Page 1 of Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

Dear Ms. Callahan…

You’re an asshole.

Knew it from the first time I walked into your class at the beginning of senior year. There. I said it. You. Are. An. Asshole. And not the “she’s nice once you get to know her” asshole. You’re the human equivalent of stepping into a puddle with socks on.

I wouldn’t be surprised if you spent your evenings bathing in hell fire, trying to come up with new ways to make your students suffer. Seriously, what’s your thought process like?

“Twenty pages on poetry? Great idea! Giving high schoolers less than forty-eight hours to read the book and turn the paper in? Even better!”

Now, before I proceed with my rant, I’d like to apologize (not really) for any mistake I might make in this letter that your never going to get. Can’t really be bothered with grammar right now.

You see, I’m in a bit of a time crunch between trying to graduate high school, score a once in a life time scholarship so I can get the F out of this town, playing chauffeur to my prodigy sibling and being a full-time disappointment to my mom.

Oh, and don’t forget the twenty pages.

Who needs sleep, right?

Sure, “technically”, I’m to blame for getting stuck with this poetry book, but how the heck was I supposed to know the one time I’d get sick and miss English lit would be the time you’d let us pick the book for the essay that’s worth fifty percent?

Granted, I would’ve been stuck with a boring book either way, (You didn’t exactly have thrilling options lined up) but you didn’t have to do us dirty like that.

You must think I’m crazy. I promise you I’m not. I’m actually a pretty decent person when I’m not calling middle-aged women Satan. In my defense, my therapist says writing down my feelings will help me cope.

So, what if I called u an asshole? So, what if I’m sitting here, in the library, wasting my time writing a hate letter to a teacher who can never remember my name when I’m already running late?

It’s not like anyone is ever going to read this anyway.

I’m realizing this letter is a bit all over the place, so let me summarize it for you.

Dear Ms. Callahan,

Sincerely,

From the bottom of my heart,

Go fuck yourself.

- L

Aveena

“Aveena Harper D’Amour?” Mr. Lowen, my sixty-year-old math teacher, shouts over complete chaos, and I feel a twinge of pity for him—no one ever said taking attendance in the middle of a raging thunderstorm was easy.

“Here!” I yell once.

Twice.

Three times.

No luck.

Mr. Lowen spots me in the crowd a minute later, bows his head in acknowledgement, and inches his list closer to mark me down as present. How did I get here, you ask? Out in the pouring rain? Freezing my ass off on my school’s front lawn with Easton High’s entire student body?

Not. A. Fucking. Clue.

“Vee, thank God!” Someone yanks on my sleeve, spinning me around so fast that I lose my footing. It takes me a solid second to steady myself and recognize my best friend, Diamond, through the torrent. She’s completely soaked, her signature black curls now straight as an arrow.

“I’ve been looking all over for you!” Dia blurts as she traps me into a hug so tight the oxygen is squeezed out of me. The only class Dia and I don’t have together is math, so, of course, that’s when the whole school had to be evacuated.

“What on earth is going on? Teachers won’t tell us anything.” I break away from her. “Is there really a fire?”

“Has to be.” She shrugs. “Why else would the fire alarm go off?”

I give her a slight nod, scanning the small building that’s Easton High School for a sign of a fire. I’ve got zilch to go on here—no smoke, no fire smell, absolutely nothing to pin to blame on.

Thunder booms in the distance, and I yelp, gripping my best friend’s arm like a wuss. The sky is a dark, cloudy nightmare, Mother Nature’s way of letting us know she’s just getting started.