HATE CRUSH Read online

  He doesn’t say another word, but our eyes clash as I retrieve a few things from my bag and lay them out on the desk. Binder, notepad, pens, a few books to look legit, and my journal. When Mr. Carter settles into his seat and begins going over his own paperwork, I settle in too.

  Flipping through the pages of my journal, I smooth my fingers over the edges of some of the photos I took this summer. They are mostly sunsets and candids of people on the beach, but also the occasional bird and plenty of shots of me and Sybil goofing around. While nature is great for practice, people are my favorite subject to photograph, and I have some shots of Sybil I’m especially proud of. She even asked me to print them out so she can use them in her dance portfolio.

  More than a few times, I considered showing them to my father. Once upon a time, he had a passion for photography. He loved his job, and he was good at it, but he never made it big, so he gave up his dream when he traded his soul as a corporate slave. The dissatisfaction is written all over his face, and now I can’t help but wonder if that will be me in ten years. He’s told me on more than a few occasions that photography can only ever be a hobby for me. Neither of my parents see it as a viable career choice even though my mother hasn’t had her own career in decades. She hates the very idea of me wasting my time behind the camera so much that she even broke one of my lenses last year in a drunken fit.

  Darkness infiltrates my vision as I flip through my journal until I find a blank page. A new chapter. This is the part of my life where I focus on the things I’m supposed to be doing. Acing all my tests, getting good grades, and going to the college my mother wants. But what about my happiness?

  I find myself scribbling that last sentence onto the page with a pink gel pen before a tear inadvertently slips from my eye and splashes onto the ink, splattering it like a sign of things to come. And when I quickly wipe my eyes and sneak a glance at Mr. Carter, I’m mortified to find that he witnessed the entire event. Our eyes lock, but he doesn’t say a word, and neither do I. For a moment, I find myself studying the lines of his face again, considering how easy he would be to photograph. There isn’t a bad angle on him. But the permanent scowl on his face hints at something darker under the surface. Something broken and jagged and full of pain or rage. Those of us who know can recognize these qualities in each other.

  He’s the first to look away, and it leaves me feeling empty, though I’m not sure why. The loss of that connection is oddly disappointing. I don’t even like him. He’s an asshole with a heart of barbed wire, and that’s what I find myself drawing on the blank page next to my tear-soaked art. A beating heart wrapped in barbed wire. I drew it for him, but when I stop to examine it, I can see myself in there too.

  When my forty-five minutes are finally up, Mr. Carter rises from his desk with the authority of someone who should be ruling a boardroom rather than a classroom. His black oxfords clip across the floor with military precision, and he ensnares me with a dark look as he opens the door. I don’t dare move. Not until he tells me to. Another standoff ensues, our eyes battling our respective roles in silence. I could almost swear the edge of his lip twitches in victory. He’s a man who likes to exert his power, and right now, he’s exerting it over me.

  “You’re free to go, Miss LeClaire.”

  I stuff all my belongings back into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. When I glance back up, I expect him to be gone, but he isn’t. He’s still standing there, caging me in with his eyes. I can’t figure out what he’s thinking, and I don’t know if I want to either. There’s something mysterious about him. Something sinister, certainly. But something alluring too. Does he know that I feel that way? Can he recognize my desperation for his approval? Even as I’m calculating all the ways I should hate him, I’m wondering how I can win him over too.

  I join him at the door, and he gestures me out first. To my displeasure, I find we aren’t alone. Along the corridor, Ethan and his Lacrosse buddies are waiting for someone, and when their heads swivel in my direction, it becomes apparent that someone is me.

  “Hey, Cherrybomb.” Ethan grins as he uses the name he must have heard from Sybil. “You’re finally sprung, huh?”

  “Yep.” I rock back on my heels and glance at Mr. Carter, whose gaze is practically glacial as he examines Ethan.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Mr. Dupree?” he clips out.

