P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  Lifting the phone to her face, she smirks. “If things were different, I’d have made you mine the moment we met. Wait for me, Absinthe. Eight more months and I’ll make you mine forever. I love you.”

  He loves me …

  Kerouac loves me.

  My stomach flutters, yet at the same time all I see is red.

  “Give me my phone,” I say, teeth clenched. “Now.”

  “Never.” She shoves it in her back pocket. “It’s no longer your property.”

  “Give it to me!” I’m not one to scream. I generally find it pointless and weak, a last resort that does nothing more than declare to the other person that you’ve lost all control, but I do it anyway. I don’t recognize my voice like this, but it’s me, screaming at the top of my lungs like a crazy person.

  I suppose love makes you do crazy, insane, lose-all-control-of-yourself things.

  He loves me.

  And fuck. I love him too.

  Charging at Bree, I reach around, attempting to take it back, but in the process, I push her against the wall, knocking down a gaudy abstract portrait that falls to the ground and shatters on the hardwood floor, sending the two of us to our knees.

  We’re surrounded by glass. Tiny invisible shards dig into my stinging palms.

  “If you don’t tell me who it is, I’m going to show this to my father,” she says, carefully flicking broken glass off her bloody knuckles. Bree’s out of breath, but she doesn’t seem deterred. “If you tell me who it is, I’ll delete the app. Nobody will ever know.”

  “I’m not negotiating with you.” I will not be blackmailed by this bitch.

  “Fine,” she says, pushing herself to a standing position. Brushing the hair out of her face, she holds her head high. “Eight months from now is May. May is … Mother’s Day, Memorial Day, and … graduation. This guy says he can’t be with you until May, so … is it a teacher?!”

  I say nothing.

  “Oh, god,” she says, expression fading. “It’s Principal Hawthorne.”

  My nose wrinkles. “No, it isn’t.”

  “He couldn’t stop staring at you that night at dinner. He got all weird watching you and Thane, and then he left when you guys left. And that one time, after school, when he needed to talk to you alone … and I saw you two talking at the drinking fountain that day …” She paces the room, stepping over the shattered art. “Wow. Oh my god. Wow. This is … this is major.”

  “Aren’t you a real fucking Nancy Drew.” I roll my eyes. “Too bad you’re still wrong. You’ll never figure it out.”

  “It’s absolutely Hawthorne. I see it on your face. Your nose twitches and your voice gets a little higher. You’re lying,” she says. “As a future education administrator and mandatory reporter, I need to report my suspicions to the appropriate authorities.”

  “Bree.” The broken, guttural tone in my voice is both a plea and a threat, though in this moment she doesn’t appear to care either way.

  “I’ll tell my father what I suspect and let him take it from there.” She heads to the door, only it swings open, banging against the wall and startling us both. “If he’s innocent, as you say he is, then he’ll have nothing to worry about.”

  My uncle stands in the doorway, eyes bugging. “What’s going on up here?”

  His gaze lands on the shattered frame, and I suspect he senses the thickness of contempt in the air.

  “We were just talking about her little love affair with Principal Hawthorne.” Bree slides my phone from her back pocket, handing it over. “Sorry. Alleged love affair with Principal Hawthorne.”

  “Why do you have this?” he asks, taking my phone, my entire life, with a single impatient grab.

  “It was going off earlier,” she says. “I went to shut it off, but a message popped up on the screen. I think you should take a look. Just press that green app right there. You can see every email and message they’ve exchanged since summer.”

  “It’s not Hawthorne,” I say. I’m a terrible liar, but I’m not going down without a fight. I’ll fight for him. He doesn’t deserve this. He did nothing wrong. It was all me. I pushed him. I wanted him, and I recklessly crossed the line every time he told me not to.

  Victor’s gaze moves between the phone and my bewildered expression. How one botched homecoming night could go from bad to worse over the span of a few hours is beyond me, but there’s no going back.

