Hate Notes
A Lakeview Prep Novel
Gracie Graham
Cherry Valley Press
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
HATE NOTES
Copyright © 2021 by Gracie Graham
All rights reserved.
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition : June 2021
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Subscribe
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Epilogue
Also By Gracie
Subscribe
NEVER MISS A RELEASE
Get access to exclusive giveaways, review copies, sneak peeks, and more!
CLICK HERE
Chapter 1
PENELOPE
For a seventeen-year-old, there weren’t too many things more dreaded than the first day of school. At least not when you had a name like mine. First days meant new classes and teachers and potentially new students—all solid opportunities for introductions. You’d think by now I’d be used to the fresh torture of hearing my name spoken aloud in roll call, but nope. The pettiness of high school meant making fun of your peers never got old. Certainly not when your name was Penelope Ewe. Last name pronounced like “you.”
My father and friends call me P for short, so when you string them together . . .
Yeah. Pee-yew, as in stinky. Smelly. Fetid. Funky. Rank.
Basically, I stink. Not really. But apparently the juvenile joke that started in grade school still hasn’t gotten old. Combine that with my family's financial inferiority and my penchant for thrift store finds and I’m chum in an ocean full of sharks. That is, if sharks wore Gucci and drove Bentleys.
Naturally, to commemorate the day of doom, last night I painted my nails a deep gold. The color of nervousness. Because I didn’t need to be prophetic to anticipate how I’d feel this morning.
I took in a deep breath, allowing the scent of freshly sharpened pencils, coffee, and books to center me like they always did. Glancing around the classroom, I urged the tightening in my chest to subside as I skimmed the room full of my fellow first-period classmates. By now, all the faces were familiar, and among them, I homed in on any potential friends and foes, an imperative step necessary for my survival.
Several friendly faces blinked back at me. I nodded to them in greeting, my smile open and warm despite my nerves, until a cacophony of voices from the hallway grabbed my attention and my palms dampened.
I glanced toward the door and broke out into a cold sweat. None other than Topher Elliot, complete with his posse in tow, tumbled into the classroom.
I nearly choked on their superiority. Or maybe it was the overwhelming stench of their overpriced cologne burning my sinuses. Who knew?
They drifted to the back of the room with their lazy smiles, easy laughter, and cocky swagger—typical Royal demeanor.
I bit the inside of my cheek and shifted my focus from them, back to the front of the classroom, wondering why the water polo team was nothing more than a bunch of egotistical meatheads and how Topher got to be King. I mean, sure, he was beautiful, if you liked pretty boys with skin the color of golden toffee and hair bleached from long days spent in the sun. Forget the eyes so blue they were nearly violet because when it came to what was inside that grudgingly-gorgeous head, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was dumb as a box of rocks. He probably copied all his homework or forced some nerd to do it for him and cheated on all of his tests. After all, he and his crew only seemed to care about a few things: girls, sports, and proving to the rest of us peasants how amazing they were.
I listened to the ruckus while they settled in behind me as Ms. Stone walked in. She was in her twenties with curly dark hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a pleasant smile. Plump lips painted a deep red sat below high cheekbones. Her pencil skirt skimmed the bottom of her knees and her kitten heels clacked when she walked.
By all standards, she had an amazing body hidden beneath her conservative clothing. She reminded me of Julia Roberts circa My Best Friend’s Wedding. She was the token “hot teacher” and decades younger than half the teachers at Lakeview. So when his majesty made a snarky remark about needing special tutoring this semester, among the catcalls of his friends, my blood boiled at the misogyny.
Ah, yes, just what every beautiful, educated twenty-something woman wants—an entitled pubescent boy still living with Mommy and Daddy hitting on her.
The girl sitting next to me choked out a laugh and offered me a fist bump, which I returned, slightly confused, arm limp as a noodle.
“Roasted.” The girl snickered.
My brows knitted together as I glanced around me to find several amused expressions and dawning sank in my chest like a rock.
I said that out loud.
Kill me now.
The mutinous glare from JT—one of Topher’s friends—burned a hole in the side of my head, confirming this theory. Nothing like putting a target on my back on the first day.
I slid down in my chair, hiding behind my curtain of dark hair as Ms. Stone introduced herself and filled us in on all of the banal things we’d learn in economics this semester, and just when I began to feel more comfortable again, she asked us to go around the room and introduce ourselves.
Perfect.
The students around me groaned. She was one of those teachers. So lame. But me? My heart became an earthquake shuddering inside my chest.
