HATE CRUSH

  HATE CRUSH

  A. ZAVARELLI

  CONTENTS

  Disclaimer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by A. Zavarelli

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  DISCLAIMER

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  STELLA

  “SORRY I’M LATE.” My father flops on to the back seat of our Town Car with his briefcase in tow. He’s still dressed in his office garb, but the wrinkles in his shirt make it look like he just woke from a nap. The shadows beneath his eyes are more prominent than the last time I saw him, and I can’t even recall how long ago that was. He’s been holed up in his apartment in the city while my mother reigns supreme over the manor house in Greenwich. I’ve barely seen either of them over the summer, and it feels like it’s taken a small miracle just to bring the three of us together now.

  “Really, Brady?” My mother huffs from the front passenger seat. “Would it kill you to be on time for once in your life?”

  “Would it kill you to wait until noon for a drink?” he fires back.

  Ignoring the hubbub, our driver, Luis, merges into traffic as my parents continue to bicker all the way up the I-95. I pop my headphones in and thumb through the latest tracks on my Spotify playlist to drown them out. Once I’ve settled into a good vibe, I reach for the camera hanging around my neck and sort through the photos I took over the summer. Lucky for me, the drive to New Canaan is short, and we seem to survive without any major bloodshed.

  By the time we pull up to Loyola Academy, a wall of silence has been erected between my parents, which is preferable to the constant bickering. They tactfully go about the business of ignoring each other while Luis retrieves my suitcases from the car. My mother stands on the curb, twisting the gold bracelet draped over her delicate wrist as she studies the crowd that has gathered just inside the gates of my new home. Or prison, depending on how I choose to look at it.

  “I should go speak with some of the other parents,” Mom says.

  “Of course.” My father shoos her away. “Wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to let the world know Lila has arrived.”

  She ignores his parting jab, and my father helps me roll my suitcases over the cobbled entrance to the campus of one of the nation’s finest boarding schools. At least that’s what the brochure said. In this case, I’m convinced finest is interchangeable with expensive. At first glance, it looks more like a university than a boarding school. The campus is massive, and while they boast about having one of the largest libraries in the nation, it looks like the acreage itself is more impressive. I could easily get lost here, and I don’t doubt that I will. From my research, I know that many of the brick buildings that dot the plush green landscape are historical. And beyond all that well-manicured grass lies the best preparatory education money can buy.

  As we venture onto the grounds, a knot forms in my throat as multiple pairs of eyes roam my direction. Amongst the scattered parents and faculty are the modern-day Jackie Os and John Kennedys of the world. And then there’s me, Stella LeClaire. Unlike my peers, I’m not American royalty. I’m not even American aristocracy. The best thing I have going for me is that I’m the daughter of Lila Monroe, the once sort-of famous jet-setting model who refused to change her last name when she married my father. She’s beautiful and elegant and spins a wonderful tale about my father being a Wall Street fat cat and her daughter’s aspirations to work in fashion public relations. That isn’t even slightly true on my part, but she read something about it in a magazine once and decided soon after that would be the path for me. The next thing I knew, she was plying the admissions committee with expensive gifts and calling in all sorts of favors to get that golden ticket and the bragging rights that come with it. Now here I am with said ticket, signed up to take courses she thinks will eventually get me in the door at Cornell.

  As I watch her make the rounds, I wonder if any of the other parents are falling for her respectable family act. Lila always wants to be the woman others look up to and not just because of her sky-high legs. In her mind, she’s the woman who gets invited to dinner and charity galas. The head of the table at the country club, and the fashionista who rules on and off the tennis court. What she fails to realize is that those same women who invite her into their circle are talking shit about her just as soon as she leaves.

  In my brief interactions with the upper crust, I’ve learned they can sniff out a fraud better than anyone else. I don’t doubt for a second these alums and their offspring haven’t figured out we aren’t from old money. The majority have probably already deemed me unworthy of walking this hallowed ground with their trust fund babies. Honestly, I can’t say that I disagree with them. Loyola was never my dream. But with the current climate at home, and my parents' eagerness for their own freedom, I’m forced to make the best of the situation.

  “You’re in Lawrence Hall.” My father squints at his iPhone, scrolling through the information the school sent him. “Looks like we can check in at the student center.”

  I traipse after him as he marches across the quad in the direction of the central brick building. There’s already a flock of eager parents and students hovering around the check-in, and I’d rather be anywhere but here right now. My dad still hasn’t looked directly at me, and I catch myself staring at the side of his face, wishing he’d just acknowledge me. He used to be my rock. My stability. For so long, he was my sole caretaker while my mother remained a passive participant in family life. Everything has shifted, and I barely recognize him now. I don’t know when our relationship fell apart, but it did.