  I’d say the damage has been done, but I have a feeling it’s only just begun.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Ford

  “Victor, hi. Come on in.” I pull the door wide and step aside, instantly regretting my decision to let a man with murderous eyes set foot in my house. But when my boss pounds on my door in the middle of a Sunday evening, there’s got to be a good reason. “Everything okay?”

  “I need a word.” His tone is brusque and impatient, his eyes narrowing and his complexion ruddy.

  Exhaling, I point toward the living room.

  Victor stands dead center, not sitting, not making himself at home. With arms folded, he examines me from head to toe.

  “When I first interviewed you, I was impressed with your professionalism,” he says. “Several candidates made the short list, many of them with impressive job histories and Ivy League educations, reference lists a mile long, extraordinary recommendation letters. They gave all the right answers. They knew exactly what I wanted to hear. They exceeded my expectations in each and every way. And then there was you. You were well-spoken and efficient. You didn’t bullshit. You had full control of yourself, a commanding presence. You were easy to respect, Ford. It was easy for me to overlook the fact that you’re new at this. It was easy for me to make an exception for you.”

  Victor pauses, moving toward the window and glancing outside at a passing family of bicyclists. I really wish he’d get the fuck on with this.

  Turning back, he lifts his brows. “So, tell me, Ford, what the hell you were thinking when you decided to involve yourself with my goddamned niece?!”

  I knew it.

  I fucking knew it.

  All those times Halston swore up and down she’d never let it slip, that she’d never tell a soul …

  She lied.

  When we messaged last night, she was furious with me.

  This is her retaliation.

  I imagine her reading my email, laughing at my ridiculous declaration of love, and then running off to Uncle Vic so he can give the knife a final twist.

  If she wanted to get back at me, if she wanted to hurt me for hurting her …

  … mission fucking accomplished.

  I hope she’s happy.

  “Because this involves my family, we’re going to keep this quiet,” Abbott says, chin tilted down, voice low. “But I expect your resignation on my desk first thing tomorrow. And if you so much as think about contacting my niece again, I’ll make sure you never set foot in a school ever again. In fact, I’m going to recommend you find a new career altogether. There’s no way in hell I’m going to recommend you for any job in the education field after this. I was wrong about you.”

  The disgust in his voice is unnecessary. I’m already disgusted with myself. I knew better.

  I nod, saying nothing because there’s nothing more to say.

  I’ll resign tomorrow.

  I’ll leave Rosefield.

  And as for Halston, she better hope we never cross paths again.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Halston

  Nobody smiles here.

  I walk behind the headmistress Tuesday morning as she spouts impressive facts to Uncle Victor, reassuring him he did the right thing.

  “Our success rate is second to none,” she says. “Many of our girls go on to be doctors, lawyers, and CEOs. Of course, most of those girls started with us in their younger years, but I just know Halston will do wonderfully here. We’ll be sure to make the most of the short time we have with her.”

  She doesn’t look at me when she speaks, and s
he seems quite smitten with Vic. He’s wearing his power suit, his gray hair slicked back.

  He keeps a stern presence, rarely making eye contact with me. I didn’t speak to anyone Sunday, refusing to leave my room. It wasn’t until my stomach was growling at two in the morning and hindering my sleep that I finally snuck down for a bowl of cereal.

  Aunt Tabitha tried to hug me goodbye Monday afternoon when we left for the airport.

  I kept on walking.

  And as for Bree, I hope I never see her again.

  The headmistress is still schmoozing as we pass the cafeteria. Girls glance up at us with dead eyes, their mush breakfasts resting on beige trays, mostly uneaten. This place feels like a bad dream and a horror film all mixed into one with its limestone, Gilded Age exterior, the weeping willows lining the circle drive, the sconce-lined walls, and the sweeping ceilings that make every footstep echo. The only thing it’s missing are bars on the windows and ravens quoting “nevermore.”

