P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  Ford

  “You wanted to see me, Principal Hawthorne?”

  I know that voice. I’d know it anywhere.

  Glancing up from my desk, I find a girl in skintight athletic leggings and a low-cut tank top standing in my office doorway, her full lips wrapped around a shiny sucker and a familiar electric jade gaze trained on me.

  It’s her.

  The woman I spent most of all summer chatting with under the anonymous veil of a dating app—one specifically meant for adults seeking connections but not commitment. I purchased a stock photo for seven dollars, chose a pseudonym, Kerouac, and messaged a woman by the name of Absinthe who quoted Hemingway in her bio when everyone else quoted Nickelback and John Legend.

  Fuck.

  Me.

  “You must be Halston.” My skin is on fire. I stand, smooth my tie, and point to the seat across from me. I never knew her name, but I’d know that voice anywhere. I can’t even count how many times I came to the sound of her breathy rasp describing all the wicked things she’d do to me if we ever met, reading me excerpts from Rebecca and Proust. “Take a seat.”

  She takes her time pulling the sucker from her mouth before strutting to my guest chair, lowering herself, cleavage first, and crossing her long legs. The tiniest hint of a smirk claims her mouth, but if she knows it’s me, she’s sure as hell not acting like it.

  “You want to tell me what happened with Mrs. Rossi?” I ask, returning to my seat and folding my hands on my desk.

  I may be a lot of things; overconfident prick, allergic to commitment, red-blooded American man …

  But I’m a professional first.

  “Mrs. Rossi and I had an argument,” Halston says. “We were discussing the theme of The Great Gatsby, and she was trying to say that it was about chasing the elusive American dream. I told her she missed the entire fucking point of one of the greatest pieces of literature in existence.” She takes another suck of her candy before continuing, then points it in my direction. “The real theme has to do with manipulation and dishonesty, Principal Hawthorne. Everyone in that book was a fucking liar, most of all Jay, and in the end, he got what he deserved. They all did.”

  My cock strains against the fabric of my pants. It’s her voice. It’s her goddamned sex-on-fire voice that’s doing this to me. That and her on point dissection of classic American literature. Sexy, intelligent, outspoken. Three elusive qualities I’ve yet to find in another human being. Until her. And knowing that now, I couldn’t even have her if I wanted her, isn’t doing me any favors. If I don’t compose myself, I’m going to be hard as a fucking rock.

  “Language,” I say. The room is growing hotter now, but I keep a stern, undeterred presence.

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m an adult, Principal Hawthorne. I can say words like fuck.”

  “Not in my office, you can’t.” I exhale. “And not in class either. That’s why Mrs. Rossi sent you here.”

  “The jackass behind me was drawing swastikas on his notebook, but I get sent down here for saying ‘fuck.’” Her head shakes.

  “I’ll discuss that with Mrs. Rossi privately.” I scribble a note to myself and shove it aside.

  “You’re really young for a principal.” Her charged gaze drags the length of me. “Did you just graduate from college or something?”

  Six years of school and two years of teaching place me in the budding stages of a career shaping and educating the minds of tomorrow’s leaders, but I refuse to dignify her question with a response.

  “My age is irrelevant,” I say.

  “Age is everything.” She twirls a strand of pale hair around her finger, her lips curling up in the corners. The cute-and-coy shtick must work on everyone else, but it’s not going to work on me. Not here anyway. And not anymore.

  “I said my age is irrelevant.”

  “Am I the first student you’ve ever had to discipline?” She sits up, crossing and uncrossing her legs with the provocative charm of a 1940s pin up. “Wait, are you going to discipline me?”

  I take mental notes for her file.

  Challenges authority

  Difficulty conducting herself appropriately

  Possible boundary issues

  “I’m not going to punish you, Halston. Consider this a verbal warning.” I release a hard breath through my nose as I study her, refusing to allow my eyes to drift to the soft swell of her breasts casually peeking out of her top. Knowing her so intimately over the phone, and being in her presence knowing she’s completely off limits, makes it difficult to maintain my unshaken demeanor. “From now on, I’d like you to refrain from using curse words while on school grounds. It’s disruptive to the other students who are here to actually glean something from their high school education.”

