Page 5 of Hate You, Maybe
When I’m inches from him, I come to a halt and level my gaze. He’s glistening with fresh sweat, and he smells like salt mixed with cedar. His lips slope into a full-blown cocky grin, and a pulse of laughter comes from his throat, deep and low.
“You didn’t have to do that on my account, Kroft.”
“Do what?” I huff.
“Your button’s undone.” His eyes dip to my blouse, the one I’m wearing under my second-luckiest cardigan. “But you already had my attention.”
Wow.
Loren’s right.
I freaking hate this man.
Chapter Two
Reasons Why Dexter Michaels
is the Actual Worst:
a wordy brain dump
When we signed up to be class advisors, he got the seniors. I got the sophomores. This means he goes to prom, graduation, and the 12th-grade trip. I’m in charge of campus beautification and trash pickup. For the record, I believe cleanliness is important. But I also really like pomp and circumstance. A lot.
I ran for faculty president last year, and I got more votes than Polly Warner, but Dexter still won against me. As a write-in candidate.
He thinks he’s better than everyone just because he got his master’s degree in education after a double major in kinesiology and exercise science. And okay, yes, he’s never said he’s better than everyone out loud, but I can just tell he thinks it. The superiority complex wafts off him like cheap cologne.
Dexter hosts the Gamers Club every week, and there’s standing room only in his class. The kids all love him. I host Future Ornithologists once a month. Three students usually meet me in the quad. Only two of them bring binoculars.
The year Mr. Wilford nominated us both for Teacher of the Year, the district chose Dexter to win. No one was surprised.
When I was named performing arts director, I became the second-youngest teacher to be given a director’s position at our school. The first-youngest was Mr. Master’s Degree. Naturally.
