Page 42 of Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

Until she belts, “Tell that to your whore!” at the top of her lungs, and I realize she has every reason not to take him back. Ever. And I’d rather risk killing Finn than put Dia through one more second of this.

I shut my eyes, grip the wheel so tight my knuckles scream at me, and step on the gas. If Finn wants to live, he’ll move out of my way.

Thankfully, he does. And as I speed away from the mansion with my heartbroken best friend in the passenger seat, I contemplate how wrong I was.

Maybe Xavier isn’t the big bad wolf after all…

Dear Zac,

Screw you.

That twenty-dollar theft haunted me for the best part of sixth grade! I thought the police were going to show up at my house at any moment and send me to kid jail.

I’m like 99 percent sure I’m going to regret this, but you got me intrigued with all this talk of “crazier stories”, so I’m going to take you up on your offer. My crazy story in exchange for yours.

Game on.

I accidentally put on a sex tape while babysitting a little girl when I was fourteen. The family wasn’t much into technology and only had a VCR player with one Disney movie in VHS. The cassette stopped working right at the beginning of my shift and the kid threw such a massive tantrum, I panicked and searched EVERYWHERE for another movie.

Almost shed tears of joy when I found the Little Mermaid.

Except it was really called the Little “Spermaid.”

And the characters were her parents.

Thank God I stopped it before she saw anything

(I still see the dad’s hairy butt every time I close my eyes.)

Does that earn me one of the good stories?

Tell you what, make the next one REALLY good, and I’ll tell you my name. (Fake, obviously. Wouldn’t want you to find out who I am…)

- L

* * *

Dear L,

Not bad. I’d even go as far as to say your story was decent. Yes, I just gave you a compliment. No, I’m not on drugs. Looks like I owe you a confession, doesn’t it?

I desperately needed a car after I crashed mine a year back (don’t ask), so I grabbed a batch of brownies my mom’d just made and sold them at my best friend’s birthday party for $30 a pop. No one ever asked if there was weed in them. They just assumed there was.

Hint: there wasn’t.

Bottom line, I made $1,000 in a half hour.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that earns me your name—your fake name, but still. Not that I’d ever try to figure out who you are. (Can you imagine the fucking horror of realizing we know each other?)

Your move, angry girl.

- Zac

* * *

Dear Zac,

I can’t wait to tell you what “L” means just so you stop calling me that god-awful nickname. How many times am I going to have to tell you? I am NOT an angry girl.