I clenched the edges of my seat as each of my classmates introduced themselves with bored expressions and it grew closer to my turn. The girl in front of me said her name loud and clear—Amanda Greene. A normal name. One nobody would make fun of.
Jealousy twisted in my chest like a knife. And just like that, it was my turn.
Ms. Stone turned her eyes on me, and I froze. Suddenly, it was the first day of sixth grade again—my first day ever at Lakeview Prep after receiving my scholarship when I was forced to stand in front of the class while the principal introduced me to my fellow peers.
It went something like this . . . Everyone, this is a new student transferring into the gifted program from Greenwood, her name is Penelope Ewe. Let’s give her a warm welcome.
Then I made the ultimate mistake of piping up with, My friends
call me P.
Silence filled the classroom as everyone computed the name in their heads, and from the depths of the silence, a scrawnier, younger Topher Elliot spoke up. Wait, your name is Pee-Yew?
Cue the riotous laughter.
The next year, Topher became King, and anyone lucky enough to be his friends became Royals. Everyone else? Well, we were nothing. Zeros.
So, as Ms. Stone now stared at my mute form expectantly, it was with dread that I muttered, “Penelope Ewe.”
A spurt of laughter came from the clowns behind me, and out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed JT raising his hand and I braced myself as he began to speak. “But friends call her P.”
Beside him, Luca and Mikey held their noses while they fanned the air in front of their faces.
My gaze shot to Topher as laughter bubbled from his lips, and I narrowed my eyes, even as I felt the telltale heat of blush in my cheeks.
“Real mature,” the girl beside me muttered, and I wanted to hug her, but my happiness at having a comrade-in-arms died. All it did was make them laugh even harder, like a bunch of overdressed baboons, further eliciting the chuckles of several others around them.
Sixth grade to twelfth, and nothing had changed. Sometimes I wondered when it would end, if the joke ever would. I mean, it had to, right? It was so juvenile, it was pathetic.
Words burned in the back of my throat, unspoken, a pool of unspent rage. I turned around in my chair and fixed my gaze on the clock, watching the seconds tick by and waiting for the floor to swallow me up.
By the time class ended, I still hadn’t learned anything.
I slid my book off my desk and hurried from the room. Once outside, I yanked my bookbag off my back and unzipped it, then began to slide my things inside when I saw Topher and his posse coming at me.
I hurried, fumbling with my book as I began to walk faster in my hope to avoid further confrontation with them when my foot caught on the shoe of a passerby. Before I could even process what was happening, I was airborne. My feet left the ground and my arms flailed like the blades of a helicopter. To my horror, the freshly waxed linoleum greeted me with a hard thwack, and the air whooshed from my lungs.
Stunned, several moments passed while I tried to inhale, but my lungs refused to work. Just when I neared corpse status, I drew in a shaky breath.
With a groan, I lifted my head to see the contents of my bag sprawled on the floor around me. I grunted as I forced myself to my feet with as much dignity as I could muster—which wasn’t much.
JT, Luca, and Mikey snickered as they passed by me, treading on my things as if to show me I was beneath them. Like I needed the reminder.
Behind them, Topher followed, but when he got to my books, he hesitated. His blue-violet eyes stared down at my things with a frown before he glanced over at me as if trying to make his mind up about something.
Despite the fact I was one hundred percent sure I was turning into a human tomato, I stared right back, daring him to laugh at me some more or do something as equally jerky as his friends. But he did none of those things. Instead, he turned his attention back to my scattered things and bent over, reaching toward one of my books.
He picked it up and held it out while I held my breath.
Chapter 2
TOPHER
I gripped her book, waiting for her to take it, but she hesitated like it might be some kind of trick.
“Topher, let’s go man,” JT called from down the hall.
My eyes locked with hers like this was some kind of defining moment. The next few seconds determined what kind of man I was.
I glanced up at JT, who watched on with a frown, no doubt wondering what the hell I was doing helping Ewe. Somewhere along the line—I don’t even remember when—she became our scapegoat, the brunt of all Lakeview jokes.
So I did what was expected. A smirk slid over my face, and I dropped the book out in front of her before she could grab it, like I was playing with her all along. Then I straightened and stepped over her belongings, shooting a wink over my shoulder.
Once I caught up to JT and Mikey, I listened as they droned on about some chicks we met over the weekend, but my head and heart weren’t in it. Instead, they were approximately six yards behind me, sprawled on the hallway floor where Penelope continued to gather her things off the ground, cramming them into her bookbag with sharp, angry movements, and I cursed myself for being such a pansy.
