Page 6 of Hate You, Maybe
Every spring, the yearbook committee awards Dexter the Most Popular Teacher superlative. I get Most Likely to Bring a Clipboard to the Party. Which is true. But I can be fun too.
Dexter came to Stony Peak six years ago, which is twice as long as I’ve been here. That’s not his fault, but this is supposed to be a brain dump. So yeah. I hate that.
I’m pretty sure Loren secretly likes him.
Everybody else likes Dexter, too. And he doesn’t even try.
PS:Your single-subject teaching credential, clipboard collection, and binoculars are still pretty cool, Sayla.
Chapter Three
Dex
Wow. Bridger’s right.
Sayla Kroft freaking hates me.
To be fair, though, I did just taunt her and her open button on purpose. But only because those big blue eyes of hers have shot death arrows at me for the past three years.
Then she showed up in the weight room with steam practically blowing out of her ears, looking like one of those old-timey railroad cars from the vintage cartoons that play in the middle of the night. You know, the kind where workers have to shovel coal to feed the engine.
And as far as I know, I’ve never done anything intentionally wrong to her. Like, ever.
So yeah, I decided to have a little fun at her expense.
Maybetoomuch fun.
Because the truth is, I’m a pretty good guy. Just ask my mom. Or any of my sisters. Maybe don’t ask my dad. Heprobably wouldn’t bother to defend me because he’s a low-key dude who avoids conflict like it’s his job.
Still, I’d like to think I’ve cultivated a reputation for being a friendly person. The neighbor who’s quick to lend a hand. The coworker with an easy smile. And I’m sure the students, faculty, and support staff at Stony Peak High would agree, I am nice. To almost everybody. Almost all the time.
So full disclosure: I feel justified messing with Sayla Kroft on occasion. But even so, her wardrobe malfunction probably should have been off-limits.
No, definitely off.
To be clear, though, the open button is just above her waistband, and nothing’s visible but a little strip of skirt. I wouldn’t have joked around if she’d been showing actual skin.
So I keep my focus well away from the gap in her shirt while she sets her bag on a weight bench to fumble with her button.
When she lifts her chin again, her ponytail swings to the side. She’s got a small crease between her eyes, and her hands in fists at her hips. My gaze drops to her mouth.
Those pink lips purse.
And here’s where I admit the other reason I sometimes mess with Sayla: The woman is undeniably beautiful. And her brain plus her feistiness only makes her more attractive.