  “I don’t know.” Her lips bunch at the corner, and she fights a devilish grin. “I mean, I can try, but ‘fuck’ is one of my favorite words in the English language. What if I can’t stop saying it? Then what?”

  “Then we’ll worry about that when the time comes,” I say.

  “You could always bend me over your knee and spank me.” She rises, wrapping her lips around the sucker before plucking it out of her mouth with a wet pop. “Or maybe you could fuck my brains out and break my heart.”

  “Excuse me?” My skin heats as she feeds me my own lines, but I refuse to let her see that she’s having any kind of effect on me.

  “You’re him,” she says, as if it’s some ace she’s been keeping up her sleeve this entire time. “You’re Kerouac.”

  I’m at an extraordinary loss for words, trying to wrap my head around all the ways this could go very fucking wrong for me.

  Chapter One

  Halston

  3 Months Ago

  I’m perched in Emily Miller’s pillow-covered window seat, striking my thumb against an almost-empty lighter, a strawberry mint cigarette pinched between my lips.

  “Are … are you sure we should be doing this?” Her eyes shift toward her door, like her parents are going to magically come home early from work and bust us.

  “Relax.” I hold the flame steady, lighting the tip. “It’s herbal. There’s no nicotine or any of that bad shit.”

  Scooting closer to the open window, I inhale and then exhale, aiming rings of smoke at the pin-sized holes in the screen. Honestly, I find the whole idea of smoking to be completely idiotic … all these people enslaved to these little white sticks of chemicals that turn their fingernails yellow and make their clothes reek. But I was walking over here this afternoon and some fourteen-year-old jackass offered to give these to me if I showed him my tits.

  I snatched them from his hand, watching the shock register on his face, and said, “Let that be a lesson to you.” He stood there, eyes wide and blinking as I walked away. “I’m worth more than a half-empty pack of cigarettes you stole from your mother’s purse. You’re lucky I don’t kick you in the balls, snotface.”

  I almost tossed the pack in some family’s garbage can, but I decided I should smoke one of them out of spite.

  Fuck him.

  Fuck fourteen-year-old pricks who are destined to grow up and become STD-spreading man whores.

  “Here.” I hand over the cig, which now bears my red lipstick, and watch as Emily squeezes it between her thumb and forefinger. I titter. “It’s not a joint.”

  “I don’t know how to smoke.” She bites her lower lip, looking like she’s somewhere between laughing and crying.

  Good God, Emily. Live a little.

  If she weren’t my only fucking friend in this stupid fucking town …

  This is painful.

  She’s still hesitating, her eyes darting here, there, and everywhere. I’m seconds from taking it back and keeping it all to myself when she takes a puff.

  “Exhale …” I remind her when it’s been several seconds too long.

  As soon as she opens her mouth, she starts to choke on the smoke tickling her lungs, fanning her hands in front of her face like that’s going to h
elp. Bolting up, she circles her princess pink room before diving into her en suite and filling a cup with water from the faucet.

  Rolling my eyes, I take another puff. Then another.

  This is dumb.

  I head to Emily’s bathroom, stamp the cigarette out in her pristine porcelain sink, and wash out the ash before flushing the stupid thing down the toilet.

  I don’t apologize.

  Pulling the remaining pack from my back pocket, I go to toss them in her trash, but she grabs them from my hands.

  “Are you insane?!” Her brown eyes are round, shaking. “What if my parents find these?”

  Exhaling, I bite my lip. She’s right. Her parents are dying for an excuse to dissolve our friendship. I see it in their eyes; in their forced smiles and terse body language every time I’m around. But Emily is quiet, nerdy. She doesn’t make friends easily, and she mostly keeps to herself. Doug and Mary Miller were thrilled when we started hanging out—at first.

  But that’s how it always goes.

