Hate Notes: A Sweet Enemies to Lovers Young Adult Romance (Lakeview Prep Book 1)

by Gracie Graham

  Gabby. She wanted to talk, which was code for she wanted to get back together and hook up. But I wasn’t in the mood. I was tired of the same relationship. Tired of my role as King, and so I clicked off her text, set my phone down, and laid back in my bed, hands clasped behind my head.

  I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing.

  In. Out.

  The tension in my muscles eased, and I allowed my thoughts to drift . . .

  . . . to Bucknell and water polo. School and my friends. A cascade of chestnut locks. An uneasy smile and eyes dark enough and deep enough to sink deep into your soul.

  Oddly enough, I thought of Penelope Ewe.

  Chapter 6

  PENELOPE

  Instead of riding into school with Scarlett the next morning, I had my dad drop me off since I needed to be there at the butt crack of dawn to talk to Principal Bell and get my tutoring schedule prior to the start of classes.

  After an inordinate amount of time spent on my makeup and hair for a boost of confidence, I entered the office armed in my vintage Alanis Morrissett t-shirt, a pair of cut-off shorts, and the black converse I bought over the summer with some of the money I made slinging cones at the local Dairy Whip, only to be informed Principal Bell had gone to the pool to talk to Coach Paul, the water polo coach. When I suggested I stop back later, she insisted I find him, that he was expecting me and had my schedule in hand.

  So it was with a sinking in my stomach that I made my way to the indoor swimming pool. If Bell was talking to Coach Paul, that meant one thing. The water polo team was practicing and seeing as how they were ninety percent Royal, I wasn’t particularly ecstatic at the notion of having to see Topher’s smug face first thing.

  Wasn’t it bad enough that I’d have to see them in econ and spend my free time tutoring one of them?

  I yanked open the door and a blast of humid air hit me in the face. My shirt stuck to my skin almost instantly, and the scent of chlorine surrounded me as I stepped inside.

  My shoes squeaked on the tile floor as the pool came into view. Across from them stood Coach Paul and Bell, engrossed in conversation, so I gingerly made my way toward them, careful not to slip and fall on the wet floor.

  I’d never been to one of the school’s water polo matches before. In fact, I’d never really gone to any of our sporting events, for that matter. You tended to avoid social functions with your classmates when you were a social pariah, which is why as I drew closer, I watched them with rapt interest.

  More than a dozen boys thrashed in the water in front of a large net. They wore a simple head covering, sort of like a swim cap but thicker and tied underneath their chin, with padding over the ears.

  One of the players grabbed another one from behind while his teammate flung him the ball, and if I didn’t know any better by the violent bear hug going on, I’d think he was trying to drown him.

  Wide-eyed, I continued to watch as I stopped behind Bell, waiting for him to finish his conversation. From where I stood, it was hard to make out their faces. Half of their backs were to me and they were moving too quickly to get a good look, but one boy in particular drew my eye and I prayed it wasn’t Topher, because man-oh-man, he made my palms sweat.

  Water beaded down the hard plains of his chest, tanned a golden brown from what I imagined were hours spent in the pool all summer. He had muscles I didn’t even know existed, and they moved in a graceful dance as he slung the ball, blocked goals, and maneuvered through the silky blue.

  He effortlessly caught the ball, then lifted his arm, his chest rising above him. The muscles in his shoulders flexed as he pulled his arm back. Just below the surface of the water, I caught a glimpse of something tiny and green. Is that . . .? Were they wearing Speedos?

  Beside me, Coach Paul blew his whistle and asked them to line up, which I assumed meant practice was over.

  One by one, they spilled out of the pool to the sound of him barking orders, and sure enough, each of them wore little green Speedo briefs.

  My eyes instantly found Mr. Perfect Chest, and it was just as impressive out of the water as it was in. A fireball ignited in my chest and my cheeks flamed at the sight of him.