  “The rooms are this way,” the woman says, pointing down a long corridor lined with oil portraits. “Each girl has one roommate and each hall has one communal bathroom. Twenty girls to one bathroom. The curtains rise at five o’clock each morning and lights are out by eight PM sharp. We have one hour of recreation before bedtime each night, and we encourage our girls to work on their homework between dinner and their final class of the day.”

  We pass an exit with glaring red letters. It seems out of place in a home that appears to have frozen in time one hundred years ago, and for half of a second I think about walking away.

  But I have no money. No car. Nowhere to go.

  And I’d be throwing away a free college education, my only shot at a decent future.

  Girls in gray dresses begin to fill the hall, all of them walking in a straight line, eyes forward as they disperse to their rooms.

  “Would you like to meet your roommate, Halston?” the woman turns to me, her pencil-thin mouth curling.

  Victor turns to me. I nod.

  Stopping outside a room labeled “The Katrina Howell Suite,” the headmistress tells Uncle Vic about “Our dear, sweet Kat, who went on to become the US Ambassador to Norway before meeting and falling in love with the Duke of Pendleton …”

  When she finally stops rambling, she raps on the door three times before barging in.

  A girl with shiny dark hair and deep set aquamarine eyes gazes up from a thick book. She doesn’t seem the least bit startled about anyone barging into her room. Didn’t even flinch.

  “Lila Mayfield, I’d like you to meet your new roommate, Halston Kessler,” the woman says.

  The room is small, the two twin beds maybe five feet apart, but the ceiling is sweeping and the windows run from floor to ceiling. We each have a desk and a wooden wardrobe but nothing else. This is nothing more than a glorified prison cell in a gilt mansion.

  “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” The headmistress places her hand on Victor’s forearm. “If you’d like to come with me, we have a few forms we’ll need signed. I’ll send someone for her bags shortly.”

  She leaves the room first, and Victor’s eyes meet mine.

  I’ve never known him to be an emotional man. He holds his cards close, his heart forged of tungsten and coal. But his eyes shine, glassy.

  “We’ll visit in—,” he says.

  “Don’t bother,” I cut him off. I don’t want them to visit. I don’t want them to call or write. I don’t want to see them a month from now and have to pretend like everything’s kosher, like he didn’t just toss me to the side like I’m someone else’s problem now.

  He stops, lingering for a moment, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s regretting his decision, though even if he were, it wouldn’t matter. Victor Abbott doesn’t apologize for anything, and he never admits he’s wrong.

  Turning my back, I wait for the shuffle of his footsteps and the gentle click of the door catch.

  Lila’s quiet, observing me, and I hope to God she’s not another Emily Miller.

  “You’re going to hate it here,” she says after a moment of silence.

  I stand, feet planted in the center of our tiny room and arms folded across my chest. “How long have you—”

  “Eight years,” she answers, exhaling as she draws her knees against her chest and rests her back along the headboard. “Eight fucking years of this bullshit. You know they actually have a class here called Charms and Graces 101? We have to walk around with books on our heads and learn to make tea like we’re some British fucking aristocrat.”

  I glance at her nightstand, a thick, leather-bound book catching my attention. “You read?”

  Lila laughs. “I do. Here.”

  Grabbing the book, she tosses it to me. “Great Expectations.”

  “No. Open it up.”

  Flipping the cover open, I see where the inside has been hollowed out and a Harlequin paperback is tucked neatly inside. The woman on the cover is half-naked, her dress barely containing her ample bosom, and the long-haired, broad-muscled man holding her looks like he’s seconds from devouring her.

  “Oh, honey, we need to fix this.” I shut the cover, tossing the book back.

  Lila shakes her head. “I like my smut.”

  “Read Fanny Hill or Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I promise you’ll never touch one of those again.”

  “Anyway,” Lila sits the book back. “What’s your story? Why’d your parents ship you off?”

  I move to my new bed, taking a seat on the edge. The mattress is springy and thin, and my palms trace the lumps beneath the coverlet.