  Things haven’t been easy for any of us, but they especially haven’t been easy for him. Lately, it seems like all he does is work, and the long hours in the city have monopolized his time. Gone are the days of vacations and birthday dinners. I can’t even remember the last meal we had together. As my parents' marriage crumbles and their attention drifts in separate directions, we’ve all become our own islands. I haven’t made things any easier on them. Abandonment issues are a bitch, and the only way I manage to get their attention now is by getting into trouble, which I’ve been doing often lately. And this is how Loyola Academy came into the picture. As my fat
her says, this is my chance to turn over a new leaf. But to me, it just feels like he’s sending me away.

  “Welcome.” A bright-eyed faculty member greets us as we move forward in line. “Are we checking in?”

  “Yes,” my father answers. “Stella LeClaire.”

  “Ah, Stella.” She drags a manicured finger down the sheet of names in front of her. “There you are.” After checking me off like an item on her to-do list, she retrieves an envelope with my information printed across the front. “Here is your room number, map, class schedule, and orientation information. Welcome to Loyola Academy.”

  “Thanks.” I stuff the envelope beneath my arm, pinning it to my side. Dad doesn’t waste any time herding me toward my dorm. As it turns out, the map isn’t necessary because he already studied the materials they sent him, and he knows exactly where it’s at.

  The iconic brick building that once housed several now famous alums squats on top of the hill surrounded by trees and well-coifed shrubs. The main entrance is smack in the middle; a solid set of double doors flanked by white columns. Three rows of paned windows stack neatly along the length and depth of the building, indicating three separate floors. Or in the case of teenage girls, a whole lot of hormones. Dad blows through the entrance and past the flurry of activity in the common room, an enormous space filled with books, a central fireplace, and plenty of comfy sofas. He’s hell-bent on finding my dorm as soon as possible, and I’m certain he’s already counting down the seconds until he can get back to the city. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to catch my breath.

  Lawrence Hall is aged but well cared for. Solid oak floors squeak beneath my red Dr. Martens, and a pervasive scent of lemon cleaner lingers in the space. Along the corridor, I catch glimpses of mothers and daughters fussing over bed linens and furniture in the rooms. As usual, my mother is notably absent, and I can’t count on Dad to fuss over anything.

  “Here we are.” He opens the door numbered 203 and examines the space. The room is small and basic, with a twin-sized bed, a desk, a dresser, and a few shelves for my things. My mother arranged for a private room because she said roommates are for commoners, and in her eyes, everything comes down to appearances. As my dad sets my suitcases aside, I doubt he’d care one way or the other.

  “Well, what do you think?” I sit down on the bed and test out the mattress, which is surprisingly comfortable.

  “Stella—” My father’s eyebrows pinch together as a knock on the door interrupts whatever he was about to say. Another faculty member wearing a Loyola emblem on her blazer steps inside with a stiff smile.

  “Mr. LeClaire, I hope you don’t mind the interruption. I’m Marcy from the financial office. We spoke on the phone a few weeks back regarding the remainder of the tuition payments.”

  “Of course.” My father kneads the back of his neck with his fingers, undoubtedly trying to relieve some of the tension gathered there. “I thought we already cleared that up.”

  “You had a business meeting to get to, and unfortunately, our call was cut short.” Marcy’s eyes wander over me as she speaks, and she doesn’t attempt to hide her obvious disapproval of my tight red dress and black leather jacket. “We understand you’re a busy man, so we extended the deadline as a courtesy, but I just need your reassurance that you will have the remainder of the payment to us within two weeks.”

  “You will,” he assures her. “I’ll have it sent over before that.”

  He sounds confident, but she doesn’t look like she believes him, and I’m not sure I do either. Though he hasn’t made it overtly obvious, I’ve seen the worry in my father’s eyes over the past six months. Something has changed with our finances, and I don’t know exactly what it is, but I’ve noticed him in his study, poring over bills whenever he’s home. As always, my mother remains clueless, content to maintain the status quo with frequent shopping trips and designer luxuries.

  “All right then.” Marcy offers up a tight, disingenuous smile. “I’ll leave you to it. Welcome to Loyola, Stella.”

  As soon as she shuts the door behind her, my father turns back to me, and suddenly, he looks like he’s aged twenty years.

  “Is everything okay, Dad?” I fidget with the spinner ring on my finger as I wait for his assurances.

  “It’s fine.” He flippantly waves away any other possibility. “Just an accounting snafu. I’ll get it taken care of, Stella. You don’t need to worry about it. The only thing you need to worry about is your education.”

  “Okay.” I offer him a weak smile.