  A snort of laughter came from somewhere down the line, followed by snickering. It was about that time I realized I had been ogling Mr. Perfect Chest pretty hard, jaw halfway to the floor.

  I jerked my gaze from his pecs to the twisted grin on his face and my stomach plummeted to somewhere a gazillion meters below Earth’s atmosphere when I realized who all those muscles belonged to.

  Topher.

  How mortifying. If I had a dull blade, I’d probably pluck my eyes out.

  I swallowed as Topher’s smirk turned into a megawatt smile and all the guys around him burst into laughter. Several reached over and jabbed him in the ribs in jest. Someone, I don’t know who, maybe Mikey, asked, “You never see a dude without his shirt, Ewe?” Then someone followed it with the classic, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” and I wanted to melt right there on the tile floor, which was saying something, considering I’d probably contract athlete’s foot or some unknown disease.

  I turned away from the boy toward Bell and Coach Paul, and by this time, even they were chuckling under their breath.

  Fantastic.

  When Bell reached out and handed me a sheet of paper I assumed was my tutoring schedule, I took it with as much grace and dignity as I could manage, then turned on my heel and proceeded to speed walk out of there. It was all I could do not to snatch and run.

  I muttered the whole way to the girls’ locker room, where I found an empty stall and bolted myself inside. Tears stung the back of my eyes as I leaned my head against the cool metal of the door.

  Was there ever any end to my humiliation?

  I pounded the wall beside me. A quick one-two with my fists.

  “Ow-ow.” I bounced on my toes, clutching my hand in pain, and as if the hand of God himself came down upon me and turned my head, out of all the graffiti scribbled on the back of the door, my gaze homed in on one in particular.

  Topher Elliot, 804-786-5555.

  I narrowed my eyes on the phone number, and pure unadulterated rage like I’d never felt before surged in my veins.

  For four years, I watched him strut around like he was King. Well, no more. It was time I stood my ground. It was time I told him exactly what I thought of him and put him in his place.

  And since I knew I’d never have the guts to do it to his face, his phone number was a gift.

  My hands shook as I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened a new text. With great care, I typed in his number, triple checking to ensure I got it right, then began to type my message.

  To the King of Lakeview . . . You think you’re SO special, but you’re nothing more than a washed-up pretty boy driving your daddy’s car. And actually, I feel sorry for you. You're like “The Picture of Dorian Gray.” Beauty and youth might reign in the halls of Lakeview, but what will you do once you graduate and all of that is gone? You’ll be just another face in the crowd. Another pretty boy in the world. A zero. And even though right now everyone might see your beauty, I see the cruel boy inside. What will happen when you realize the price you paid to be King wasn’t worth the price of your soul?

  Okay, maybe a little dramatic, but it suits my love of literature and will probably send him into a tizzy, researching the classic novel, which gives me chills just thinking about it—Topher, reading in his free time. Ha!

  I double check for spelling errors because there’s no way I’m risking the beauty of my heartfelt message on autocorrect, then hit send.

  I gasp in relief. Or shock, I wasn’t sure, because I actually did it. I said all the things I’ve been dying to say to him for the last four years. And it felt good.

  Slipping my phone back into my pocket, for the first time in a long time, I felt in control, powerful, like I dictated my worth, not them.

  Chapter 7

  PENELOPE

  I sat in
one of the private study rooms in the library, waiting for my first tutor session with a freshman named Jen. I stared out of the large glass window panes into the confines of the library, to the hundreds of books with their brightly colored spines.

  My phone vibrated on the desk in front of me, and I quickly snatched it up, wondering if it would be a retaliation from Topher. But instead, I found a message from Scarlett, asking if I’d heard back from him yet.

  Me: Nope, not yet. I’ll let you know . . .

  With a sigh, I clicked off my phone, then slipped it into the front pouch of my bookbag because I didn’t want any distractions. That, and if I was being honest, a part of me was a little nervous at what his reaction might be. I mean, it wasn’t like he knew it was me. But still. In one more hour, I’d sit face-to-face with him. It didn’t matter that all the things I said were true or the text was anonymous. I knew I said those things.

