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That’s how our story began. The Years of Daria and Principal Prichard. When I moved to All Saints High, he moved with me. For him, it was a promotion. For me, it was a relief. Principal Prichard—dubbed Prince Preach at All Saints for his regal handsomeness—is the person I turn to for my atonements.
Every time I feel guilty, he makes me pay, and the pain goes away.
“Turn around and face me.” His metallic voice rolls down my spine now.
I do.
“On your knees.”
I lower myself.
“Bend your head and say it.”
“I am Daria Followhill, and this is my church. You are my priest, and to you, I confess all my sins and atone for them.”
After my visit to the principal’s office, I splash cold water on my face in the bathroom and wonder what my chances are of looking like nothing happened.
Finding out I was assigned to the class my mother taught at All Saints High was the whole reason I ran to him in the first place. It creeps me out that I wouldn’t exist if my parents hadn’t met in this place. And it makes my skin crawl that everyone around me can practically imagine my parents getting it on over Miss Linde’s desk.
I don’t remember when I started nurturing the rumors about Principal Prichard and me, but I sure remember why.
“Aren’t you the result of a sordid affair between a student and a teacher? Your dad knocked your mom up when he was a senior, and his mom forced him to marry her?”
A senior girl who looked like Regina George cornered me in the restrooms on the first day of my freshman year. She was armed with three other goons who looked like carbon copies of the least good-looking Kmart catalog model.
One of them shoved me against the wall.
“Bitch, I don’t care who you think you are. Here, you’re just an accident with a skirt, and if you’re gonna walk these halls thinking you’re all that, we’ll make sure everyone knows it,” she spat out.
I tilted my chin up, wiping the traces of her saliva from my face.
“My parents got married before I was conceived. My grandma actually hated the idea of my mom and dad being together. In fact, she still does, and we’re not close with her. I only see her once a year even though we live in the same town. I’m telling you this, not because I think you care, but because if you’re going to be a bitch, better not be a dumb one. When talking shit, at least be factual. Not that it’s going to help you. I came here to run this place, and guess what? You’re already feeling threatened.”
That earned me a slap in the face. I smiled, keeping my tears at bay. I got it. I was about to take their place. I was going to make the cheer team, whether they liked it or not, because even though I was a crappy ballerina, I was a damn good dancer. I would date their boyfriends, wear their dresses better, and drive a fancier car. No one likes to come face to face with their 2.0 version. It’s always fancier and includes all the upgrades.
“Better not get comfortable, Followhill. We’re after your ass.” The brunette spat phlegm onto my powder pink lace-up heels.
I realized early on that I needed armor against my parents’ reputation.
The only way I could protect myself from the fire was by creating a bigger blaze. If they thought I was untouchable, they’d fear me instead of taunt me. If they thought the hard-nosed principal had my back—or had me on my back, for that matter—I would not be messed with. So I nurtured the rumors, made them grow, gave them wings, and let them fly, like butterflies from a Mason jar.
I’m smart, cunning, and understated. I don’t actually tell anyone we’re dating. I just keep going to Principal Prichard’s office, and he always opens the door because whatever we are—he likes it.
He likes it a whole freaking lot.
Halfway through my journey down the hallway, I decide to cut myself some slack and ditch my last two periods. They’re electives, anyway. Fifteen minutes later, I park my cherry-red convertible BMW by the patio fountain in front of my house and head straight upstairs to the shower. I need to wash my hair and look presentable for dinner, during which I will feign shock when my parents tell me that Penn will be staying with us. If Mom can even convince him to live under the same roof as me. Then I’ll corner the bastard and lay down the rules. Guilty or not, I run this show. Mom’s Rover is nowhere in sight, which means the house is empty. Tiptoeing in, I confirm the coast is clear, then head to the bathroom. I dump my white mini skirt on the floor and let my baby blue cropped shirt follow suit. My phone lights up on the marble counter.
