Hate You, Maybe, page 14
Sayla
“Well, Kroft.” Dex smirks. “At this rate, I’m worried we’re gonna run out of clipboards.”
We’re on the porch, sitting across from each other in Adirondack chairs that feel more like punishment than decor. I’ve already scrawled out three lists of departmental tasks we’ll have to address as soon as we return to school, but so far, we’ve got no solid plan for some big presentation to the accreditation committee.
I might be freaking out a little.
Or a lot.
“I understand why they want us to trade places,” I say. “Kind of. I’m just not sure how we’re supposed to do that and get the whole school to impress the SACSS.”
Dex guffaws. “And don’t forget we need to make it fun.”
“Fun on demand is impossible.”
“We’ll think of something,” he says. “Hopefully before I have to dig you out from under a pile of spreadsheets, to-do lists, and blueprints.”
“I mean, I can put on workout clothes and wear a whistle,” I say, “but I’ve got no idea how to coach a football team. And you can put on a costume and carry around a script, but you’ve never directed a play.”
“Facts.”
“Our jobs are completely different. What do Bob and Hildy expect us to do?” I let out a scoff. “You can’t teach the football team to perform Romeo and Juliet, and I can’t teach the theater kids how to kick a field goal.”
Dex tips his head. “Huh.”
I blink. “What?”
“Those aren’t bad ideas, actually.”
I huff out a small laugh. “Thanks for the compliment, but you can’t be serious.”
“We’re not supposed to be serious, remember? We’re supposed to be having fun.”
I gape at him. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Maybe.” He straightens in his chair, hands on his knees. “But you’ve got me thinking.” He’s quiet for a moment, eyes in squint. “Imagine if we did want the varsity football team to act out a scene from Romeo and Juliet. You and the theater kids would have to help me coach them, and vice versa. The football team and I could show you and the cast of the fall play how to scrimmage.”
“Okay …” I sink my teeth into my lip, while simultaneously resisting the urge to murder my cuticles.
“So I kind of have a picture in my head of the SACSS coming out to the football stadium in the middle of the day, and they’re sitting in the stands, and the school board is with them. The administration, too. And maybe we’ve got a big stage set up on one end of the field with microphones and speakers. And the football players act out something from the play. Like the ‘to be or not to be’ speech.”
“That’s from Hamlet.”
“All right. Some other famous scene, then. Like the one with a rose by any other name. And ‘wherefore art thou, Romeo.’ That’s gotta be Romeo and Juliet.”
“It is.” I nod. “And back in the Elizabethan era, the plays were all performed by men anyway. So it’s historically accurate.”
“Score one for social science, too, then,” Dex says. “In the meantime, you could have the theater kids down on the opposite end of the field in a football scrimmage running plays.”
“Ooh! Like a screen pass?”
“That’s a good one, yeah. In a screen pass, the throw to the receiver is short, so we wouldn’t necessarily need a quarterback with a good arm. Not that I’m assuming someone in the theater can’t toss a ball. It’s just that they can’t be in the fall play and on the team at the same time. So the actors probably have about as much recent practice playing football as a guy on the team has reciting Shakespeare.”
My eyes widen. “In other words, this gives them all the chance to try out a school activity they otherwise can’t?”
His brow quirks. “Win-win.”
“My two favorite words.” I nod, slowly, letting his vision take shape in my brain. “To make this really effective, though, we’d need to showcase other departments working together. Not just ours.”
“I agree. We’ll come up with different pairings that seem like total opposites. And not just curricular, but extracurricular, too. That way, the SACSS would see all parts of our school collaborating.”
“Like … we could have the Mathletes and the soccer team perform a lip sync with the advanced dance class.” I lean forward and my clipboard almost falls off my lap. “And maybe the sign language club could be onstage next to them, signing the song, too.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he says.
“And maybe halfway through the song, the lyrics could switch to Spanish, with AP Spanish joining in?”