  If you place Emily and me side-by-side, it doesn’t even look like we belong on the same planet. She’s a mouse; timid, quiet, with brown hair and small eyes. I’m a lion; crazy blonde mane, opinionated, and fearless.

  “Shit, what time is it?” I ask, checking my watch. “I gotta go. Aunt Tabitha’s going to be pissed if I’m late for dinner again.”

  It’s weird actually having to live by someone else’s rules.

  Emily sniffs her shirt not once, but twice.

  “You’re fine,” I say. “If you’re that worried, put something else on.”

  Amateur.

  Emily walks me to the door, and I catch her peeking out the window to see if either of her parents’ cars are in the driveway yet. Maybe smoking in her room was risky. I’d hate for them to ground her. I was planning on a summer of corruption and debauchery, all of which would be in her own best interest.

  She goes to college in a year. I’d fail her as a friend if I sent her into the real world as is.

  Skipping down the front steps of the Millers’ grandiose brick colonial and petting the stone lions as I pass them, I head down the block to my aunt and uncle’s house—my permanent residence until I graduate high school.

  I should’ve finished this year, but when you have parents making meth in your basement and they forget to send you to school for a few critical years, you get a little behind. And when your uncle is the superintendent of Lennox Community School District, you get to take an aptitude test and skip some grades—but unfortunately passing twelfth grade and fast forwarding to a high school diploma wasn’t an option. I might turn nineteen this fall, but at least I’ll have a piece of paper that says I attended the ritziest high school in America—the only one, that I know of, with a full-service Starbucks in the commons.

  When I reach Uncle Vic and Aunt Tabitha’s Tudor-style abode, I’m distracted by the slow beeping of a yellow moving van backing into the driveway next door. There’s a man standing on the front steps in low slung sweats and a t-shirt that shows off his tanned, toned biceps. A White Sox ball cap casts a shadow over his face.

  I can’t even see if he’s hot.

  He waves at the driver to keep backing in, and then he heads to the end of the driveway toward Melissa Gunderman, who’s run-walking in his direction with a pan of what appears to be some type of baked good.

  She didn’t waste any time. Paint’s not even dry with this one.

  I’m sure she’s inviting him to her church singles’ meeting, every Thursday at seven o’clock, and I’m sure she’s giving him her normal spiel. She’s divorced. Has one child, Rachel, who’s eight, about to go into second grade, and extremely smart for her age. She loves to cook and bake, but more than that she loves Jesus and coffee—in that order.

  Insert flirtatious laugh and hair twirling.

  She’s wearing yoga pants and a gray t-shirt that says, “Mommin’ Aint Easy,” and her hair is piled in a perfectly messy topknot she probably copied off her teenage babysitter.

  I’ve never seen such a hypocrite in all my life. In the last six months since I’ve lived here, I’ve witnessed a whole bevy of men coming in and out of her house at all hours of the night.

  The men come …

  And then they go.

  Growing bored with the Melissa spectacle, I head inside, where the scent of my aunt’s pot roast mingles with chilled AC air. From the foyer, I can see into the dining room, where my cousin Bree has her nose buried in a textbook and her pen pressed against a notepad.

  Studying away some of the best years of her life, that one.

  Sometimes I wonder which of us has it worse … the one with the parents who care too much or the one with the parents who didn’t care at all?

  “Halston, is that you?” My aunt calls.

  “Nope. It’s the Culligan Man,” I call back, kicking off my dirty white Chucks. She doesn’t respond, but that’s probably because the Stepford Robot manufacturer forgot to install her sense of humor chip when they delivered her to Uncle Vic.

  “Dinner’s almost ready.” Her voice trails from the kitchen.

  “Be there in a sec.”

  I trample up the grand staircase toward the guestroom, which I guess is my room even though I’ve been told “not to put any holes in the wall or rearrange any furniture.” The room looks like a Pottery Barn catalog threw up in it and then hung my clothes in the closet. Needless to say, it doesn’t feel like it’s mine, but the bed is soft and it sure as hell beats switching foster homes every three months. Or sleeping in a cardboard box, which was my only option once I aged out of the system last year.

