P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  For once I have something to look forward to. No more rolling into school riding shotgun in Bree’s Prius. No more waiting outside her locker after school for a ride home, looking like some stranded loser.

  For the first time in my life, I’ll have freedom.

  Freedom to go where I want, when I want, for whatever reason I want.

  Freedom to do anything, see anyone.

  Freedom.

  About fucking time.

  I finish my dinner and ask to be excused, taking my plate to the dishwasher before going upstairs. When I crack open my laptop—a gift from Victor which is supposed to be strictly for homework—I pull up a job search website and see what I can find.

  A little red flashing ad on the side bar advertises some dating app called Karma. I try to click on the x in the corner to make it go away, but I miss, and another webpage opens up.

  The headline reads, “Tired of swiping? Tired of being ghosted and cat-fished? Try Karma for FREE today!”

  Intrigued, I click on “learn more.”

  Karma is an innovative dating app that forces users to earn “karma points” before certain information is revealed. For example, ten karma points allows you to see each other’s photo. Twenty karma points allows you to exchange email addresses. Thirty karma points allows you to exchange phone numbers.

  How do you earn karma points? By chatting anonymously via our app! Each user is allowed to chat with only one other user at a time, ensuring the person you’re talking to is genuinely interested in forming a deep and meaningful relationship with you—should that be what they’re seeking! Our users can select a myriad of options displaying their intentions. Some are seeking a long-term commitment while others are seeking a fun and flirtatious, no-strings-attached experience!

  We welcome you to try Karma today! We’re a free app—no catch! Download the desktop version to get started, and be sure to add the mobile app to take Karma with you wherever you go!

  Biting my bottom lip, I lift an eyebrow. Staring down the barrel of a long, hot summer, I could use a little something to fill my time besides binge watching Full House on Netflix with Emily Miller.

  Pressing the download button, the icon is installed on my desktop in a matter of seconds, and I double click to begin.

  A small gray box flashes across my screen, asking me to agree to their terms and conditions and check a box saying I’m eighteen.

  Done.

  Next, the app asks me for a pseudonym.

  That’s easy.

  Green Fairy—a childhood nickname I earned because of the intense color of my eyes.

  Wait, no. That’s dumb. They’re going to think I’m into fairies and elves and dragons and shit, and fantasies have never been my thing. I’m a realist.

  Deleting Green Fairy, I type in Absinthe.

  Much better, and it still fits.

  Next, it asks for a small bio. But I’m not going to be able to spill my life story in a thousand characters or less, nor would I want to. Sitting back on my bed, I stare at the ceiling. Despite what one might assume about me and the fact that my education history is a hot mess, I’ve never met a book I couldn’t devour. I’m guessing my love affair with books stems from all those years our heat got shut off mid-winter and I’d find myself staying at the library until close just to stay warm. On days when it was exceptionally cold, the librarian would let me stay a little past close while she finished up her work for the day.

  Pulling a notebook from beneath my mattress of quotes and things I’ve loved and saved throughout the years, I flip to a page in the middle and drag my fingertip along the faded ink words, stopping on a quote from The Great Gatsby. “You see I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad things that happened to me.”

  I think about using that one before determining it’s too depressing.

  Flipping to the next page, my eyes land on another one from my beloved F. Scott Fitzgerald, taken from This Side of Paradise: “They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”

  Boom. Perfect. It’s short and sweet and the sexiness is implied, not cheap.

  Next, the app asks for my sex and then my age.

  With lips pressed to the side, I debate this one. If I say I’m eighteen, I’m going to attract the perverts and weirdos with teenage girl fetishes. Not to mention, I may be eighteen in calendar years, but my life experience has given me a perspective of someone who’s lived beyond that.

  Typing in 100, I decide to come back to that later, and I click on the “next” button.

  Karma asks me what kind of relationship I’m looking for, listing a handful of options and telling me to choose only one.

  Marriage? Nope.