  Despite my mounting anxiety, my tutor session with Jen actually went rather well. She reminded me a little of myself—quiet and soft spoken, maybe even a little bit of a nerd who just so happened to have a distaste for literature.

  If all my sessions went as smoothly, this whole tutoring thing would be a piece of cake.

  After helping Jen with her literature assignment, I said, “So I know your paper isn’t due for a few weeks, but I think that you should definitely start considering what angle you’re going to use. It will help to know as you read. Kind of get the juices flowing.”

  Jen placed her head in her hands. “Ugh. I don’t know,” she moaned.

  “Well, think about it. It’ll help when you’re reading. Everybody knows the basic story of Romeo and Juliet, right? So what theme do you think you’d like to explore? It’ll be a whole lot easier if you decide now because then you can take notes and pull excerpts to develop your paper as you go.”

  “Um . . .” Jen bit her lip. “I suck at this.”

  “You do not,” I said firmly. “What do you know thus far about their story?”

  “The basics. They came from two different backgrounds. Their families were sorta enemies, but they fell in love anyway and ended up tragically killing themselves, all in the name of love. So maybe I could write about how love makes you do desperate things?”

  “You could,” I said, though I hated the idea, “but how about something slightly different?”

  “Like . . .?”

  “You could write about how people always want what they can’t have,” a deep voice interrupted.

  My head jerked up at the sound. Topher Elliot hovered in the open doorway, eyes bright, the curve of a grin touching the corners of his shapely mouth, and I hated the blush that rose to my cheeks as I looked at him.

  “Interesting, coming from the boy who has everything.”

  He arched a brow. “You’d be surprised.” His eyes held mine as he continued, “Remember, they were teenagers. It’s not uncommon for kids our age to be rebellious. Maybe the appeal was centered solely around the fact they were prohibited from being together? Maybe it’s a show in how love has no boundaries.”

  I shook my head. “Unlikely, considering the time frame and the hostility between the Montagues and the Capulets. They were sworn enemies, and in the fourteenth century, you didn’t so easily cross your parents. Women were subservient, considered property half of the time with the sole purpose of marrying.”

  Topher shrugged and further entered the room, his stride easy as he pulled a chair out and settled into a seat across from me. Jen, for all intents and purposes, stared at him with fangirl eyes, and I couldn’t blame her. He looked particularly good in a cerulean blue polo and shorts, both of which I could tell without looking at the labels, were high-end designer brands.

  And the fact I even noticed how he looked irritated me.

  “Or, you could write about how Romeo and Juliet wasn’t even a love story at all,” I said, holding his gaze in challenge.

  It took every ounce of my energy not to let the shy girl inside of me glance away.

  Topher snorted like the mere suggestion was ridiculous. “Everyone knows Romeo and Juliet is a romance.”

  I arched a brow. “Do they? Because the way I see it, it’s not a romance at all. A trademark of the romance genre is to have a happily ever after where the couple ends up together and rides off into the proverbial sunset. But in R & J, they freaking die at the end, and it’s not some noble death either, but rather a show of selfishness and foolishness. At the mere sight of the other one being dead, they each kill themselves.”

  “That proves nothing,” Topher argues. “They killed themselves because the thought of living without the other was too much to bear. That’s romance.”

  “Oh, please. We’re talking about two horny teenagers that have the hots for each other at a party. I’d hardly call that love.”

  Topher’s brows rose to his hairline. “Horny, huh? And how exactly do you know so much about horny teenagers, hmm?” He mock-rubbed his jaw over a shadow of golden stubble.

  My hand twitched to touch it.

  But I knew what he was doing, trying to embarrass me and distract me from my point. Well, I refused to be cowed. This was literature we were talking about. This was my expertise.

  From the corner of my eye, I noted the way Jen glanced back and forth between us.

