Instead, he tipped a jar of M&Ms he kept on his desk over the edge, his eyes never wavering from mine. Colorful chocolate pieces rained down the floor, rolling at my feet like marbles.
“Pick them all up, Miss Followhill. On your knees, as I read your sins to you.”
It became our ritual.
Over the years, he barked at me to rearrange the shelves in his office, clean his carpets, shine his shoes, and more recently, after Penn entered the picture, he’d strike the inside of my hands with a ruler. Where the red welts could be explained away by my grueling cheer workouts.
He always read my sins slowly behind his locked door, pausing melodramatically when he got to the juicy parts.
Most sinners say Hail Mary.
I atone for my sins in strokes of his ruler.
I deserve it. I deserve the pain. I distribute so much of it to others, I can’t even blame Principal Prichard for putting me through all of this.
Principal Prichard says our sessions are about discipline. Putting me back on the straight and narrow. But honestly, we both know I’m not getting any better, and the more the years pass, the deeper the misery in which I drown.
I always figured we were both just two fucked-up people doing screwed-up things because no one else around us would understand. It wasn’t until Penn that I realized Principal Prichard was possessive toward me. And that lust feels better than the striking. It feels glorious when experienced right.
Since then, Prichard’s tasks have become more radical and meticulous. The strikes of the ruler harsher.
“I beg your pardon?” He doesn’t look up from the paperwork he is signing. It has the Saints logo, so I know it’s football related. Everything seems football related these days. Rumor is Gus is on Xanax and has been hitting the bottle to deal with the stress.
I sit down on the chair opposite to him. His eyes snap from the pages. “Were you invited to sit down, Miss Followhill?”
“We have a problem.” My lips wobble. I reach out, putting his pen down for him.
His eyes narrow into slits, zeroing in on my hand. “Quite right. Get your sin book out.”
That’s what he calls it. It always drives me mad. As if he’s above sinning.
I take a deep breath and release it all at once. Here goes nothing. “I don’t have it.”
“What do you mean, you don’t have it?” His jaw flexes.
“Sylvia Scully stole it from my room last night. She lives with me now, as you know. Gus has it, and he is threatening to go public with it unless I convince Penn Scully to throw the play-off game.”
They probably planned it together and laughed all the way throughout. And me? I was stupid enough to buy into Penn’s distraction. I helped him clean himself up while she was upstairs, stealing my most valuable possession. The one thing that could destroy me. Principal Prichard’s lips twitch. With dark circles under my eyes, and the tiny red bursts of blood inside them, I’m sure I’m not the same pretty girl who lured him into this arrangement. I didn’t put on makeup this morning, and my hair is a tangled mess.
“I wrote about you in the book,” I add matter-of-factly to remind him how grave our situation is. Prichard is featured in my journal many times. I squeeze my eyes shut and blush when I remember all the things I shared there.
Entry number one hundred twenty-two chronicles how one time, when I went into his office and he wasn’t there, I rubbed myself against his executive chair. When he arrived, he made me lick the traces of myself from said chair. It’s the most sexual thing we’ve ever done, and it did not involve touching each other, but it’s enough to bring both of us down.
His jaw tick, tick, ticks, and I know he is losing his patience with me. We’re both in deep trouble now. Which is why I’m here. We need to stop Gus.
“He will not publish anything related to me,” Principal Prichard informs me, the picture of calm.
I blink, flabbergasted. “How do you know this?”
“I’m smarter than a cheerleader, for one thing. And so is he.”
I sit back, staring at a spot behind him, wide-eyed.
“I don’t know. Maybe I am stupid,” I bite out, “but so is Gus, and trust me, he will compromise your perverted ass.”
“Really!” he thunders, standing up and tossing the entire contents of his desk aside. I jump back in my chair. I’ve never seen him so angry before.
“What am I supposed to do? Threaten Miss Scully and Mr. Bauer? Just because you decided to spread your legs for the boy from the wrong side of the tracks even though I warned you not to?”
It’s my turn to stand, my fists balled beside my body as anger rolls off me, threatening to spill over.
“We’re in this together, and we have to think of something.”
“No. You’ll think of something. This doesn’t sound like a me problem. It’s a classic you problem.”
“Even if you get Gus to agree not to print out your pages, I’ll tell the world,” I warn.
He smirks darkly. “And? No one will believe you. You’re just another lost, spoiled brat who is hot for the principal. Don’t forget what happened here. You paraded your tits and bent over. I never had sex with you. I never touched you, skin-to-skin. I never even kissed you. It was. All. On. You.”
I’m floored. It feels like someone’s pulled the rug out from under my feet. But I’m working on autopilot because I can’t let him get away with this.
“Are you taking your chances, Gabe?” Gabe. I never call him by his first name. Only now, I have very little respect for him.
He runs a frustrated hand through his hair.
“Leave, Miss Followhill, and do not come back unless it is with the recovered book to get punished until your behind turns blue.”
“As if I’ll ever get anywhere near you again.” I throw my head back and laugh with humor I don’t feel. “You were always jealous of Penn, who, by the way”—I pop my finger into my mouth and pull it out with a sound—“is a fantastic lay.”
“Daria…”
Prichard’s never called me by my first name, either.
“He was so good when he took my virginity. Not too long after you found us in the locker room, actually.”
“Stop it right now.” He rounds his desk toward me. Slowly. Predatorily.
“Of course, by then I was fully prepped for the—”
“Stop!” He produces his ruler from under his desk, pointing it at me. My smile broadens. I’m free-falling off a cliff with a faulty parachute. Might as well enjoy the ride.
“Having him inside me as I writhed and moaned and orgasmed so hard I nearly fainted—”
In one swift movement, he throws me against the wall, my stomach hitting the cold surface. He pushes my dress up and strikes me with the ruler so hard I’m seeing stars.
“Don’t!” I yell. “Don’t you dare touch me, you asshole. We’re done, Gabe.”
He tugs my hair and whispers into my ear, “We’re done when I say we’re done, Daria.”
Strike, strike, strike.
My ass cheeks are burning and so are my eyes. I’m too stunned to move, to run away, choking on the bile coating my throat.
My principal, my priest, the man who held all my secrets, who I thought I could trust, just whipped my ass with a ruler against my will. Not once. Not twice. About a dozen times in a frenzy I’ve never seen before.