  Ethan’s jaw flexes, and he raises his chin in challenge as he meets Mr. Carter’s gaze. The temperature in the building plummets as they stare at each other. If I didn’t know any better, I would say the scowling beast of a teacher doesn’t want me hanging out with Ethan and his buddies, but the question is why?

  “What’s the big deal?” Ethan claps back. “She’s out of detention, right? We’re allowed to socialize in public quarters, and last I checked, this is the student center.”

  “Miss LeClaire has a maintenance issue to deal with back at her dorm,” Mr. Carter answers flatly. “So why don’t you boys run along and find something else to do?”

  Ethan turns to me, but I’m too busy staring up at Mr. Carter in confusion. Is he referring to my locked room? And if he is, how the hell does he even know about that?

  “The door,” I murmur though it comes out sounding more like a question.

  “Damn. Someone already pennied your doorjamb?” Ethan asks.

  “Yeah, your girlfriend.” I glare at him.

  “Louisa?” He scrunches his nose and his buddies laugh. “She isn’t my girlfriend. She wishes she was, but she isn’t.”

  “That’s nice.” I wave him away. “But I don’t need any more trouble, and Mr. Carter’s right. I have to go deal with that now.”

  “All right.” Ethan hops down off the table he’s perched on and allows his eyes to do one full sweep over my body in slow motion. Pig. “We’ll see you around then.”

  They disappear down the hall, and I turn back to Mr. Carter. “How did you know about my door?”

  “I know everything that goes on in this school.” He pivots on his heel and locks the door behind us. “And you’d be wise to remember that.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  STELLA

  I SPEND the next afternoon shooting photos around campus while Sybil finishes up her dance practice, and I’m surprised to see just how many extracurricular activities Loyola Academy has. Everything from fencing to cheer to swim is on offer, and even though my mother requested I choose at least two, I haven’t signed up for any yet.

  “There’s still time,” Sybil tells me as she crash-lands into my camera view. “You could do swimming. That’s easy.”

  “Not really a fan of the chlorine,” I admit.

  “Hmm.” She does a triple cartwheel across the lawn and plops down gracefully in a cross-legged position. “What about cheer squad? You could come to practice with me next Wednesday.”

  “Really?” I laugh. “You want me on the cheer team? I don’t exactly have the right look. Or the pep. Or the coordination.”

  “Why not?” She scrunches up her nose and claps her hands theatrically. “Be aggressive. Be, be aggressive.”

  “I wish I could bottle up some of your energy.” I roll my eyes.

  “Come on,” she pleads. “What could it hurt to at least try out? We can work on some of the moves over the weekend. Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

  My gaze drifts across the field to where the boys are playing lacrosse on the left and soccer on the right. Everybody is busy doing something. And I know from my mother’s incessant nagging that I need something else on my college application, even if it does seem somewhat ridiculous to me. But at least with Sybil at my side, it could be fun.

  “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try,” I concede.

  “Yay!” She jumps up and does a few cartwheels while I continue to snap pictures. And then something in the distance catches my attention.

  “What the…?” My voice drifts off as I inadvertently zoom in and snap a few photos.

  “What?” Sybil asks.

  “Is that Mr. Carter coaching the soccer team?”

  “Yep.” She squints into the distance, using her hand as a shield against the sun. “He played soccer for the Ivy’s. Won a bunch of awards, or so I’ve heard. I think he was supposed to be drafted into the Major Leagues too.”

  “Why wasn’t he?”

  “Don’t know.” She shrugs. “But the soccer players here practically bow at his feet like he’s some kind of legend. I know because I dated one of them freshman year.”

  “Who haven’t you dated here?” I tease.

  She sticks out her tongue and throws a handful of grass at me. “Just wait and see. You’ll have five or six boyfriends soon too. I’ve heard you’re making waves around the school.”

  “Yeah, Louisa and her girl gang already threatened me to stay away from Ethan.” I make a slitting action across my throat. “Or else.”

  Sybil rolls her eyes. “Louisa is never going to get Ethan. She’s delusional.”

  “Like he’s some prize.” I shake my head. “I don’t get what she sees in him anyway. He was waiting for me outside of detention.”

