Page 41 of Hate Me Like You Mean It

“So far, I only know of me and Jaxton, Logan and Amara, and Dylan and Issac.”

A fresh buzz of energy was creeping through the cafeteria as the news touched each individual table. Kids started shifting in their seats, wanting to play it cool while itching to run and check their own lockers.

It was a decades-old promposal tradition. Every year, right before one of the final games of their high school careers, the senior members of the soccer team broke into the lockers of their respective partners and crushes and left their hoodies behind as gifts.

If the recipient accepted, they’d show up to the game that night wearing it.

If they didn’t… well, I wasn’t sure. It didn’t happen often, but I assumed the hoodie would be returned to the player.

Other than the finals, the prom games drew the biggest audiences. It was kind of sweet, watching the players on the field subtly search the crowd and light up when they spotted their numbers. There was a lot of smiling, giggling, and blushing throughout, and once the game was over, the young lovers were united through a wave of whistles and cheers.

“I wonder who he’ll pick,” Leilani whispered. “Could you even imagine?”

She didn’t need to specify who “he” was. Everyone knew.

I shoveled a spoonful of something goopy into my mouth as the predictions started to roll in, but all I could taste was lead.

The next couple of hours were hell. I avoided my locker like the plague, and every time I caught a glimpse of that midnight blue being boasted in the hall, my heart stopped beating until it knew, for certain, that it didn’t belong to Number 11.

Eventually, though, I didn’t have a choice.

Just get it over with. Rip it off like a Band-Aid.

I already knew it wasn’t going to be me, so why did the thought of opening my locker and finding it empty make me so sick to my stomach?

Swallowing back the tangle of nausea and heartbeats stuck at the base of my throat, I braced myself for the inevitable, raised my chin, and yanked the door open with purpose. I just needed to grab my calculator for sixth period. I’d be in and out in… a…

My hand froze mid-reach, and I buffered, not comprehending. I shut the door. Double-checked the number to make sure it was mine. Opened it back up.

It was still there.

A small, beautifully arranged bouquet of red roses and a cream-colored envelope sitting on top of a neatly folded hoodie. I stood stock-still, staring at the flowers, wondering how much longer it’d be until I woke up.

The bell must have already rung, because the soft murmur of students had faded, and the only thing I could hear was the deafening pounding of my own heartbeat. I glanced around the empty hallway, then gave my wrist a little pinch. When nothing happened, I reached for the envelope.

My name was written on the back with a familiar, clumsy cursive that made my chest squeeze. I brushed a trembling finger over it, my throat swelling, my heart racing.

Careful not to tear the paper, I gently parted the flap and slid the folded pages free. Then I held my breath.

Alice.

I’ve written a thousand different versions of this letter, but I still can’t seem to get it right.

I don’t know where to start, how to articulate any of the things I need to tell you, and Ireallydon’t know how you’ll react to any of it.

What I do know is that I’ll never be able to live with myself if I don’t at least try, so I’m just going to?—

“It’s a prank.”

I started, instinctively hiding the letter behind my back as I twisted around. But it was only Rachel.

“Oh, hey,” I said breathlessly. “Why aren’t you in French?”

She swallowed a little roughly, the skin around her eyes pink and swollen. Like she’d been crying.

I frowned. “You okay?” Was it more stuff with her dad? Did she need to stay over again?

“It’s a prank, Alice,” she repeated.