“It’s not a fucking pet name. Don’t send our wedding invitations just yet.”

“Mhm-hmm.” She nods, biting down on a pink fingernail.

“How’s your little boyfriend, Gus, doing? Still sucking ass for a living?”

“Penn Scully presents: When life gives you lemons, become a bitter jerk.”

“One game,” I stress. “You won one game. Life didn’t give me lemons. It gave me a good opportunity to get even.”

I need to make sure that Daria is a hobby, not an addiction. Adolescent hearts are trash and as loyal as a starving stray cat. They’ll take anything. Even scraps. I don’t want to feed my rusty tin heart junk. And Daria, she stomped on it hard enough for me to know she’s not even a greasy burger. She’s a Pop-Tarts covered in cyanide.

I shoulder past her. She follows me into the hallway, and I’m trying to keep my heart rate reasonable, but the heart wants what it wants, and right now, apparently, it wants Pop-Tarts. The hair on my forearms stands on end, and my dick jerks in my pants. It wants a shot of cyanide, too.

I stop when I’m in the bathroom and turn to her.

“All right, show’s over. Get the fuck out, Dar.”

“Dar!” she squeaks. She really softened up to me after the Ferris wheel. The other option is that she is messing with my head to try to get me to fuck her and get in trouble.

Let’s admit it, it’s probably the latter. Daria doesn’t have a heart, and she still hates me.

“Now I get two pet names. Should I get us friendship bracelets, P?”

“As long as they’re pink. Yellow makes my knees look fat.”

I’m bantering with her. I deserve every bullshit thing coming my way.

I hope Via’s not really dead because her ghost would chase my ass all the way to hell for playing nice with Daria. But wherever Via is—she’s not here. And I may hold a good old grudge against Daria, but my anger toward my sister is still fresh.

“What do you want?” I gather phlegm and spit it into the sink.

“You’ve seen me naked twice. I’ve seen you naked never. I think it’s time we change that,” she says. I stare at her for a full minute, in which none of the things that should cross my mind—my football scholarship, Prichard, her parents, Via, or my poor girlfriend, who had to endure the Blythe Ortiz rumor the first week of school—occupy me. The only thing I’m trying to figure out is if this is some kind of a prank because my dick might never recover from the disappointment if it is.

“Are you gonna tell your daddy I’m being inappropriate?” I mock, pushing my lower lip out. I wouldn’t put it past Daria to fuck my dick in order to fuck me over and throw me out.

“Are you gonna tell my daddy I lock myself up with my principal in his office three times a week doing Marx knows what?” she counters, pouting.

I see what she’s doing. She’s trying to tell me that we both have leverage on each other. She’s giving me power, and I never turn power down.

“I ain’t old and saggy. Would that be a problem?”

“Absolutely. Get the hell out of my bathroom.” She laughs, but it’s nervous.

I get rid of my shirt, exposing my torso. I have a prominent six-pack, cut, golden, and impressive, with that V that makes girls stupid and a trail of light brown hair arrowing from my navel and into my pants. I watch her watch me. I’m so hard my brain can barely function. All my blood is in my dick, and it’s so engorged it might explode if she just looks in its direction.

So this is what it feels like to die of horniness. My obituary is going to be embarrassing if anyone bothers writing it.

“That’s all nice and dandy, but what are your pants still doing on?” She licks her lips, pulling out the rubber band holding her hair in a ponytail and snapping it into the sink. She shakes her head, and her hair gets all puffy and sexy.

I pull my pants and briefs down in one go, then my socks, because very few things are more pathetic than naked men in socks. Then I stand, hard as a fucking stone. Both my cock and my expression.

She stands in front of me and says nothing for a long time. Then she takes a step toward me and lurches forward, almost touching me. My throat bobs with a suppressed groan, thinking she is going to touch me—thinking she might even touch it—but she turns the water on behind me and removes her top. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, but I can’t tear my eyes from her pink nipples, flat stomach, and the curve of her hips.

“Let me know what hole I should slide your tip into.” I swallow again. God. She is stripping. For me.