  “Who knows.” Sybil agrees. “And that doesn’t surprise me. He’s had eyes on you since you stepped foot on the grounds. Every time you turn him down, he’ll just try harder.”

  “Oh, yay.” I groan. “Just what I need.”

  “Apart from Ethan’s prowess, how was detention anyway?” she asks.

  “It was all right. I didn’t know it was with Mr. Carter.”

  “Oops.” She slaps a hand against her forehead. “I should have probably warned you, huh? He always does detention. I think he actually enjoys it, miserable bastard that he is. I still can’t believe how harsh he was with you. I mean, he’s always been a prick, but still, h
e could have cut you some slack on your first day.”

  “Doesn’t seem like that’s his style,” I observe, opting not to tell her about our weird stare down in detention.

  “No, it isn’t. Probably best to stay off his radar if you can. It already seems like he has it out for you.”

  “That’s my plan.”

  “You want to head back to my room and study for a bit?”

  For reasons I don’t really know, I snap a few more photos of Mr. Carter, and then Sybil pokes me in the arm.

  “Hello, earth to Stella. Are you there?”

  “Sorry, got distracted.”

  “By all those hunky soccer players?” Her eyes light up.

  “Uh-huh.” I lie because I don’t want to admit that I have a weird hate crush on my teacher. “Let’s go study.”

  WHILE SYBIL DOES her math homework, I pretend to read on my phone, but really, I’m checking out Mr. Carter’s bio on the school website. I have no idea why, but I can’t seem to keep my mind from drifting back to him. What Sybil told me about his almost career as a soccer player has only managed to spark my curiosity about him.

  Unfortunately, other than a small blip about him being the soccer coach, there isn’t much about his past. There’s a mention of his time at Harvard, that he played in the Ivy Leagues, and that with his advanced standing, he graduated with a masters in just four years. It seems insane, but then again, he is insane. I can just imagine him not eating, sleeping, or blinking while he aced every one of his college courses. All to end up here. It’s rather odd. Not that Loyola isn’t prestigious, but teaching doesn’t seem like it would be his career of choice. In fact, I would think it would be the last thing on his list.

  “Finally.” Sybil slams her book shut with a yawn. “Got that done. Now I can spend extra time in the studio tomorrow morning.”

  As much as Sybil loves to goof off, she never lets anything get in the way of her dedication for dancing, and I admire her for that. I wish I could be as passionate and free spirited as she is. I wish I could go after what I really want without disappointing my father.

  “I think you’re going to do great things someday,” I tell her with a weak smile.

  “So are you,” she insists. “Just wait and see.”

  I nod and gather up my things, taking my cue to leave. We both need to get some sleep, and I need to be on my game tomorrow with time management and organization. That means extra planning tonight for what I’ll need.

  “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

  “K.” She flops back onto her bed and nods. “Night.”

  I shut the door behind me and pad down the hall to my room, trying to stay quiet. Most of the other girls are already in bed, and I don’t want to wake them. Sneaking into my room, I change into my pajamas and toss my hair up into a messy bun before flopping down onto my bed, only to be horrified when I do.

  The mattress is soaking wet, and now my bedding and pajamas are too. I pull the cold wet material away from my body and groan as I hop up and stare at the mess. Looks like Louisa is up to her tricks again, and I am officially fucking over her shit. Tempted to respond in kind by walking down the hall and throwing a bucket of ice water in her face, I take three deep breaths and calm myself. That’s exactly what she wants. Girls like Louisa have everything, and she knows that if we get into a catfight, I’m the one who will get the boot.

  I have to be smarter. I need to be the bigger person. If I let my emotions win, I could end up losing my place at Loyola. And right now, I just need to get some sleep. I won’t allow Louisa or anyone else to deter my focus this year. My parents are counting on me, and I can’t waste this opportunity.

  Dragging the only spare blanket I have from the closet, I spread it on the floor and wad up a sweater for a makeshift pillow. It’s not going to be the best sleep I’ve ever had, but at this point, it will have to do. I lay down and close my eyes, finally starting to drift off when something taps at my window.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan.

