Hate You, Maybe

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Sayla

“I freaking love the fall.”

I set my half-eaten breakfast burrito in the cupholder and slide my yellow clipboard from my bag. Through the passenger window, the horizon is a glow of dusky pink.

My best friend, Loren, eyes me from the driver’s seat. “What are you adding now?”

“The sunrise.” I quickly scan the rest of my list of reasons that fall in Harvest Hollow is the best: Caramel apple day for the teachers. The corn maze at Harvest Farms. Jack-o’-lantern carving. Roasted pumpkin seeds. Orange bows on every lamp post. “I can’t believe I forgot the sunrise.”

Loren’s mouth quirks. “I’ve got some bad news for you, my friend.”

“What?”

“The sun comes up all year long.”

“True.” I point my pen at her. “But not always while we’re on our way to work. And anyway, I’m not trying to be nitpicky when it comes to listing things that make me happy.” I wedge the clipboard back in my bag and get to work on my burrito again.

“You’re right.” Loren flashes me a grin. “Carry on.”

“Already am,” I mumble around a mouthful of eggs and salsa.

But the truth is, I hardly need Loren’s permission to think positively about fall in North Carolina.

Nowhere else compares to our lush forests and winding rivers.

Not to mention the backdrop of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

And after a childhood spent changing cities whenever my mom decided to uproot us, I’m more than grateful to be settled in a place that’s practically perfect.

As we make our way downtown, the sky is still early-morning creamy, and the street lamps along the main square wink off. At a stop sign, Loren peers in the rearview mirror, tucking a wave of long red hair behind her ear. “How’s that breakfast burrito treating you?” she asks.

I inhale the last bite of cheesy-tortilla goodness and stuff my balled-up napkin into my bag. “Mmph-mmph,” I mumble, which translates to “delicious” when I’m not chewing.

Besides being my bestie and fellow teacher at Stony Peak High, Loren is also my roommate.

At least she will be until she gets married in June.

For now, though, we still share a two-bedroom bungalow in Harvest Hollow, just about an hour outside of Asheville.

Our place is on the opposite side of town from school, so we try to carpool when we can.

As we pass the park across from city hall, the giant clock tower over the post office chimes the hour.

Seven o’clock on the dot.

We left for work extra early this morning because Larry Wilford, our principal, asked to meet with me before first period. At the reminder of the stakes, my stomach churns. On second thought, eggs and salsa might’ve been a bad choice for breakfast.

“You’re biting your cuticles again,” Loren says. “If you don’t stop, you’ll end up bleeding all over Wilford’s office.”

“Ugh. Thanks.” I reach for a Band-Aid in the front pocket of my bag.

Sometimes I don’t even notice I’m committing cuticle murder until Loren points it out, but it’s a habit that started when I was the perpetual new kid at school—eating lunch alone in the cafeteria or hiding out in the library during recess—so I always have Band-Aids on hand.

Literally.

Loren sends a sympathetic glance my way. “Did he actually tell you the meeting is about the grant?”

“I don’t know why else he’d want to talk to me.

” It’s been a week since I sent Mr. Wilford my proposal detailing exactly why the performing arts department needs this year’s grant funds.

I can only hope my written argument was solid enough.

But if not, I’m prepared to plead my case to him today in person.

“Try not to worry too much.” Loren offers me an encouraging smile. “You’ve got this, Say.”

“I’m not worried about me,” I groan. “The entire department is counting on this money, and as the performing arts director, I’m the one responsible for whether or not we get it.”

She wrinkles her nose. “So … no pressure, then, huh?”

“Yeah, right.” I press out a weak chuckle and tug the sleeves of my pumpkin-orange cardigan over my hands.

“I mean, even if we take the music and choir rooms out of the equation—which we shouldn’t—the theater can’t go another year without a total renovation.

Our sound system is abysmal, the lighting is hit or miss, and the stage is so old, I’m afraid some poor, unsuspecting actor will fall straight through the floorboards.

And don’t get me started on audience seating.

Rickety doesn’t begin to describe the chairs.

Then there’s the moth-eaten curtain, which hasn’t been replaced in the 21st century. I just—”

“I’ve seen your list,” Loren interrupts gently. “And I read your entire proposal, remember? It’s perfect. Even Bridger thinks you’ll get the grant.”

I narrow my eyes. “When did you talk to Bridger?”

