Page 1 of Hate You, Maybe
Chapter One
Sayla
“I freaking love the fall.”
I set my half-eaten breakfast burrito in the cupholder and slide my yellow clipboard from my bag. Through the passenger window, the horizon is a glow of dusky pink.
My best friend, Loren, eyes me from the driver’s seat. “What are you adding now?”
“The sunrise.” I quickly scan the rest of my list of reasons that fall in Harvest Hollow is the best: Caramel apple day for the teachers. The corn maze at Harvest Farms. Jack-o’-lantern carving. Roasted pumpkin seeds. Orange bows on every lamp post. “I can’t believe I forgot the sunrise.”
Loren’s mouth quirks. “I’ve got some bad news for you, my friend.”
“What?”
“The sun comes up all year long.”
“True.” I point my pen at her. “But not always while we’re on our way to work. And anyway, I’m not trying to benitpicky when it comes to listing things that make me happy.” I wedge the clipboard back in my bag and get to work on my burrito again.
“You’re right.” Loren flashes me a grin. “Carry on.”
“Already am,” I mumble around a mouthful of eggs and salsa. But the truth is, I hardly need Loren’s permission to think positively about fall in North Carolina. Nowhere else compares to our lush forests and winding rivers. Not to mention the backdrop of the Blue Ridge Mountains. And after a childhood spent changing cities whenever my mom decided to uproot us, I’m more than grateful to be settled in a place that’s practically perfect.
As we make our way downtown, the sky is still early-morning creamy, and the street lamps along the main square wink off. At a stop sign, Loren peers in the rearview mirror, tucking a wave of long red hair behind her ear. “How’s that breakfast burrito treating you?” she asks.
I inhale the last bite of cheesy-tortilla goodness and stuff my balled-up napkin into my bag. “Mmph-mmph,” I mumble, which translates to “delicious” when I’m not chewing.
Besides being my bestie and fellow teacher at Stony Peak High, Loren is also my roommate. At least she will be until she gets married in June. For now, though, we still share a two-bedroom bungalow in Harvest Hollow, just about an hour outside of Asheville. Our place is on the opposite side of town from school, so we try to carpool when we can. As we pass the park across from city hall, the giant clock tower over the post office chimes the hour.
Seven o’clock on the dot.
We left for work extra early this morning because Larry Wilford, our principal, asked to meet with me before first period. At the reminder of the stakes, my stomach churns. On second thought, eggs and salsa might’ve been a bad choice for breakfast.
“You’re biting your cuticles again,” Loren says. “If you don’t stop, you’ll end up bleeding all over Wilford’s office.”
“Ugh. Thanks.” I reach for a Band-Aid in the front pocket of my bag. Sometimes I don’t even notice I’m committing cuticle murder until Loren points it out, but it’s a habit that started when I was the perpetual new kid at school—eating lunch alone in the cafeteria or hiding out in the library during recess—so I always have Band-Aids on hand.
Literally.
Loren sends a sympathetic glance my way. “Did he actually tell you the meeting is about the grant?”
“I don’t know why else he’d want to talk to me.” It’s been a week since I sent Mr. Wilford my proposal detailing exactly why the performing arts department needs this year’s grant funds. I can only hope my written argument was solid enough. But if not, I’m prepared to plead my case to him today in person.
“Try not to worry too much.” Loren offers me an encouraging smile. “You’ve got this, Say.”
“I’m not worried about me,” I groan. “The entire department is counting on this money, and as the performing arts director, I’m the one responsible for whether or not we get it.”
She wrinkles her nose. “So … no pressure, then, huh?”
“Yeah, right.” I press out a weak chuckle and tug the sleeves of my pumpkin-orange cardigan over my hands. “I mean, even if we take the music and choir rooms out of the equation—which we shouldn’t—the theater can’t go another year without a total renovation. Our sound system is abysmal, the lighting is hit or miss, and the stage is so old, I’m afraid some poor, unsuspecting actor will fall straight through the floorboards. And don’t get me started on audience seating. Rickety doesn’t begin to describe the chairs. Then there’s themoth-eaten curtain, which hasn’t been replaced in the 21st century. I just?—”
“I’ve seen your list,” Loren interrupts gently. “And I read your entire proposal, remember? It’s perfect. Even Bridger thinks you’ll get the grant.”
I narrow my eyes. “When did you talk to Bridger?”
“Yesterday. At lunch,” she says. “And his science department got the funding last year, so he knows better than anyone.”
“All Bridger Adams knows is you’re my best friend.”