A curtain of dark hair fell in her eyes, obscuring her face from view. A better man would’ve helped her.
Once again, I proved to be the douche everyone expected me to be, and the expression on her face when I paused by her things would probably haunt me for the rest of the day. There was enough anger undulating in those dark eyes to cut me like a knife. But maybe more than the animosity, the disbelief slayed me the most. Was the idea of me pausing to help her so unbelievable?
Who was I kidding? I was “King.” Whatever that meant. Some stupid title given to me and the group of kids I hung out with, dubbed Royals. A title I never wanted in the first place. Because with it, came a whole persona, this impossible standard to live up to. And I had enough of that in my life at home, thank you very much.
But when it came to Penelope Ewe, I was completely culpable. Flash back to when we were in the sixth grade and she was announced as the new girl at school. I still remembered her crooked, careful smile and the hope in her eyes. Back then, her chestnut locks hung nearly to her waist, and all I remembered thinking in my eleven-year-old brain was how she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.
I’d like to say I was welcoming. That through the fog of pre-teen hormones, I had enough sense to talk to her. To show her what an upstanding little dude I was. But nope.
Instead, I did what every immature eleven-year-old who liked a girl did when they had no clue how to approach her. I made fun of her. Her name in particular.
And thereafter, Skunk Girl was born.
She never lived it down.
And neither did I.
Because I became King, she became a wallflower, and the girl with the espresso eyes and crooked smile never talked to me after that.
A few minutes before lunch, I’m cruising the halls when my physics teacher informed me Coach Paul needed to speak with me.
I hurried toward his office at the end of the building, near the pool, wondering what he could possibly have to discuss that couldn’t wait until the end of the day at practice.
I paused in front of the door and gave it a small rap before Coach called out: “Yep?”
I entered, hands on hips as I stopped in front of his desk where play sheets covered every available surface. When he glanced up, he nodded toward the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”
Coach was a man of few words. He didn’t like bullshit, which I could appreciate since it seemed the kids at school, my father, everything in my life lately was steeped in it.
I did as I was told, though my stomach had risen somewhere in the vicinity of my throat, nervous about whatever was so urgent it couldn’t wait until practice.
“What’s up, Coach?”
He reached inside his desk drawer and pulled out an envelope, then tossed it at me before he leaned back in his chair and steepled hands out in front of himself. “Read it.”
Slipping my thumb under the opening, I ripped the envelope open, trying to hide the fact that my hand shook as I did. Carefully, I removed the letter and unfolded it, homing in on the letterhead for Bucknell University.
Nerves jumped in my stomach, tightening until I thought I might be sick as I began to read the opening lines. My breath caught, and my gaze jerked back to Coach. “Is this . . . ?”
A hint of a smile. “An early offer from Bucknell, yes.”
“Are you serious?” My heart crashed against my ribs as I waited for the news to fully sink in.
A college wanted me. And not just any college. One of the best collegiate water polo teams in the country.
“Not only am
I serious, but so are they.” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his desk, motioning toward the letter. “You’re good, Topher. More than good, and they recognize that, which is why they want you. I already spoke with them; I knew this was coming.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes these recruiters talk a good talk. There aren’t too many places that offer scholarship spots for water polo, so I wanted to make sure they were serious. And they are.” He tapped the letter. “It’s for a full ride, Toph.”
I swallowed. The ache in the back of my throat warned me my pansy-ass was one step away from bawling like a baby. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Think on it. If you want a tour, I’ll set one up.”
“Yes, sir.” I sat there, stunned. To think that they wanted to pay me to go to their school and play water polo.
It was like a dream. Four more years of the one thing I loved more than anything, and a vital step toward turning my passion into a career.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” He waved me away. “Go. Brag to your friends. Call your parents. Whatever. Just get outta my office.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, with a grin wide enough to split my face in two.
I stood quickly, but as I turned, something he said hit me like a tsunami.
Call your parents. Right.
My limbs went numb, despite the fact that my thoughts were crystal clear. Because if I wanted to pursue any kind of future with water polo, I had to get past my father first.
Chapter 3
PENELOPE
After the crappy start to my day, I thought things couldn’t get any worse.
I was wrong.
I blinked back at Gabby Haines’ disgustingly perfect face and said, “I don’t understand.”
Forcing down my rising panic, I twisted the strap of my bookbag in my hands. The last thing I wanted was to give her any sort of reaction that’d tickle her all but shriveled heart.
Hate Notes: A Sweet Enemies to Lovers Young Adult Romance (Lakeview Prep Book 1) Page 1