Page 13 of He Hate Me

His eyes travel down my figure, and I fold my arms over my chest, silently laughing. I’m dressed like an awkward twelve-year-old and even with makeup on I look tired AF. Mackenzie and the other girls are watching eagerly, waiting to see how I’ll respond.

“Thanks, Gio, but we both know you say that to all the girls,” I reply dryly.

He grins, and it’s like we’re sharing a private joke; he knows he’s a flirt, and he knows I know he’s a flirt. “Not all the girls, and I mean it most with you.”

I can't help smiling at his cheesy response. He reaches out and brushes a braid back from my face. His fingers linger for a moment against my cheek. I'm actually disappointed that I feel nothing. Brandon makes me tingle; Gio's touch leaves me cold.

He winks before pushing off from the lockers. "See you soon, Deja."

"When are you going to put him out of his misery?” Mackenzie asks, her eyes on his departing figure.

"Gio flirts with anything that moves. You know that."

"Yeah, but he seems extra thirsty today. I think he wants to ask you to homecoming."

I scoff. Last week I'd have been pleased, maybe even excited to hear that, but today I have other concerns. I'm on tenterhooks about what Brandon will ask me to do, and the anxiety is taking up too much space in my mind and body to leave room for much else.

I close my locker, and as the first bell rings we head to our first-period class. It's English, and I'm looking forward to it because my teacher, Mr. Lewis, is one of the few here who isn't just going through the motions. It's an excellent school, but most of the teachers lost their enthusiasm for kids before I was even born.

I float through most of the morning in a daze. After fourth period I reluctantly walk back to my locker, barely paying attention to the people around me. There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach that I hate. When I get to my locker to stash my books, I look at my phone like I always do. I think I’m stalling a bit as well. We’re not supposed to have phones at school, though most people keep them on them anyway and try to be discreet. I got detention freshman year and my phone confiscated, so I’m not going to risk it. I can wait a few hours to see social media updates, and if it’s something really important my parents will call the office.

I do always take a quick look before lunch, though, just in case one of my friends texted me. That’s what I’m focused on when Shelby pops up next to me, her pale blonde ponytail swinging.

“I heard they have chicken fingers today,” she says, cheerfully. “I know we’re not supposed to eat fried food, but they’re so good.”

“Oh,” I say, looking up from the screen. “I have to skip lunch today. I have a thing in the library.”

“A thing?”

“Like a project.”

“But you have to come. What if somebody was going to ask you to homecoming?”

“They can ask me tomorrow.” Shelby is so cute. She’s not dumb—hardly anybody at this school is—but she’s really naive. Everything is simple and uncomplicated to her.

“Okay, well,” she says, backing away in the direction of the cafeteria. “I hope you don’t miss out.” She does a little wiggle with her neck and shoulders that makes me laugh. She gives me a wave and hops away towards Lorelei, who is waiting at the end of the hall. I turn my attention back to the phone. There’s a text from Brandon (filed under AH) telling me to meet him in the classics section.

If you went to a regular high school, this probably sounds weird to you, but Briarwood has the kind of huge two-story library you’d usually see on a college campus. Our library is a neoclassical monument to learning (I’m quoting the brochure here) constructed of Indiana limestone and white marble. The facade features columns and friezes that conjure the symmetry and grace of ancient Greek and Roman public buildings, yada, yada.

Here’s the takeaway—it’s huge and there are a lot of little nooks and crannies where you can have a private conversation. The classical section is right next to a set of private study rooms, so maybe that’s where we’re meeting? I’m not necessarily looking forward to being alone with Brandon, but at least if we’re in one of those rooms we won’t be overheard. It would be beyond mortifying for anyone to find out that he had something over me, even if they didn’t actually know what.

It takes five minutes just to get to the library building. I push through the heavy wooden doors, pause for a moment, still overwhelmed after three years by the grandeur of this space. The ceilings soar thirty feet to a glass domed roof. Sunlight streams in, giving the room a bright, airy feel. The foyer alone is about 1000 square feet and around it, wooden shelves extend in both directions. Large oak tables lie in rows from front to back of the room, stopping in front of a grand staircase leading to the second floor. Just inside the entrance is the check-in desk, where one of the librarians sits, sharp eyes focused on her computer screen. She glances up at me and I hand her my school ID, which she quickly scans. My tennis shoes make the occasional squeak against the polished marble floors, earning me curious glances from a few of the kids at the tables. I jog up the stairs to the second floor, aware that I only have forty-five minutes total for lunch, and I’ve already burned through ten.

I spot Brandon at the end of a long row of shelves, holding a hardbound book. His expression is serious. What is he reading? I doubt he knows Greek or Latin. Those aren’t exactly at the top of the list of subjects to include in a public-school curriculum, especially not at a school like Marshall.

He places the book on a library cart as I approach, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming,” he says, unlocking one of the study rooms with his student ID. You have to reserve them in advance, and I guess he was lucky enough to find one available this morning. He’s wearing all black—a plain t-shirt, worn-looking canvas pants and work boots. I wonder if the all-black clothing is a deliberate choice to intimidate me.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say scanning the room.

There’s a square table and four chairs. There’s nothing else in the room except a small built-in bookshelf. It’s very quiet—probably soundproofed—and fairly private. There’s a decent-sized glass window in the door, but no one can overhear what you’re saying. His backpack is lying on the table.

He plops down in one of the chairs and motions for me to sit at right angles to him.

“You good?” he asks, as if he gives a shit how I’m doing.

“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “Now what do you want?”