The Shortest Distance Between Love & Hate

by Sandy Hall

  As we take seats in her teeny, tiny office, I realize I hope this meeting takes a long time. Because when it’s over, I need to go home and face the music of my overwhelming T-shirt orders. The other day, one of the girls on my floor showed up in my room begging for the T-shirt she ordered. It’s getting to be way too much.

  “So what’s up?” Becca asks.

  I explain the best I can what happened with Carter. How I told him class was canceled. How I have this silly vendetta against him. That I didn’t think he would believe me. Even as the words come out of my mouth, I can’t believe that I did this. I can’t believe that I’m here admitting it.

  “You guys are first years, right?” Becca asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “You have some growing up to do.”

  “I know. I was wrong. It’s such a long story and it goes back such a long time. I really didn’t think he’d trust me to give him that message. I figured he’d at least check with someone else or realize that if class was canceled there’d be an email about it, not just an announcement.”

  She shakes her head, and I can feel the disappointment rolling off her.

  “I’m not here to babysit. I have zero interest in your shenanigans. But if you really did this to him, and you want to take responsibility, then my offer is give him your grade on the pop quiz and you get a zero.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “But, Paisley, he missed class twice this week. You can’t take responsibility for both classes. He hasn’t turned in homework in a week. He hasn’t been participating. I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this.”

  “Then why are you?”

  “Because my point is, he’s not doing well on his own. I’d hate for you to ruin your grade for his.”

  “Nope. It’s my fault.”

  “Him missing two classes isn’t your fault. He still missed Tuesday.”

  “He had a family emergency,” I say.

  “Well then, he should have come in to see me. Or emailed. Or done something for himself. Why isn’t he here?”

  “Because he hates excuses.”

  “Well, they’re the only way to get excused,” she says.

  I nod.

  “I should report you to the dean’s office, but I’m going to let you off this time. Don’t make me regret it.”

  “I won’t,” I promise.

  I don’t leave feeling much better than I did when I got there, but I did what I could.

  Now to tell Carter that he got a ninety-eight on the pop quiz. At least I have some good news for him. For once.

  That is, if he’s even willing to see me.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  -CARTER-

  At work on Saturday morning, Paisley is waiting with two big cups of Starbucks. She sprang for the good stuff.

  “I don’t want to be friends and I don’t accept the coffee,” I say pushing past her and into the building.

  “I’m not going to beg. But I’m also going to make you drink this coffee because I got your favorite and I don’t like it.”

  “How do you know what my favorite is?”

  “I heard what you ordered on Employee Appreciation Day,” I say, feeling more than a little sheepish. I was mostly listening because I had considered putting something in his drink. Like a laxative. Or a bug.

  “It’s a four-pump mocha with an extra shot?”

  “It is. Even though I think it both smells and tastes like burnt rubber.”

  I take the cup from her. I can’t help it. I am weak for that burnt rubber flavor.

  We settle in, and it’s a quiet Saturday morning. It’s gorgeous outside. The leaves are changing color at an alarming rate all of a sudden. One day they were all dull green and the next they were a cacophony of red and yellow and orange.

  I take a sip of my mocha and get started on my homework.

  “Please let me help you with calc,” Paisley says about halfway through our shift. She’s peering over my shoulder, watching me work.

  I stare down at the page. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Carter, this whole page is a mess,” she says, gesturing at one of the problems I was working on.

  “You only feel bad for me because of my mom. You pity me.”

  “If it was pity because of your mom, I wouldn’t have told you calc was canceled. You can trust me because I was a bitch to you even after I found out there was a reason to pity you.”

  “Your logic is super flawed.” But there’s a change in the air today, and I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the catharsis of ratting her out to student housing, which she doesn’t seem to know about yet. Or maybe it’s something she put in my mocha, but I feel a little more … warmly toward her than I have recently.

  “Listen, I don’t feel bad for you. I feel guilty because I was a total bitch and I need to make up some karma points. And clear up my skin.” She lifts her bangs and shows me the largest, reddest, angriest zit I’ve ever seen.

  “I’m pretty sure that zit is karma at work,” I say, staring at it. I swear it’s pulsing.

  “So I went to our calc TA,” she says. “And she said she’d give you my grade on the pop quiz. Congrats on your ninety-eight.”

  “Best damn grade I’ve gotten this semester,” I mutter.

  “See? You’re not doing well. Just let me help you.”

  “I’m doing fine,” I say. I feel defensive. I don’t need her knowing about my weaknesses.

  “But are you?”

  “I’m managing.”

  “But just maybe you could use some help.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Maybe I’m doing really, really well in calculus. Maybe I’m like a bit of a calc genius and could help you out before the exam next week. Give you tips. Show you the error of your ways.”

  Does she already know about the complaint and she’s trying to lure me into getting tutored so she can screw with my grade that way?

  But then why go to the trouble of talking to our TA?