“Sure. Why not? We’re just brainstorming.”
I blow out a breath, ignoring the twinge in my stomach. “There would be a lot of moving parts. We’ll need all the teachers and club advisors to buy in. Do you think the kids will go for it?”
“If all else fails, we can offer extra credit.” His mouth slips into a lopsided grin. “A little bribery never hurt anyone.”
“True story,” I say, with a laugh. “Also true? I have no idea what a screen pass is. My mom and I just watched a lot of Friday Night Lights when she was in between boyfriends and I was in between … friends.”
“Huh.” Dex’s gaze comes to mine. “I’m surprised you’d watch that show. I always assumed you hated sports.”
“Not really. I just never played on a team.”
“Wow. None? Never?”
“We moved around so much, we usually missed the sign-ups, and I was always landing at a new school in a new town mid-season. So I never felt like I could or should jump on a team that was already established.”
“Some coaches would’ve let you join. The good ones, anyway.”
“Maybe, but I was afraid I wouldn’t be good enough. And being good was expensive. We couldn’t afford club teams or private coaches. And I never wanted to let the team down. So I’d wait for the next season to roll around, thinking maybe if I got in at the beginning of a season, I wouldn’t be too far behind. By then, it was usually time for us to move on again. And again.”
“That must have been hard.”
“It wasn’t awesome.” I swallow, hoping Dex won’t notice the shift in me. I don’t like accidentally tripping headlong into vulnerability. With anyone, but especially him. And that’s been happening a lot to us lately. “But that’s how I ended up in theater, so I have no regrets.”
“How was being in theater any different, though?” he asks. “If you kept moving around, didn’t you run up against the same problem?”
“I’m only speaking from my own experience, but I felt like there was less competition. Everyone was encouraged. And unlike a club team, there were no cuts in the drama club. No one was paying for private coaches on the side. Theater was free. And yes, there were tryouts for music solos and lead parts in a play, but pretty much everyone could get a role as an extra. As opposed to—let’s say—making the girls’ basketball team.”
Dexter’s eyes crinkle. “You might’ve been a little height challenged for that anyway. Although plenty of people would argue that athletes come in all shapes and sizes.”
“I get that now,” I say. “But when I was fourteen …” I let my voice trail off for a moment, but he waits for me to finish. “Let’s just say I lacked confidence. In all areas.”
“That’s too bad,” he says. “Because I’m guessing you were a phenomenal teenager.”
“Well.” I huff out a tiny snort. “Phenomenal is relative.”
“Come on, Kroft. Based on who you are today, you must’ve been smart,” he says. “Funny and very cute. I can totally picture you with the little ponytail and the freckles and braces, maybe. When I was fourteen, I would’ve thought you were hot.”
His eyes lock with mine, and my insides fizz like I’m full of butterflies or Dr. Pepper or …
Wait.
Slow down, Sayla.
“You can stop trying to make me feel better,” I say, willing my cheeks not to heat.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he says, “except I’m not in the business of dropping false compliments.” He sinks back in his chair. “You’ve just been too busy hating me these past three years to realize I’m a hopeless truth-teller.”
For a moment, I blink at him, trying to decide what to say. Then I land on, “I don’t.” My throat feels cotton-dry. “Hate you, I mean. It’s just that when I came to Stony Peak, you were just … everywhere.”
“I wasn’t in the women’s locker room.”
“You know what I mean,” I say. “I was brand-new to the school, just trying to make my mark. But everything I tried, you’d already done. Or you ended up doing better. So I never felt like I was good enough. Or just enough, in general. So I ended up tangled in the envy and admiration and frustration and insecurity. All those feelings kept getting tossed into one big pot until there was this … soup of feelings … and I didn’t want to admit how much I cared or how easily I could be hurt. But I didn’t want to be sad anymore, either. In the end, being mad at you was just … easier, I guess.”
His mouth goes crooked. “Feelings soup?”
