Page 48 of Hate Notes


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“Me?”

Again with the surprise at my being a normal human being.

Shit, how much of a jerk was I?

“Yeah, you.”

She hesitated, but once she started scrolling, I watched as she sunk further into her seat, a soft smile forming on her lips.

“No way,” she said, gawking from the phone to me. “You have IRL on here?”

“You’ve heard of them?”

“Heard of them?” She eyed me like I was crazy. “They’re only the best indie rock band. Ever. Their music is unrivaled.”

“Seriously?” I glanced from the road back to her and grinned. The fact that she had both heard of them and liked them was nuts. Half my friends made fun of my ass for listening to anything but mainstream pop and rap. “They’re one of my favorites,” I said. “No one I talk to follows them. The guys think they’re lame.”

Penelope scoffed. “Of course they do,” she muttered. “They have zero taste. IRL’s lyrics are practically poetry. If you ask me, they completely blow any major alternative rock band out of the water. You know, I heard they turned down a huge deal because they didn’t want a major recording company dictating what kind of music they made.”

“Doesn’t surprise me, but that’s pretty sweet.”

She glanced over at me with a smile and my gaze lingered on her lips. “You should do that more often,” I said.

“What?” She reached up and smoothed a hand over the back of her hair, seemingly self-conscious as if she already sensed the compliment coming and didn’t know what to do with it.

“Smile.”

I watched with satisfaction as her cheeks turned pink. It was cute when she blushed.

I took the first ramp off the highway and passed a grocery store and gas station before I had to ask for directions the rest of the way to her house.

She guided me through the town of Hillbrook, one of the communities south of Lakeview. It was older and more run-down, mostly full of blue-collar workers, trailers—some of it, Section 8 housing.

I turned onto Walnut Drive, and she pointed to a small ranch. “This is mine,” she said.

“Right here?” I slowed when she nodded, so I could pull in her driveway, and I realized I didn’t know anything about her home life. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?” I asked.

She took a moment to answer, like it might be some kind of trick, but eventually, she said. “One sister. It’s just my dad, Sara, and me.”

I nodded, drumming my fingers over the steering wheel. Not yet wanting to let her go, for reasons I couldn’t explain. “And your mom?” I asked, even though it was none of my business.

“She’s dead.”

Shit. Now I felt like a jerk. “Crap, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. You’re actually the second girl I’ve talked to this week that lost her mom,” I said, thinking of Julie.

At that, she shrugged and fiddled with the straps of her bookbag. “It’s okay. My dad’s pretty great.”

“He works for—”

“Your dad,” she finished for me. “Yeah.” Then she bit her lip and her gaze hardened, and I knew that look. I didn’t need to ask to know what they probably thought of him. And one glance at her house told me he wasn’t exactly compensated well. The house was beyond modest. The dull vinyl siding screamed to be replaced, and the paint on the doors needed a fresh coat. The walkway leading up to the front of the house was cracked and crumbling in spots. The whole exterior could use an overhaul. Everything except the lush green lawn, which was out of place beside its drab surroundings, and I wondered what she’d think of my house—how it would color her perception of me—and decided it would probably solidify her belief that I was a privileged brat.

When my gaze returned to her, Penelope pushed her shoulders back and raised her chin, and it was a moment before I realized she was waiting for some sign of disapproval. That she had taken my silent assessment as judgement, which made me feel like a piece of crap even though I did nothing wrong.

I swallowed, looking her straight in the eye. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

She blinked, and the challenge in her eyes faded. “Yeah, sure.”

When she swung open the door, I leaned in and placed my hand over hers on the handle. “Truce?” I asked.

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