  Long-term commitment? Nope.

  Casual dating? Hm, maybe.

  Open relationship? Nah.

  Friendship? No.

  No-strings attached fun? Yeah, okay.

  I check the last box before moving on. Karma is now requesting a photo of me, reminding me that the person I’m chatting with won’t see it until they reach a certain number of karma points, and at that time, I’d be able to see their photo too.

  Sliding off my bed, I slick a coat of red lipstick over my mouth and fluff my blonde waves before returning to my laptop and snapping a smirking selfie with the camera. A second later, it’s uploaded.

  When Karma tells me I’m all finished and I can start looking for potential matches by typing in my zip code, I check the clock.

  I need to look for a job, not a man.

  Mama needs some wheels.

  Closing out of the app, I’m prompted with a reminder to download it on my phone, but I return to my search. I’ll worry about that later.

  With no job history or work experience, I’m not sure how this is going to go, but I’m not above washing dishes or cleaning grease traps.

  Settling on a part-time waitress position offering “on the job training,” I click apply and fill out the form.

  Thank you for your interest! Someone from The Farmhouse Café will contact you shortly!

  I find a few more server jobs and submit my information, refusing to hold my breath. And when I’m done, I grab my phone, install Karma, and start shopping for a little summer fun.

  Chapter Two

  Ford

  “I should get inside.” I point toward the movers the second I’m able to get a word in with this woman.

  My new neighbor, Melissa, frowns, but I don’t feel bad. She’s been talking my ear off for the past half hour, inviting me to singles night at her church and telling me all about her kid. She hasn’t asked a single question about me, nor has she stopped to take a breath.

  “Thanks for the brownies.” I hold up the warm tray that’s been singeing my palms this entire time. “I’ll be sure to return the pan.”

  She knew what she was doing.

  Melissa smiles, coiling a strand of hair around her fingers. “Take your time. Like I said, I’m in the yellow house across the street if you need me.”

  If I need her …

  I stifle a chuckle before turning back to the house. The movers have made a good dent in the load already, and I walk into a living room stacked high with cardboard boxes. How one single man can accumulate so much shit by his late twenties is beyond me, though in my defense, most of my belongings are books—mostly college texts and literature classics—and I refuse to throw them out.

  Good words never expire.

  Moving to the kitchen, I grab a box cutter from the counter and get to work. My new job as principal of Rosefield High doesn’t officially start for another couple of months, and I’ve got all the time in the world, but the clutter and boxes are going to drive me insane. The sooner everything gets to its place, the better.

  I can’t live with chaos. It’s nails on a chalkboard.

  A couple of hours later, my kitchen is done and the movers are bringing the last of the furniture pieces in. I tip them each a hundred bucks and wal
k them to the door. The second they leave, I spread across my sofa, kick my feet up, and rest my eyes for a minute.

  My stomach growls, a reminder that the purchase of this house didn’t include a stocked pantry, so I slide my phone from my pocket and see if there are any places around here that deliver something other than lightning-fast submarine sandwiches or soggy pizza.

  Within five minutes, I settle on Thai food, place my order, and pull up my Karma app to kill time.

  Starting a job like this in a town where I don’t know a soul means hook ups can be risky. I need to establish my reputation first, and the concerned residents of Rosefield, Illinois would be aghast if they found out their children’s principal is a commitment-phobic man whore.

  Karma is safer.

  I can actually get to know someone before deciding if they’re worth hooking up with, though at this point in time, I’ve opted to use a stock photo and stick to phone sex. It’s less risky, and my career isn’t worth an hour of electric sex with a stranger.

  Tapping the app, it asks if I want to “search singles in the area searching for no-strings attached experiences.” I press “okay,” and the screen displays a list of options in alphabetical order.

  Woman number one is named Absinthe, and her bio is an F. Scott Fitzgerald quote, which tells me she’s introspected and a fan of the literary arts. Sticking in a pin on her profile, I move on to the next options and make my assessments.

