddled my thumbs as he read it. Confessing it aloud would have made it too real.
After he read my first entry, he put the notebook down.
“Do your parents punish you, Daria?”
“No,” I said honestly. What did that have to do with Via? She was missing, and it was all because of me. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops and take it to my grave in the same breath. I was hoping he’d push me in the right direction.
“Do you have any house rules?” He drummed his fingers on his desk.
I guessed I couldn’t puke in my sister’s shoes, but nothing was written or anything. I blinked at him, confused.
“No.”
“I think what you need more than anything else”—he stopped drumming, leaning forward—“is to be disciplined.”