Page 35 of He Hate Me

“It was a family thing,” I say, sticking as close to the truth as was possible, which actually isn’t very close at all.

“Speaking of family,” he says, “I heard you were related to Deja Marcus.”

“Not really. Her stepdad’s my guardian.”

“She’s a very popular girl. Any chance you could…”

“Introduce you?”

“Well, of course we know each other. I just can’t get her to come to any of my parties.”

“You trying to impress people or something? I don’t think you need to do that. I’m pretty sure people will come to your parties just because they’re your parties.”

“True, but she’s not just popular, she’s also hot as fuck. What’s that look? You can’t blame me. You live with her. When she’s walking towards you it’s that figure and those gravity defying tits and then when she walks past you it’s that ass, those legs. You just want to bend her over and⁠—”

“Can you not talk about her like that?” I ask, feeling a surge of the anger that’s been simmering inside me since I left Anton’s office.

“Uh! You’re fucking her.”

“I’m not fucking her. I just don’t like hearing people…”

“You are most definitely fucking her. And I think that’s good news for me. You can make her come to my next party.”

“I have no control over Deja.” That’s just a lie, but I’m not sure how I feel about Rourke yet, and in any case, I don’t think he wants a pissed off girl souring the mood.

“Just ask her. Do it after sex, they’re more agreeable then.”

“I’m not⁠—“

“Give me your number. Let’s hang some time. My dad’s always in Europe, so any day, any time, any booze, any…treat, can be had at mine.”

We share contacts and I point him to a corner where he can drop me off. I’m still a quarter of a mile from Devin’s house, but I don’t mind a short walk through the woods.

“I’ll give you a call,” I promise, hopping out of the car.

When I get home Deja and her parents are already home. I run upstairs to drop off my backpack in my room, it’s time for dinner. I’m not really in the mood to sit at a table with Devin and his wife, but I don’t want to start a whole thing by refusing to eat at the table. They are so annoyingly conventional. I’m convinced people like that are really screwed up or evil, that’s why they try so hard to make everyone think they’re normal.

Tonight’s dinner is a little more creative than usual. We have turkey chili and sweet potatoes roasted and sprinkled with pumpkin spice. Dessert is Greek yogurt panna cotta.

“Enjoying the food?” Devin asks when he sees me wolfing down the food.

I nod, not wanting to talk with my mouth full. I wipe my lips with a napkin and say,

“This is delicious, Tanisha. Thank you.” Her eyes bug out. I think this may be the first compliment I’ve ever paid her, but it’s well-earned.

“It’s been getting colder,” she says. “Time to start bringing on the soup.”

“Yeah!” Deja says. “Can you make butternut squash tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Tanisha says. They start talking about recipes and side dishes and I tune them out. I hate Tanisha’s voice. It always sounds forced and artificially high-pitched. Instead, I watch Deja’s face. She’s animated, and gesturing with her spoon, she smiles, her full lips separating to reveal even, white teeth. I’d love to see her look at me like that, with affection in her eyes instead of irritation. Especially if she was wearing something cute, like lingerie, or just the skirt of her cheer costume and she’d flip the skirt up and show me⁠—.

“Brandon,” Devin is saying, “are you there?”

He asks me about soccer and offers a bunch of useless platitudes about hard work and consistency. I mention that I got a ride with Rourke and Deja makes a face.

“You don’t like Rourke?” I ask.

“He’s okay,” she says. “He just parties a little too hard for my taste.”