“Yeah.” A breath puffs out of me. “Pretty much.”
“So what you’re saying is … maybe you don’t actually hate me now?”
“That’s right.” I let a small smile play on my lips. “I don’t hate you. Maybe.”
“You don’t hate me, maybe.” He laughs. “That’s the best you got?”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Definitely take.”
My smile spreads wider. “So. This is us collaborating now, huh?”
“Yep. We’re doing it, Kroft.”
Chapter Eighteen
Reasons Why Dexter Michaels
Might Not be the Actual Worst:
a slightly less wordy brain dump
He wasn’t fazed by my tampon debacle. Or the fact that I had three boxes.
Jojo. No one with a sister that great can be all bad. Probably.
He remembers to knock. And also my middle name.
There’s Neosporin in his travel bag. (See also: he’s gentle with blisters.)
Clarence the Teddy Bear and secret tattoos—right to the moon and back.
He’s NOT into Tori.
He doesn’t snore, at least from what I heard.
Morning bedhead. (See also: Bedhead at most times of day.)
Feelings soup. It’s what’s for dinner.
I think he’s coming around on my clipboards.
Chapter Nineteen
Dex
After our successful brainstorming session, Sayla and I head to Bob and Hildy’s office to present them with the new plan. They seem thrilled. Dare I say, impressed. Honestly, I’m impressed with us, too, although collaboration or not, we’re both leaving here tomorrow focused on the same end goal we had when we arrived: Landing the grant money.
Only one of us can win. And the more I learn about Sayla and her department, the less I want to take the grant away from performing arts. But I guess we’ll just have to cross the FRIG bridge when we get to it.
Friggin’ bridge.
In the meantime, Bob and Hildy send us off to join a group slotted for an afternoon trail hike. Tori and Caroline are in the group, too. So are the nurses and the guys in pharmaceutical sales.
And Hogan.
I grunt when he lines up behind Sayla at the trailhead. The man’s not evil or anything. I just don’t love the way he always finds excuses to brush up against her. And his eyes follow her around, whether or not they’re paired up or in the same group. It’s like his corneas have strings attached to her, and I need some metaphorical scissors to cut the thread.
So I make a point of squeezing in between them, my back to Hogan. “We should be on the lookout for poison ivy while we’re hiking,” I warn Sayla. “It’s got the same oil as mango skin, so let’s stay to the center of the trail if we can, away from any foliage.”
We. Yep. I said it.
“How did you even know that?” She blinks up at me, bewildered. “I had multiple outbreaks before the doctors made the connection.”
“I couldn’t fall asleep for a while last night, so I did some research on my phone. After you told me you’re allergic, I wanted to know more.”
This is all true, but Hogan sends up a scoff behind me. He must be skeptical about my motives. “Really going the extra mile there for a coworker, huh, Dexter?”
I glance over my shoulder. “She’s also my roommate, and I don’t want her up at all hours scratching because of a rash.” I figure with this answer, I’m not only proving my loyalty to Sayla, I’m also reminding Hogan that she and I share a cabin. And as we head up the trail, I make sure I’m positioned directly next to her, keeping my body between her and the edge of the mountain. Since the path is only wide enough for two people, there’s no room for Hogan.
Sorry, not sorry, man.
The two of us set a brisk pace, instinctively pushing each other and pulling ahead of the rest of the group. Without the distractions of phones or clipboards or forced collaborations, we slip into easy conversations about our lives before we met.
Like the time Sayla got to bottle-feed a baby monkey at the Lincoln Park Zoo. Her mom was working at a restaurant there and dating the manager, so he arranged the special treat. “I’ll never forget cradling this tiny animal that seemed more human than the people at the zoo,” she says.
Unfortunately, a few months later, the manager cheated on her mother with a woman working at the aviary.
“Per her usual pattern, my mom immediately gave notice and broke our lease. So long, Illinois.”