  “I like everything but the last thing you said. I don’t need you to make me feel bad about not being good at math on top of everything else you’ve done.”

  I don’t love the direction this conversation is going but I also really do need help. And whether I like it or not, Paisley owes me. Which reminds me.

  “What do you get out of this?” I ask. Because whether she owes me or not, I’m having a hard time believing that she’s doing this out of the goodness of her heart.

  -PAISLEY-

  “Well, quite frankly, I found out that Brightly tests almost exclusively off class notes and I’ve noticed you taking copious notes. Maybe you could share those with me?” It only just occurred to me in this moment. I never got around to making a friend in U.S. history and I’m really not the expert I thought I was.

  “Maybe,” he says, but I can tell he’s thinking about this too hard.

  “I promise I’m not trying to make you feel bad about not being good at math,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But I know I can help you, and it seems like you can help me with Brightly’s class.”

  He rubs his temples. “Yeah, sure. I could use all the help I can get.”

  We make a plan to meet up at the library on Monday night. At least we don’t have any work or classes together between now and then so it’s not like I have to see him over and over.

  On Monday afternoon, I’m wasting time in my room when I notice I have an email from my resident advisor, Kenny. He says he needs to meet up with me at my earliest convenience. I respond that we can talk now.

  When I open the door, Kenny is already standing there, looking stressed out.

  “Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, yeah, Paisley. Hi.” He looks up at me and then back down on the paper in his hands. “So you’ve had a complaint made against you?”

  “I have?” He sounds so confused.

  “Yeah, apparently you’ve been running a business out of your dorm room? That’s not allowed.”


  “Oh,” I say, a little surprised. “I’ve been making T-shirts for other students but I didn’t realize that’s considered a business.”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “Am I getting fined or something?”

  “Not unless you continue to work out of your dorm room after this warning.”

  “Okay,” I say. I want to ask questions, but I don’t want to get myself in more trouble later. Like, I’m sure I can sell off my inventory pretty quick, making sure I fulfill all the orders, but that doesn’t seem like something I need to mention to Kenny.

  “So, yeah, okay,” Kenny says, running a hand through his hair and making it stand on end.

  “Can you tell me who made the complaint?”

  He shakes his head. “I couldn’t tell you even if I was allowed. It was made anonymously.”

  I nod. I have a feeling I know who would make an anonymous complaint. And it’s certainly none of the people who bought my T-shirts. I suppose it could be Stef, but she was so supportive.

  I head over to the student center to work on homework for a while, and on my way to meet Carter, I pick up some food for us. I just need to make things right. I need to make things better.

  I text Stef.

  Paisley: Kenny told me I can’t sell T-shirts from the room anymore.

  Stef: What?!? Why??

  Paisley: Someone complained about it.

  Stef: WHO?!?!?! Everyone loves your T-shirts.

  Paisley: My money is on Carter.

  Stef: OMG. I will beat him up for you. What are you going to do?

  Paisley: Nothing. This is it. I’ll allow this last act of revenge and the war can be over.

  Stef: Wow. End of an era. We’ll have to discuss this further in person. When are you coming home? Want to get dinner with me?

  Paisley: Well, um. I’m actually meeting up with (gulp) Carter.

  Stef: I’m sorry. BUT WTF???

  Paisley: It’s all part of my “getting over” the prank war.

  Stef: Are you being held hostage? Is he blackmailing you?

  Paisley: It’s a long story. But I kind of set him up to fail a calc quiz so now I’m helping him. It’s about karma.

  Stef: It’s about guilt.

  Paisley: That too.

  Stef: Well. Have fun. I guess. Are you going to be able to get through this?

  Paisley: I should be okay. Thank you for your concern.

  -CARTER-

  I know that the only reason Paisley offered to help me is because she feels bad about my mom. And also because of the other multitude of sins she’s committed this semester. But who’s counting.

  I’m not sure I can tell the difference between sympathy and pity though, and in this case, I don’t want to. I don’t care if she’s only helping me because she pities me because quite frankly, I really need the help.

  I could have gone to the tutoring center, but that felt an awful lot like admitting defeat. The longer I didn’t go, the harder it was to convince myself to get help. There’s a pretty solid chance that I would have failed the exam next week if Paisley hadn’t offered to tutor me.

  Also, the idea of transferring or even dropping out altogether was starting to sound better and better.

  So really, she’s saving me a lot of trouble.

  Or hopefully she is. There’s still the chance that she’s not as good at calculus as she claims to be and I’ll fail no matter what. On the other hand, maybe she’s trying to further sabotage my grades. Anything is possible.

  But I also kind of like to imagine that maybe she’s feeling just a little bit of remorse about everything. That would be great. It’d be nice to know that she’s not a sociopath and that she can actually feel emotions for other people. But I’m trying not to get my hopes too high.

  The plan is to meet at the library. I wait out front for her on one of the stone benches. The seat is cold under me, but it feels like it’s the only thing keeping me awake. All these five-thirty wake-up calls are catching up with me.