  I get up and slide the window up, only to be greeted by Ethan’s face. “Hey, Cherrybomb. Watch out.”

  “What the—” I squeal as he pushes his way inside and wiggles a bottle in my direction.

  “I brought the party.”

  “What are you doing here?” I demand. “You’re going to get us both in trouble.”

  “It’s no big deal.” He waves off my concern and takes a seat on my bed. My soaking wet bed. His face morphs into an expression of surprise, and he jumps up and stares at the blanket on the floor. “Fucking Louisa. She did this, didn’t she?”

  “I’m assuming.” I throw my hands up. “As you can see, it’s been a long day. So please just go.”

  “Come on.” He twists the top off the bottle and offers it to me. “Just do one shot. It will help you relax.”

  “I don’t need to relax,” I argue. “I need to sleep.”

  “Fine.” He smirks. “One shot and I’ll leave.”

  “I’m not bargaining with you.” I put my hands on my hips and glare at him. “I didn’t invite you, and I really don’t need Louisa coming after me if she finds out you were here.”

  “Fuck Louisa.” He takes a pull from the bottle. “She doesn’t own me.”

  “Well, that’s between the two of you to work out,” I tell him. “Now please just—”

  “What’s going on in here?” The booming voice at my window scares the ever-loving crap out of me, and when I turn, I’m horrified to see Mr. Carter outside in what looks like running gear. His eyes bounce back and forth between Ethan and me, silent accusations lingering in the air between us.

  “This isn’t what it looks like,” I say quickly. But it’s too late. Mr. Carter has already disappeared, and I know he’s headed this way.

  I look at Ethan, wondering what we should do, but like the worm he is, he disappears out the window, leaving the bottle of whiskey behind as if it belongs to me.

  “You’re a real piece of work,” I yell after him. “Don’t ever come to my room again.”

  The door swings open, and there’s Mr. Carter, his shadow falling over me like a black cloud. “Miss LeClaire.” His eyes dart toward the open window briefly before landing back on me. The bottle of whiskey is still in front of me, and he doesn’t miss it. Things only gets worse from there. His eyes move over the blanket on the floor before they roam over me and pause briefly on my chest. It isn’t until I look down that I understand why. The flimsy white knitted tank I wear for pajamas is still damp, and my nipples are poking out from beneath it.

  “Oh God.” I slap my hands over my chest and shiver as Mr. Carter reaches down and seizes the bottle of whiskey, examining it.

  “You are really making quite the first impression here,” he snarls.

  “This isn’t fair,” I blurt out, realizing how lame it sounds. “I didn’t ask him to come here. He just barged in—”

  “A convenient excuse.” He stalks toward me, and I step backward, bumping against my bed. He leans in, and for one delusional second, I think he’s going to kiss me. But instead, he presses his palm against my soaked mattress. His body is so close to mine I can smell him. The scent of masculine sweat and cardamom. I stupidly inhale a deep breath, and he notices. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Is there something you’d like to report, Miss LeClaire?” he asks, his tone acerbic.

  I know he’s referring to the mattress, but I don’t have any proof, and even if I did, that’s not a war I’m ready to start with Louisa. I’m not a snitch, and there are better ways to get back at her than involving the school staff.

  “No, sir.” I tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.

  His nostrils flare, and I take note of it. I take note of everything from his sweat-soaked T-shirt clinging to his broad shoulders and muscular abs to the way his pants hang loose from his hips. I’ve never felt like a hormonal teenager before, but my hypothalamus is working overtime to pump out those feel-good chemicals in his presence. I’m practically biting my tongue to keep myself from saying something stupid. Because right now, his attention, good or bad, is everything. I want his approval like I’ve never wanted anything else before. I want to tell him to push my knees apart and show me how mad he is. Punish me the way I can see he wants to. But Mr. Carter has more self-restraint than I do. He coldly chooses to deny me, stepping back into his own space and leaving me alone. Always alone.