  “My aunt and uncle sent me here because I was becoming too much of a burden or some shit like that,” I say. “And I don’t have a story. I’m just the girl that nobody ever wanted.”

  Lila pouts, placing her hand over her heart. “You say that like it’s not the saddest thing in the world.”

  “It’s not sad. It’s a fact.” I shrug. “Got over it a long time ago. What about you?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I was an oops baby. My parents were in their forties when they had me. Their first three kids were already grown and off to college and they were looking forward to retiring early and traveling the world when I came along. They kept me around the first ten years or so, hiring nannies and all that. Then one day they just decided I should come here.”

  “Just like that?”

  Lila nods. “Pretty much.”

  “Were you sad?” I imagine how difficult it would be as a ten-year-old girl, being left here while your family carries on without you.

  “Not really.” She glances down, focusing on the rug between our beds. “Honestly, I barely know my parents. They were never around growing up … maybe holidays and stuff but nothing else. As far as I’m concerned, they’re just a couple of spoiled rich assholes who gave me their last name and these dashing good looks.”

  Lila smirks, lashes fluttering. She’s kidding, but she doesn’t need to. It’s true. She’s beautiful, striking really, even covered in a drab gray dress and sitting in this dimly lit dungeon of a dorm room.

  “Look at us,” Lila says. “Just a couple of girls nobody wanted. God, I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here.”

  “What are you doing after graduation?”

  “Reinventing myself,” she says without hesitation. “I’m going to be the girl that everyone wants. The girl no one wants to be without. I refuse to spend the rest of my life as someone else’s afterthought.”

  I cross my legs, leaning back on my palms. “And how are you going to do that?”

  She laughs. “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out. But I’m going to do it. I’m going to be that girl.”

  “I want to be that girl too,” I say.

  My mind returns to Kerouac for the millionth time today, unexpectedly and out of the blue like it does, only this time I’m not wondering what he’s doing today or when he’ll find out I was shipped off or if he’s been searching for me in the halls at school.

  I’
m thinking about that last email, wishing I could talk to him and tell him I’ll wait because he’s the only person who’s ever truly wanted me.

  And now I have no way to reach him.

  Uncle Victor took my electronics. The headmistress says we’re an ‘electronics-free’ school, save for the computer lab, which has no Internet access. I never knew Kerouac’s real phone number or real email. We only ever communicated through Karma.

  “You’re thinking about someone,” Lila says, squinting. “Who is it? You have a boyfriend back home?”

  “No boyfriend.”

  Her mouth pinches, like she’s unsure if she believes me. “Some guy you love?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re not going to wait for him, right?” she asks, chuckling.

  I search for the right words, something that won’t make me seem lovesick or pathetic. No one could possibly understand what we had, why I loved him, or why I would wait a hundred lifetimes for him if I had to.

  “Oh, god. Please. No. We’re way too young to wait around for these assholes. I did that my sophomore year. Met a boy on summer break. Told him I’d wait for him so we could be together the following summer. Found out later on that he had three different girlfriends during the school year.” She makes a gagging sound. “They lie. They always lie. Especially the hot ones.”

  “My situation is different.”

  “Everyone says that.” Lila rolls her eyes. “I promise you it’s not. Boy meets girl. Boy charms girl. Boy says he loves girl. Boy asks girl to wait for him. Boy fucks other girls.”

  “We never dated … we just talked.”

  Her head tilts, like a confused toy poodle. “So, you’re hung up on some guy back home that you only ever talked to?”

  “We had a connection.” I don’t know how to say this without sounding trite. Saying we had a connection makes it seem so much less than what it was when it was so much more than that. “We wanted to be together, but we couldn’t.”

  “Oh, god. Married man?”

  “No. Principal.” My gaze flicks to hers. I expect to get a reaction from her, judgement or disgust or something. Instead she climbs off her bed, walks toward me, and places her hand in my face, palm-side up.