  When she walks up, she has takeout containers with her.

  “I know you like the fries from the student center so I brought you some. There’s also a grilled cheese or a chicken sandwich. Your choice. I’ll take whatever you don’t want.”

  I grab the grilled cheese. This is quite the unexpected turn of events. I don’t even really know what to say to her.

  “Thanks for the food,” I say, finally deciding to keep it simple. “And the help. Though I’m not sure how much you’re really going to be able to help. Math isn’t exactly my strong suit.” I shove a bunch of fries in my mouth to keep from saying anything else. I need to stop making myself so vulnerable around Paisley; she’ll just use it against me.

  “Math wasn’t my strong suit until Henry started helping me,” she says, staring me right in the eye.

  I blink first.

  “Did you bring any ketchup?” I ask.

  She pulls some packets out of the bag.

  “I’m going to help you ketchup with math,” she says as she sprinkles the packets on the bench between us.

  I look over at her and she has this huge grin on her face, like I could probably count all her teeth.

  “Oh my god,” I say. “That’s a terrible pun.”

  She snorts a laugh.

  And then I snort a laugh.

  And then we’re both laughing so hard we can’t even eat.

  “Why are we laughing?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It was something about your face. The face you made.”

  “But it was your face!” I say.

  We finish eating, but it takes a while because we keep bursting out into laughter every minute or two.

  “How will I ever ketchup with you?” I ask as we put our garbage in the trash can.

  “You mustard hard?” she says.

  “Are you having a stroke?”

  “No, that sentence didn’t work out the way I wanted it to. You must work hard.”

  “Yeah, it obviously got away from you because that was nonsense word salad.”

  “Mayonnaise? Something about mayonnaise?”

  “I think you’re addicted to condiment puns,” I say, pulling the door open and holding it for her to step through.

  We find a quiet spot up in the stacks. There aren’t too many people around, probably because it’s still basically dinnertime. The dining hall is likely packed right now.

  We set up the work we need to do, but every few minutes one of us will mention a condiment and the other will start laughing.

  “Horseradish?” I ask. “Is there something there?”

  “Now you’re flat-out mocking me.”

  We do get some actual work done. I might even not fail the test next week.

  We work for hours actually, and I’m surprised when I look up and the clock says it’s after ten.

  “Time flies when you’re making puns,” Paisley says when she sees me glancing at the clock.

  I shake my head. “You’re the worst.”

  “Bad puns make me happy. I’m going to start screen-printing puns on T-shirts. I’m definitely going to have to make one that says ‘time flies when you’re making puns.’ Heck I might have to even rename my Etsy shop.”

  “You still have one of those?” I ask. “I thought—” But I don’t let myself finish that sentence.

  “Well, actually. I got in trouble with my RA about selling stuff out of my dorm room. I’m not allowed to actually make any more T-shirts to sell while I live on campus, and I’m not technically supposed to take any money from people. But there’s no reason I can’t do it online. I’ll just do it from home. Over breaks and stuff.”

  I hum a response and hope for the subject to drop.

  She narrows her eyes at me. She must realize how uncomfortable I am.

  “I know you know, Carter,” she says simply.

  “I may have been the one to report you,” I say, not looking at her.

  “Thanks for confessing.”
r />   I glance over at her, and she’s playing with the string on her hoodie.

  She clears her throat. “Maybe that makes us even.”

  -PAISLEY-

  It’s weird that I’m not even all that pissed off at Carter for telling on me. The whole T-shirt operation was getting sort of overwhelming. People were coming up to me all over campus, asking me when they would get their orders. I don’t even know how they knew I was the one making them.

  Anyway, karma’s a bitch and I have to accept it.

  And really, it does feel like Carter and I are even now. That’s something.

  We work hard for another few minutes, and then Carter leans back in his chair and throws his pencil down.

  “I need caffeine or sugar or something,” he says.

  “There’s a little room with a vending machine downstairs. I feel like I’ve gotten obsessed with vending machines in college. I don’t think I ever thought much about them before. But they’re everywhere here. And provide me with most of my sustenance.”

  “I know. And so convenient.”

  “Too convenient.”

  We clean up our stuff and wander downstairs, making our way through the main study area. But before we make it to the vending machine, an announcement is made that the library is closing.

  -CARTER-

  “I guess we should head back to the dorm,” I say.

  “We could work more when we get back there,” she offers. “If you have any more questions.”

  “Maybe.”

  I suck in a deep breath.

  “Are you only doing this because you feel bad for me?” I ask.

  She shrugs, her little half shrug that I used to find so endearing.

  “No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know?”

  “Will I ever be able to get on your good side? Or even your neutral side?” I ask. We’re walking slowly back to the dorm even though it’s pretty cold out and she doesn’t have a jacket. “Especially now that you know I foiled your T-shirt business?”

  She pulls her hoodie tighter around her as the wind gusts through the trees. “Yeah, I think so.”