“Yesterday. At lunch,” she says. “And his science department got the funding last year, so he knows better than anyone.”

“All Bridger Adams knows is you’re my best friend.”

“Why does that matter?”

I stifle a smirk. “He’s just buttering you up because he has a crush on you.”

“No.” Loren waves my comment away. “There’s zero butter going on between me and Bridger. He’s fully aware I’m engaged, and anyway, his opinion doesn’t matter. I already have all the faith in you.”

I fiddle with my sleeves. “Really?”

“You’ve got this, Say. Now go on. Practice your closing argument on me one more time.”

For the rest of our drive, she listens to my speech to seal the deal with Mr. Wilford.

I finish just as we reach the red light at the four-way intersection with Stony Peak’s electronic marquee.

The wait at this corner is always long, but at least people can keep up-to-date on school news scrolling the screen twenty-four hours a day.

Across the intersection, the student parking lot is on the left. Off to the right is our faculty lot. Looks like only the football coaches and players are here for practice. But no other cars are in the lot yet. In particular, no midnight-blue Ford F-150.

I let out a breath of relief.

“What’s with the sigh?" Loren quirks a brow. “Afraid of running into Dexter all alone in the workroom?”

“What? No!” I lie.

“You sure?”

“That man wouldn’t be here this early, for one thing. He does not work that hard. And anyway, I told you I’m done stressing over him. In fact, I hardly think about him at all.”

Also lies.

You see, Dexter Michaels is our athletic department director, and also my chief nemesis. He’s beaten me out of every leadership position, accolade, and award I’ve ever gone after in my three years at Stony Peak High.

I find it hard not to think about that.

“Okay, good.” Loren eyes me sideways. “For a moment there, I thought you might be gearing up to make a list about why you hate the guy.”

I force a laugh because my list of Reasons Why Dexter Michaels is the Actual Worst is on the yellow clipboard in my bag.

Right underneath my list of things I love about fall.

In my defense, though, I was following through with a journaling exercise I heard about on a podcast. According to the hosts, putting all your thoughts on paper in sort of a brain-dump, without judgment or even proper punctuation, is supposed to be freeing.

Spoiler alert: I am not free.

But seeing everything he’s won in a single list did make me more determined than ever to steer clear of him.

“Dexter Michaels has no impact on me,” I say. “I am totally neutral. Completely disinterested. Flat-lined, even.”

Loren fights a laugh. “Then how come you just said his name like you’re smelling bad cheese?”

“How dare you? There’s no such thing as bad cheese.”

“Fair enough.”

“The truth is, I’ve decided to be the bigger person, Loren. I can rise above his petty competition.”

“I don’t know, Say. I’m still not convinced Dex has actually been competing with you.”

“So how come he’s always winning, then?”

“That is a question I can’t answer.” Her shoulders hitch. “But I’m a fan of your whole ‘be the bigger person’ idea, either way.”

“It is truly liberating.”

“You must’ve done a complete one-eighty since last spring, when you were ready to make a Dexter voodoo doll to poke.” She huffs a laugh, and the list inside my bag pulses at me like Edgar Allan Poe’s “Tell-Tale Heart.”

Guilty. As. Charged.

“Okay, fine. Maybe I still dislike Dexter a little,” I admit, squirming in my seat. “But only the tiniest amount. I guess one could say … a wee bit.”

Loren guffaws. “Your dislike of Dex is wee?”

“Very wee,” I quip. “The word ‘hate’ gives him way too much power. I’m completely indifferent.”

“Well, you sure talk about him a lot for someone who’s completely indifferent.”

“I just need to stop putting myself in situations where he and I go up against each other. Like running for faculty president. Or campaigning for teacher of the year. Or applying to be senior class advisor,” I add, which I realize too late still counts as talking about Dexter.

Loren’s lips twitch. “Now I’m picturing you and Dex going up against each other.”

“Gross. That’s not what I meant.”

“Kinda fun to imagine, though, right?”

I roll my eyes while simultaneously pressing a palm against my cheek to check if it feels hot. When the light finally turns green, I take the opportunity to change the subject.

“Would you mind dropping me off at the theater? I want to wear my lucky cardigan to my meeting with Mr. Wilford, but I took it off yesterday while the set crew was painting the backdrop for A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“Smart move.” Loren chuckles. “I’ve got a couple of your theater kids in my American Lit class, and they seem like a paint disaster waiting to happen.”