  He sits down on the bed beside me, and in a rare moment of vulnerability, I recognize the concern on his face. He seems nervous, but I don’t know why. “I need you to make the most of this opportunity, honey. This is important. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that Loyola is going to be a challenge. I should have sent you to better schools from the beginning.”

  “My school was great.” I shrug. “They offered advanced classes too. You know I never cared about the money, Dad. I was happy even when you were a photographer.”

  He cringes at the reminder of his past, but those are the years I like to remember most. At least then, we weren’t just three strangers living together in a house. My mother wasn’t completely consumed by her social status, and their love hadn’t yet turned to hate. We didn’t have a house in the suburbs or the best of everything money could buy, but I still had a father.

  “I need you to do well here,” Dad reiterates. “This is your last year of high school. From here, you can go straight to college. I think the plan your mother has laid out for you is a solid one. It’s important you follow it and don’t get into any trouble.” Disappointment lingers in his eyes, but I don’t know if it’s for me or himself. “I’m putting everything on the line to send you here, Stella. This is all I can do for you now.”

  My breath catches as his eyes become glassy, and he turns away from me. My father isn’t an emotional man. At least, he hasn’t been since he became a corporate robot five years ago. If he’s admitting that things aren’t as good as they seem, then I know they must be pretty bad.

  “You don’t have to send me here,” I tell him. “It’s so expensive, and if we can’t afford it—”

  “No.” He shakes his head, adamant. “This is the last good thing I can do for you before you’re out on your own. I want you to go to Cornell. That degree means something in this world we live in. It will open doors for you that our name won’t. But they aren’t going to give it away. You have to put your head in the books and work hard. Can you do that for me?”

  The knot in my throat makes it too difficult to speak, so I nod instead. And I really do mean it. I know I’ve disappointed my father lately with my stupid antics, and I want him to be proud of me. I want to be one less thing for him to worry about. If that means getting a degree in communications, then so be it. Even if it feels like a prison sentence, I make myself promise what he needs to hear.

  “I’ll do it.” I offer him a watery smile. “I’ll make you proud, Dad.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  SEBASTIAN

  ENTERING the grounds of Loyola Academy, freshly sharpened pencils aren’t the only scent lingering in the air. The stench of wealth and pretension invades every porous surface around me. A new wave of faces blurs together among the old familiar. Trust fund brats and their parents eye the competition in the courtyard while I narrowly avoid them all. The ever-present noose around my neck strangles the air from my lungs as I walk the sacred grounds of the asylum doubling as an educational institution. I hate this place. And yet, I find myself coming back here for the fourth year in a row.

  I did not choose to be a teacher because I love the job. Prior to taking the position here, I’d spent the entirety of my life being groomed to work in a corporate skyscraper. The title and matching desk plate were mere formalities at the end of my tunnel to success. But when the time came for me to take the rightful place I’d earned through literal blood, sweat, and tears, I turned my back on all of it and c
ame back to the establishment that represents everything I despise.

  The New England boarding school tucked away just a short distance from Yale has a campus that rivals its Ivy League neighbor in size and prestige. And why shouldn’t it? With tuition fees totaling over sixty thousand a year, this isn’t a boarding school at all. It’s a machine designed to churn out America’s best and brightest. The future one percent. I know because, once upon a time, I was one of them.

  Ten years ago, I walked these hallowed halls as a seventeen-year-old with his entire future laid out before him. My goals were lined up in militant fashion with little chance of deviation. AP classes, respectable extracurriculars, advanced standing at Harvard. I was on the fast track and set to graduate with a master’s in four years. Like a puppet, I soldiered on through the plan. I did and accomplished everything I’d been told to. But I’d learned the hard way that life was a fickle bitch, and the end goal crashed and burned the night I graduated. I traded a corporate office on the sixtieth floor for a teacher’s desk. And after three long years, I’m eager to finish what I started.

  “Sebastian.” Misty Hargrave’s eyes light up as I enter the mail room. “It’s so good to see you back. How was your summer?”

  “Not much to report.” I scan her from head to toe, noting that she’s come back with a tan. Misty is the resident English teacher at Loyola, and the reason hordes of teenage boys suddenly develop an interest in the subject. She’s classically beautiful, graceful, and eloquent. All the signature traits of fine breeding. Yet when she bats her eyelashes in my direction, my dick remains as limp as a noodle in her presence.

  “Come now.” She laughs softly. “You must have done something interesting.”

  I know how this game works. She wants to ask me about my summer, so that I’ll ask about hers out of politeness. It’s evident she wants to tell me about her days on some cliché of a tropical island. Misty still hasn’t quite figured out that I’m just an asshole who doesn’t care what she has to say.