  BlaireWS1989. Her bio is a list of her college degrees and various professional certifications.

  Pass.

  DaringBoldly_SoulfulAries. Addicted to self-help books. Probably consults psychics on a regular basis.

  Nope.

  FoxyMamaIL. Her bio says she’s a mom to three and fur-mom to four. I can’t do the single mom thing. They always want more, even if they say they don’t.

  Moving on.

  HeavenlyHannah. Is that … is that a Nickelback song she’s quoting?

  Seriously, people.

  I check out another dozen before going back to Absinthe, making absolutely certain I want to send her a message. Once I do, I won’t be able to communicate with anyone else … though the last five minutes of my life have shown me that I’m probably not missing out on much anyway.

  Tapping the “initiate contact” button, I type a message and press send.

  Chapter Three

  Halston

  I barely hear the ding of my computer over the music piping through my earbuds, but sure enough, there’s a push notification coming through from Karma.

  Kerouac would like to introduce himself! Do you accept?

  Kerouac? Ugh. Jack Kerouac is one of the most overrated writers I’ve ever had the disservice of subjecting myself to. On the Road was boring and self-indulgent.

  I check out his message next.

  “Pretty tech savvy for being 100,” he writes.

  Laughing out loud, my head tilts to the side. He’s got a sense of humor. I can work with that. And I can maybe forgive him for the screen name if he’ll allow me to broaden his horizons with some hand-selected book recommendations.

  Clicking on the “reply” icon, Karma tells me that by responding to this conversation, I won’t be able to communicate with any other users. And if I decide to cease conversation with this person, I need to click on the black “x” in their profile, which will prevent them from being able to contact me again and vice versa.

  Forever.

  Absinthe: My grandkids got me one of those iPad things for Christmas.

  Kerouac: How many grandkids do you have?

  Absinthe: Way too many. I was a bit of a floozy in my younger days, popping out babies left and right. I couldn’t help myself. They were so damn cute and so were the men. Sadly, I think I peaked in the 1940s. I never could resist a man in uniform! Those sailors with those little round hats got me every time. Never missed a Fleet Week!

  Kerouac: No regrets?

  Absinthe: No regrets.

  Kerouac: Seriously though. How old are you?

  Absinthe: Does it matter? Age is literally a number.

  Kerouac: It matters to me.

  Absinthe: How old are you?

  Kerouac: Didn’t you read my profile?

  Absinthe: No. I was too distracted by your horrendous screen name. Kerouac? Seriously?????

  Kerouac: On the Road is a classic.

  Absinthe: On the Road is shoddy drivel at best. Anyone who thinks otherwise doesn’t deserve the privilege of calling himself a reader.

  Kerouac: That’s the cool thing about being a reader though, YOU get to decide what you like and other people’s opinions don’t matter.

  Absinthe: Doesn’t make me judge you any less.

  Kerouac: How old are you?

  Absinthe: So you’re going to change the subject, just like that?

  Kerouac: Answer the fucking question.

  Absinthe: Oh, man. You said “fucking.” Are you pissed? Or trying to prove that you’re some big, bad alpha male who needs to be in control at all times?

  Kerouac: Not pissed. Just impatient.

  Kerouac: But control is a good thing. I like to be in control.

  Absinthe: Then that’s going to be a problem, because I like to be in control too.

  Kerouac: Your age, Absinthe.

  Absinthe: Old enough to drink.

  It’s not a lie. I mean, I might not be old enough to drink legally, but I’m still old enough to drink in the literal sense.

  Kerouac: That’s the best you can do?

  Absinthe: I need to keep a low profile.

  Kerouac: Are you someone important?

  Absinthe: You’re being sarcastic. Ass. And no, I’m not anyone important. I’m just me. And I want to keep a low profile because for all I know, you’re a creepy stalker.