“Rough pattern.” I wince, wishing I could defend young Sayla.
“Eh.” She shrugs. “Drop in the bucket by then.”
I nudge her shoulder. “Having a bucket full of hard drops doesn’t sound so hot, either.”
“You’re right about that.” She puffs out a laugh, panting while we climb. “So what about your bucket? You must have at least one or two hard drops in there.”
“Yeah, sure, I do.” My chest goes tight. Sayla’s opening up to me. Letting me in a little. And I want to do the same. But I never talk about the hardest drop with anyone. So instead, I tell her about the time I lost a tooth at school, and caught my mom slipping money under my pillow that night.
Sayla groans. “You figured out the truth about the tooth fairy pretty young, then.”
“Yep,” I say. “The dominoes fell for Santa and the Easter Bunny, too. All the magic lost, all at once.”
“Brutal,” she says. “Mr. Choose Happiness hits rock bottom at six years old.”
My chest goes tight, and I slow to a stop, pretending like I need to stretch and catch my breath, but that’s just an excuse. The truth is, I can’t think of how to respond. If I tell Sayla I went through way worse as a kid, she’ll ask for details. And I’m not willing to go there. So I take a few deep breaths, willing my chest to stop constricting.
Sayla waits with me.
“I wish I’d grown up in Harvest Hollow like you did,” she says. At this point, Hogan’s fallen even farther behind on the trail, walking with Tori and Caroline. The pharmaceutical guys are just after them. The nurses bring up the rear.
“We moved to Harvest Hollow when I was twelve, actually,” I say.
“Ah, well, that changes everything,” she snarks. “I guess you never can tell the silent struggles other people are going through.”
I know she’s only kidding, but I can’t meet her gaze. I’m worried she’ll see right through me. So I push off again, starting back up the mountain.
Sayla scrambles up beside me, glancing over her shoulder. “Tori’s watching us.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Huh.” Either way, I’m just grateful for the change in subject.
“Maybe we should do something about that,” she says. “Just to be sure she believes we’re a couple.”
My pulse picks up, wondering what she’s thinking. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. Maybe something like this …” Her hand brushes mine, just a fleeting touch, and that’s when I realize Hogan’s probably watching us too. But I’m not going to point that out to Sayla. If she hasn’t noticed his attraction on her own, I don’t have to make it obvious.
Not that I have a right to be jealous or possessive of her. But okay, yeah. I am a little possessive and jealous. What can I say? I’m a human man who finally got my coworker to not hate me. Maybe.
So I reach out and hook my pinkie around hers. And when the rest of our fingers entwine, heat jettisons up my arm like a rocket ship launching to the moon. To calm myself, I rub slow circles around the base of her palm with my thumb.
Full disclosure: I am not calm.
She inches closer to me, pressing the side of her body against mine, so I let go of her hand and wrap my arm around her. Just for a moment. I’ve barely gathered her in when she spins toward me, gives me a flirty little head tilt and a smile. “Good job,” she whispers, and my heart starts pinging around behind my ribs.
Man.
If this is how it feels when Sayla Kroft pretends to aim her sunshine at you, actually being the object of her affection must be jet fuel.
“Hey! Slow down, you two,” Tori squeals.
Yep. She’s definitely clocking this.
“It’s not a race,” Hogan calls out.
“We’ll meet you at the top,” Sayla chirps. “We’re almost there.”
And in this moment, I feel like I’d go anywhere with her.
Back at camp, we’re supposed to gather in the main lodge again for another mystery activity. The other half of the group is already there, just finishing a facilitating session with Fern. Bob and Hildy direct everyone to break up into pairs, with or without any of our coworkers who may be here at Camp Reboot.
Hogan immediately swoops in and asks Sayla if she’d like to partner up. She glances at me, like she’s waiting to see what I’ll say. But what am I supposed to do? I’m not her keeper. If she doesn’t want to turn him down herself, I can’t exactly step in and claim her.
