“Let me show you your new car, son,” Dad says. Son.

I roll my eyes to keep from crying.

Marx, this is going to be a long freaking year.

You are beautiful like a song

Ugly like a scream

But beneath your pretty bones

You’re lost from deep within

I want to dig inside the fissures of your soul

Pull out all your secrets

Dump them at your feet

Then devour your expression

For your pain shall taste so sweet

In the morning, I find a green apple with one discolored bite taken out of it on my desk when I wake up. It sits on my open history textbook where a passage has been highlighted, the yellow marker beside it.

The Romans brought apples with them when they invaded Britain.

I want to rip down the walls in the house and scream until I faint.

I settle, however, for skipping breakfast and going straight to school.

Now, in the cafeteria, I’m mostly trying to breathe regularly and survive.

“Artists aren’t team players. Only a true individualist can give birth to something of their own. You need to be both the egg and the sperm to create a masterpiece.” Blythe stands on a cafeteria bench, delivering a theatrical speech. Across the room sits Vaughn, the unaware subject of her lecture. Sitting all by himself, he sketches his next statue on a pad.

“Shit, Blythe, you even make sex sound sad.” Knight yawns.

Vaughn doesn’t eat. Like, ever. I mean, he obviously does—otherwise, he wouldn’t exist—but not in front of people. He doesn’t seem to do a lot of stuff other people do to exist. I think that’s what makes him legendary between these walls. He never goes into the restrooms at school. He doesn’t participate in PE classes. If he hangs out with a girl, you only know about it after he breaks up with her because the crazy bitch vandalizes his locker or desk or mansion. That’s the other thing—Vaughn can hang out with perfectly sane girls and turn them into bunny boilers. But the fact Vaughn refuses to choose a table and affiliate himself with a crowd? I think that’s the cherry on his popularity cake. He can sit anywhere. It’s like the world is his oyster, but he doesn’t do seafood.

“What do you know about artists?” Gus snorts, tossing half his egg and tuna sandwich at Blythe. He’s sitting on the table with his feet on the bench. It’s gross and unnecessary, but I’m not in the mood for an argument.

Blythe catches the sandwich and plops down with a grin, tearing apart the plastic wrap.

“I know they’re good with their hands. Something you’re not.”

She rips a bite off the sandwich and rolls her eyes. “Hmm, so good.”

Esme curls her long raven hair over her finger, popping her gum.

“Not to be impolite, but you guys bore me to death. Cole, go tell Vaughn to come here.”

Busy scanning the room for Luna, Knight’s neck is still craned as he answers her.

“Damn.” He pats the pockets of his jeans, then checks the pockets of his golden Gucci jacket. “I can’t find it.”

“Can’t find what?” Esme blinks.

“The memo where I start taking orders from your sorry ass.”

Everyone laughs. Even I have a smile on my face.

“C’mon, Knighty. We just want to hear about Vaughn’s summer in Italy.” Blythe tosses her hair and bats her eyelashes. I swear she would flirt with the priest officiating her funeral. Bitch is unreal.

“Please, girl. Miles from the chess club could take a trip to outer space and make a historical stop on the sun, and you still wouldn’t give him a minute of your time.” Esme laughs. She and Blythe are best friends, and she knows how much Ortiz adores Vaughn Spencer.

“Yo, Daria,” Gus hollers, and my head snaps from the salad I’ve been abusing with my plastic fork for the past ten minutes. “You’re quiet.”

And you’re surprisingly observant for once in your miserable life.

“Miss Linde is all up in my grill.” I shrug.

It’s not even a lie. Bitch hates my guts. And I loathe sitting in her class, where my parents started screwing each other. I’d ask to move, but I would have to go through the guidance counselor, and she’s already trying to corner me to investigate the Principal Prichard rumor. I don’t want Prichard to get in trouble. Then I have Penn, public enemy number one, living under the same roof. This year was supposed to be my last hurrah before going off to college, and it started as a disaster.

“Do you want to make yourself useful?” Gus licks his lips. Did I mention he’s gross? Oh. Right. Literally a second ago.

“To you?” I give him a slow once-over, stroking my chin. “Only if it involves a huge makeover followed by a nice feast of humble pie.”

Gus is a beefy, blond, all-American dudebro with a superhero jaw and wide-set, generic blue eyes, making him look like a shaved alpaca. If this were a ’90s movie, he would be the villain. Come to think about it, he already is. In addition to managing the betting ring at the snake pit, he also has a strict bed ’em and dump ’em policy that landed him in hot water with some of the parents here. And while I’m a porcupine—mean when provoked—he is a kangaroo. A straight-up bully with no direction or reason. I remember when my parents took us on a trip to Australia, and we were warned about driving at night in open areas because the kangaroos jumped onto the road to scare off vehicles. That’s Gus. Aggressive and stupid.

The only people he’s nice to are Knight, his shining quarterback hero who saves most of our games, and Vaughn, the golden egg laying hen who shows up at the pit every weekend ready to be jumped by three gang members and an F-22 Raptor.

People snicker at my comment. The table is full of football players and cheerleaders. Knight finally spots Luna across the room and slides out of our bench.

“See you later, assholes. It’s been real. Well, other than Esme’s tits.” He ambles away. Esme’s mouth goes slack, and she cups her boobs, clad in a colorful D&G dress, shifting her gaze from them to him.

Luna Rexroth refuses to sit with us. One time, when Knight was away, Gus made fun of her at the table for not talking. I didn’t stop him, and I still feel bad about that. She’s a persona non grata and isn’t worth fighting over, but she still didn’t deserve his wrath.

“Useful how, Gus?” Esme munches on the tip of a carrot, shifting the conversation from her fake tits, her eighteenth birthday gift from her parents, back to me.

“Word is Penn Scully’s paying us a visit after school to warn us off from pulling any shenanigans ahead of the game. Last year, All Saints killed the grass in Las Juntas’ field, and the broke ass pussies didn’t have anywhere to play for weeks. I figured Daria can play Judge Judy since she wants to tap it.”

My heart starts pounding so hard and fast, I feel it in my toes. Behind my eyeballs.

Marx, Marx, Marx.

“Scully?” I snort. “Hmm, no thanks.”

“Is that why you screamed when Vaughn knocked his ass to the ground?” Gus cocks his head.

“He was piss drunk. I was just worried about Vaughn getting in trouble.”

Gus runs his pale eyes over my face, his smirk unwavering. He leans forward and taps my nose with his finger.