  “Romeo was still getting over another girl that he had just left when he saw Juliet at the ball. My observations as a reader are that he falls for girls hard. And Juliet isn’t much better.”

  “I take it you don’t believe in love at first sight?”

  “And you do?”

  He shrugged, all casual-like, which further spiked my irritation. “I think it has credence.”

  Credence? I blinked like I had no idea who I was talking to.

  “They’re together for an inordinately short amount of time when they decided to die for each other,” I said, ignoring him. “It was maybe the span of a week. This wasn’t some relationship that developed over time where you felt for the characters and watched their relationship flourish. It was two silly teens who allowed their emotions and hormones to rule. Sure, as a reader, I pitied and even sympathized with them, but they didn’t exactly make wise choices.”

  I arched a brow, waving my hands as I spoke, really getting into it. “Heck, another moral we could pull from the story is that maybe kids should listen to their parents. After all, it was their defiance that ultimately resulted in their deaths. Maybe it’s a show in how infatuation is never a good thing. But even if R & J truly were a romance, the ending of the story is the most indicative of theme, and the end of the play certainly does not point toward love. Instead, after their deaths, the prince basically points out to the families how their feuding resulted in tragedy. The senselessness of their deaths exacerbates this. Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy, sure, but I think it’s more a family drama and an exercise in what happens when we allow the pettiness of grudges and feuds to fuel our actions and emotions. It shows the destructiveness of allowing hate to live in our hearts.”

  I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. My chest heaved with emotion as my mind flashed back to the text I’d sent him earlier that day and guilt tiptoed up my spine.

  It shows the destructiveness of allowing hate to live in our hearts. Isn’t that exactly what I’d done? I allowed my anger, my hate for Topher and his friends, and all they’d done to me over the years to fuel the ugly text I sent. What would happen if it consumed me? Would I self-destruct?

  I suppressed a twinge of shame, if only for the sake of proving him wrong. Because in this instance, in regard to literature, I was right.

  Topher simply stared at me, one corner of his mouth turned up in a smile, his eyes slightly wide with surprise. By my literary analysis or my ability to argue, I wasn’t sure, which only increased my annoyance.

  Did he think I was dumb? Had no spine? Was there no end to his arrogance?

  “Okay, then,” Topher said in a voice so smug I wanted to punch him. “How
about we get—” he turned to my tutee “—I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Um, Jen,” she said, nervously licking her lips.

  “How about we get Jen’s opinion,” he said, meeting my gaze once more. “So, which is it? A romance or a ‘family drama,’” he said, making air quotes with his fingers like it was ridiculous.

  Jen picked at the corner of her notebook, her forehead creased, looking slightly uncomfortable until Topher turned his gaze to hers and smiled.

  And just like that, I lost the battle. I saw the moment it happened, like a key releasing a lock, and it started with his Crest-white smile.

  I scowled as I watched Jen’s expression transform like putty. She practically had stars in her eyes.

  Talk about infatuation.

  “Romance. Definitely.” She nodded in affirmation while Topher let out a whoop of victory, and I fought the urge to gag.

  Five minutes later, Jen was on her way out the door as I scowled at her back.

  Turning, I glanced at him. Now that we were alone, I couldn’t help but wonder if he got my text and what he thought about it.

  Did it bother him? Did it affect him at all? Or did it bounce right off his bulletproof ego? Because he sure seemed unaffected.

  Since I was tutoring him in math, I pulled out my math book and he followed suit while I shook my leg underneath the table. Apparently, my conscience and I were not friends because I could feel his eyes on me, and I was sure he knew what I’d done.

  I glanced up at him, confirming his gaze, and I almost opened my mouth and confessed with an apology when he said, “Hey, I uh, wanted to say sorry for this morning. Mikey and the guys can be jerks sometimes.”

  I raised a brow, surprised at the admission. I hadn’t expected that.

  “Sometimes?” I asked, and when he laughed, I flinched at the sound.