  Kerouac: Even if I was a creepy stalker, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to locate you simply based on your age. I think you’re safe.

  Absinthe: Anyway, back to your horrible taste in literature …

  Kerouac: My extensive library collection would beg to differ.

  Absinthe: Oooh. You have a library. You must be fancy.

  Kerouac: Not fancy. Just well read.

  Absinthe: You know what would be really fucking hot?

  Kerouac: What?

  Absinthe: Sex in a library. A public library.

  Kerouac: Way to get to the point. I was content discussing great American writers of the 20th century for another hour, but this works too.

  Absinthe: If you could see me right now, I’m rolling my eyes at you. Don’t be lame. Just go with it. Tell me how we’d do it. Tell me what you’d do to me.

  Kerouac: What do you look like?

  Absinthe: Why?

  Kerouac: I need a visual. For my fantasy.

  Absinthe: Blonde hair. Green eyes. Big tits. Long legs. That work?

  Kerouac: Highly doubt that’s what you really look like, but okay.

  Absinthe: It’s true. Maybe one of these days, you’ll get to see for yourself.

  Kerouac: Doubtful. I have no intentions of ever meeting you.

  Absinthe: Why not??? Oh, shit. Are you married?!?

  Kerouac: No. Not married. Just a professional starting a new job in a new town.

  Absinthe: So, you just want phone sex …

  Kerouac: Yes.

  Absinthe: And no matter how hot and bothered I get you, you’ll never change your mind?

  Kerouac: Never.

  Exhaling, I rest my chin on my hand and glance away. I suppose if we’re never going to meet or know each other’s real names, I can be as dirty as I want to be with him. I can tell him everything without giving two shits about whether or not he’s going to judge me because it won’t fucking matter.

  Absinthe: Fine. Lay it on me. Tell me how you’d fuck me in a library.

  Kerouac: I’d make you wear a skirt.

  Absinthe: You’d MAKE me wear a skirt?

  Kerouac: Yes. I’d make you.

  Kerouac: By the way,
you’re not wearing panties.

  Absinthe: Obviously.

  Kerouac: I’d take you to the F-K aisle, turn your back toward me, and spread your thighs. My hands would pull at the hem of your skirt, revealing your ass. If anyone walked by, they’d see my fingers trailing up your inner thighs and plunging into your wet pussy. You’d moan, and I’d cover your mouth. We have to be quiet.

  Absinthe: Damn, K. This is, um, good. Keep going.

  Kerouac: Your hips would buck against me. You’re so fucking hot you can’t even stand it, and you’re close, but I won’t let you cum unless you’re riding my cock. Pulling my fingers from your slit, I give you a taste before massaging your tits and pulling your body against mine. When you whimper and beg for me to fuck you, I’ll have to tease you first … I’ll have to remind you that I’m in control. Dragging the tip of my cock along your seam, I’ll slide my length inside you at the height of your anticipation.

  Absinthe: Go on…

  Kerouac: With your hands gripping the bookshelf and your hair gathered in my fist, I’ll fuck you like the dirty girl you are, demanding your silence and commanding your body in ways no other man has done before.

  Absinthe: Wait. How do you know what other men have done to me before?

  Kerouac: Seriously?

  Absinthe: Just kidding. No man has ever fucked me in a library, that right there probably puts you at the top of my list. Forgive me for interrupting you. Continue.

  Kerouac: Through the shelves, we see someone coming. The librarian. I press my thumb against your clit, circling it as I fuck you harder and faster, my cum jetting inside you as your body melts against mine, your pussy clenched in spasm. Pulling myself out of you, I zip my fly and you straighten your skirt. The librarian comes around the corner, giving us each an evil look. And then she carries on her way, none the wiser.

  Absinthe: Not bad.

  Kerouac: Not bad?

  Absinthe: Yeah. It wasn’t bad. I mean, I’ve been touching myself this whole time. And I came. Please tell me you’re not one of those guys who needs constant reassurance.