  I peel out of my clothes and stuff them in a hamper before changing into something that smells more like Tide detergent than strawberries and herbs, and then I dock my phone on the charger. Uncle Vic has a strict “no electronics at the dinner table” policy, and while I normally have no qualms about challenging authority, I don’t dare challenge Victor Abbott.

  For starters, he doesn’t mess around. He means what he says. He’s alpha as shit, smart as fuck, and rules his home—and the dozens of schools in his district—with an iron fist.

  Secondly, he took me in when he didn’t have to.

  He’s my mom’s brother. The only good apple in a family of ones that are rotten to the core. He didn’t have to take me in, put a roof over my head, and enroll me in one of the best high schools in the area, but he did…

  Much to Bree and Tab’s dismay.

  I’m a blemish to their country club lifestyle with my bold lipstick, short shorts, and wild green eyes. I’m the reason they lock their jewelry in safes—despite the fact that I have never and will never steal. I’m the jarring piano note ruining their beautiful symphony.

  They’re counting down the days until I leave for college, I’m sure of it. And Vic, bless his heart, has offered to put me through four years at a local state university about three hours from here.

  I arrive at the dining room table and take my place across from Bree. We were born a month and a year apart, she and I, but we have nothing in common. She’s flat-chested, thin-lipped, and a spoiled only child who’s never known what it feels like to go to bed with an empty stomach or to have to scrape mold off bread or pour expired milk onto stale cereal.

  “How was your afternoon, girls?” Aunt Tab directs her question to both of us, but her attention is focused on her daughter. She places a tureen of brown gravy between us then moves to the china cabinet to grab place settings.

  Every dinner is a production.

  I’ve lived here six months now and I’ve yet to see them order pizza.

  “I’m almost done studying for English comp,” Bree says, her gaze flicking to me like I should feel like a failure for not taking college prep courses in the summer. Forgive me for not being an overachiever. “First test is tonight.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll pass with flying colors.” Tabitha smiles, placing her hand on her daughter’s shoulder as she passes and heads toward the
kitchen. She returns with the roast, placing it between us before taking a seat and checking her watch. “Hopefully Vic’s on his way. It’s not like him to be late.”

  That’s my aunt. Always worrying over nothing because she literally has nothing better to do. I’ve realized that rich people like to manufacture problems, but I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why. They have all this good shit going for them, but they’re not happy unless they’re miserable.

  “I should call him.” The moment Aunt Tabitha rises, the door to the garage opens and the security system beeps twice. She smiles, placing her hand over her heart, and then takes her seat. “There he is.”

  Uncle Vic places his briefcase on the kitchen counter before emptying his pockets, and then sits in his usual chair at the head of the table. Without saying a word, he folds his hands and bows his head, saying grace. The three Abbotts make the sign of the cross and Vic dishes his food first.

  Watching the three of them is like watching one of those old black and white TV shows from the fifties. From the outside, they’re sickeningly perfect. My aunt wears dresses, even on the days she stays home, and Bree is a cheerleader, straight A student, and class president.

  The tinkle of flatware on china fills the silence, and after a few moments my uncle clears his throat and glances in my direction.

  “Halston, how’s summer treating you so far?” he asks.

  I shrug. “All right, I guess.”

  “I was thinking,” he says. “I’d like to teach you how to drive.”

  He has my full attention.

  My parents were always too strung out to teach me how to drive, and most of my foster parents didn’t trust me behind the wheel of their cars because they didn’t know me well enough.

  “That would be amazing, Uncle Vic,” I say. “Just say when.”

  He dabs the corners of his mouth with a napkin, his forehead lined in wrinkles like he’s deep in thought. “This weekend. I’ll take you out this weekend. We can practice in Bree’s car.”

  Bree shoots me a dirty look.

  “Perfect,” I say.

  “In the meantime, I’d like you to start looking for a part-time job,” he says, chewing his meat. “At the end of the summer, I’ll match what you’ve saved dollar for dollar, and then we’ll go out and look at cars.”