I feel invisible. I always feel invisible. As though I blend in with the walls, and furniture, and the clear glass bowl on the counter where my parents keep apples shined by our housekeeper. Apples that I keep finding under my bed, in my backpack, in my shoes. Apples that invade my space, my room, my soul.
By the time Friday rolls around, I’m on edge. All Saints has a football game against Westmount, and we win but not by much. Blythe, who is a flyer and needs to be extra focused, is having a meltdown in the locker room but refuses to tell anyone what it’s about. Esme does her makeup in front of the mirror, and mumbles, “Bitch is probably pregnant with that hood rat’s baby.”
I excuse myself and go throw up in one of the toilet stalls.
“Maybe Dar is preggers, too!” Blythe cries from the bathroom stall next to mine. When I walk out, Esme approaches me and cocks her head with a tsk.
“You look seriously bad, sweetie. Maybe you should sit this one out.”
Maybe you should die.
High school is an aquarium full of sharks. People are always broiling with the need to burst free. Only the strong survive.
On Saturday, we decide to crash a music festival in the desert.
I braid my hair and put flowers and golden stars in it, slipping into a pair of teeny-tiny white Daisy Dukes and a white crocheted bikini top. I tie a flannel shirt around my waist and finish the look with cute gray boots.
When I leave, my entire family and Penn are sitting at the breakfast table, shoving carb-ridden pancakes into their mouths.
“The only place you should be going wearing shorts that short is the OB-GYN for a checkup.” My dad doesn’t even lift his eyes from The New York Times. “Change.”
“Daddy!” I exclaim. “The Lonely Man is like Coachella on steroids. I can’t show up looking like a nun.”
“If you want to show up at all, you’ll put some clothes on,” he repeats.
I shove the Daisy Dukes into my backpack and change to boyfriend jeans, then run out the door and jump into Alisha’s orange Corvette.
Esme and Blythe are retouching their makeup in the back seat.
“The guys are already there. Gus is apparently trashed, and Knight took off with a reality TV star.” Alisha laughs, sliding her sunglasses on.
“I hate guys.” I sigh.
And this brings me to my original point. I really, truly hate guys. Which is why that thing with Principal Prichard worked so well for me until Penn walked into my life and messed it up. People never bother to hit on me because no one wants to compete with the goddamn principal. What they don’t know is that what Prichard and I have is different. Unconventional. But by blocking their way from asking me out and trying to hook up with me, I’m guarding my heart. It’s not that I’m scared of having my heart broken. It’s that I don’t think any boy can truly like me. If my own parents barely tolerate me, then how can I expect a dude to fall in love with me for who I am?
That makes Penn a safe bet. I don’t need to impress him because I know he already hates me. Plus, we have to keep this a secret. Whatever we have, it doesn’t have a pulse, and a life, and a body. There isn’t a beat or a rhythm to our forbidden encounters. They come and go. Like a flash in the dark.
Yeah, Penn is a safe bet. Other than the fact that everything about him feels dangerous to the core.
“Earth to Daria.” Alisha snaps her glittery fingernails in my face when we arrive. We pour out of the car and go in. It’s jam-packed at ten in the morning, so we meet the football team near the stage on dead grass, kicking beer cans out of our paths. Gus is wearing a deep-cut white muscle shirt, slamming his body against others in the mosh pit with a beer in his hand. Knight is nowhere to be seen—probably still with his hookup—and Colin and Will are dragging us by the arm to dance. I go through the motions the entire day, trying to pretend I belong in my own crowd. Feigning happiness is even more depressing than just being your gloomy self. Tears burn my eyeballs the whole time I’m dancing. By the time the sun sets, I feel so empty from all the partying I’m surprised the wind doesn’t blow me over to the other side of the state. Since I’m the designated sober driver, I slip into the driver’s seat of Alisha’s car and start it.
“Who am I dropping home first?”
“Home?” Esme laughs from the back seat, reapplying her gloss. “Followhill, stop being one hundred years old! Let’s go to Lenny’s.”