Page 2 of I Love to Hate You
“What the fuck?” I blare, turning to look at Dad, but he isn’t even facing me. My father has turned around in his chair and is breezing through channels on the TV as if he didn’t just throw his beer at my head. He doesn’t even glance in my direction as I wipe my face, smearing the makeup I just applied, and walk out of the house.
Tears sting my eyes as I speed walk to my ten-year-old car, holding back all of my emotions until I’m inside. The second I close the door, I let out a guttural scream that sets my throat on fire. The tears finally fall, and I scream through them. I punch my steering wheel until my fist hurts, and I keep screaming. I become a crazy person, hitting the seat next to me with the back of my fist until I lean forward and cry. I let it all out, succumbing to my rage, and no one hears me.
Two
~ MAYA~
Why do we hurt the ones we love the most? Humans have to be the most ridiculous creatures on the planet, because we seem to reserve our worst selves for the people we love, and I don't get that. Spouses cheat, destroying their partners in ways that only they can. Some men abuse their wives mentally, speaking to them as if they are nothing, disrespecting them verbally and crippling their self-esteem. But those same husbands will go to work and do everything possible to avoid confrontation with their coworkers. Some people even physically abuse their partners, only to cower when faced with the possibility of having to fight a stranger. I don't get it, but I know I hate it, and the fact that my father only shows me how horrible he can be only makes matters worse. He sinks to his lowest when he knows that only I can see him, and then says things that he knows will hurt me the most. I’m the only one he shows his worst side to, and I’ll never understand it.
My mother’s name was Molly Valentina, and it’s not an exaggeration to say that she was the foundation of our three-person family. She was the very definition of a strong, Black woman, who took care of her family and loved us unconditionally—even me, the child who could never get her shit together. My mom was there for me when I deserved to be alone. I’ve always had this temper, and being stuck inside a school surrounded by the little assholes in the class as well as the big assholes who ran the class never worked for me. I always lashed out. I’ve always fought. I’ve always struggled. But my mother never gave up on me. Sometimes I wish she would've. Maybe she’d still be alive.
My father, on the other hand, is the kind of guy who was meant to be a husband, but not a dad. If he was trying to hide his disdain for me over the years, he did a terrible job, because I always felt like he saw me as the obstacle. I was in his way when it came to having my mom all to himself, and he resented my presence. He wanted it to be just the two of them in the living room watching movies, but I was there, demanding to turn off the horror flicks they loved so much. I was the nuisance screaming, “Yuck!” when their romantic comedy showed people kissing. I was the little accident demanding to watch cartoons and begging to be played with when they were trying to cuddle. My whole life I felt like my dad and I were rivals, and when my mother died, his resentment only grew.
He hates me more now than he ever did, which really weighs heavily on me. He’s the only parent I have left, and he doesn’t realize that I’m clinging to him, desperately in search of his approval. If he could somehow find it in himself to stop blaming me for what happened to Mom, maybe he could heal from it, and maybe I could, too. He hadn't mentioned it in a while, and being reminded that he still believes I’m the reason my mother is dead has sent my mental state into a tailspin.
The halls of Temple University are flooded. People move like swarms of bees migrating from one place to the next. Girls laugh with each other, while the boys play grabass, smacking one another on the balls and chuckling like children. Men.
Just standing at the entrance of the school feels stressful. The colors of white, cherry, and magenta cover the halls, trying their best to give everyone a sense of school pride. I’m not proud. I’m only attending this school because it was easier and cheaper to go here than it was to go to Drexel or Penn State, and if it wasn’t for a handful of academic scholarships, I wouldn’t even be here. So, I don’t feel like jumping for joy or screaming when Stella the Owl is mentioned, and I’d rather fight Hooter the Owl than watch him shake his ass on any football field. I’m not here to represent. I’m here to achieve a goal and get the hell out of Kensington.
Before I step inside, I close my eyes and imagine myself standing at the foot of my bed again. I take another deep breath and focus on my goal of graduation, which is so close I can smell it. It’s almost over, so I can’t let myself get sidetracked now. I blow out a loud exhale as I open my eyes and start my trek to my first class. All three of the books I’ll need today are tucked in my right hand, while my left arm is clamped to my body so I don’t touch anybody as I walk by.
I walk into the swarm of people, avoiding the first few as I pass a quickly-filling classroom with a professor writing information on a smart board. When I reach the second open door, the large, male professor stands at the entrance with his arms crossed, staring at me as he leans against the door jamb. It’s Professor Wolford. I was in his class last year, so we have some history that he seems to remember very well. He glares at me without so much as a nod, and I don’t greet him either. We lock eyes until my shoulder is bumped by a boy tossing a wadded-up piece of paper in the air like he’s playing basketball. Both of us stumble a bit before making eye contact.
“Damn, my bad,” the boy says, before realization takes over the look on his face. “Oh. Sorry, Maya.”
I have no idea who the boy is, but he obviously knows me. After saying my name, he picks up his paper basketball and scurries away, looking over his shoulder as if he’s worried I’ll chase him down for the infraction of bumping into me. Once he’s out of sight, I continue on my way to class, but all I feel are the eyes of people watching me as I go. Anyone who notices me immediately slides to the side, making a narrow path for me to walk uninhibited.
I’ve attended Temple for four years now, and over the course of those years there’s a slight chance I may have developed a bit of a reputation. I’m not the only one. There are a lot of people who are known to be a certain way, and everybody reacts accordingly when those people come around. It’s not that I go out of my way to do anything to anyone. It’s just that … well, my life is a fucking mess, and I don’t need anybody barging in and making it more complicated or annoying than it already is. So, when I feel like my life and peace are being intruded upon, I handle it the only way I’ve ever known.
I make my way through the first packed hallway with no problems, and as I turn the corner to enter the next hall, I’m immediately bumped again. This time, I’m hit so hard that I drop all three books in my hand and nearly fall against the wall next to me. I have to place a hand against it just to keep myself upright.
“Shit!” the blonde girl blares. “Watch where you’re fucking going.”
As I steady myself and stand upright, time freezes as the two of us look at each other. Once again, I have no idea who this girl is, but I can tell from the look on her face that she recognizes me. Her eyes widen as her mouth drops open, but it’s too late to suck the words back in.
“Wait, I’m sorry, Maya,” she starts, but my arm whips out before she has a chance to say anything else.
My hand collides with the side of her face and pushes her entire head over until it smacks against the wall I had to use to keep from falling. A loud thud rocks the drywall, drawing a few eyes over to us, but it happens so fast that no one really knows what’s going on.
“Ow!” the girl yelps, just as I grab her by the wrist and pull her close to me.
“Shut up before you bring one of those professors over here and I end up in the dean’s office,” I whisper, my mouth right up against the girl’s ear. “Pick up your shit and go. Don’t say another word, or I’ll make sure being suspended is worth it.”
The girl whispers, “I’m sorry,” as she bends down to pick up the book and backpack I didn’t even realize she’d dropped. As she walks away, I hear her whimpering, leaving little quiet sobs in her wake.
I exhale as I bend over and pick up my books, before standing up and going on my way. I catch the stares of a few curious bystanders as I walk and my temper flares again before I can stop it.
“What?” I bark, startling a guy and making him flinch. “What the fuck are you looking at? Mind your business.”
Everyone who was watching manages to peel their eyes away and stares anywhere but at me. Good. That’s exactly how I want it to be.
Three
~ MAYA~
“Hey, you okay?”
I stomp up the stairs of the theater-style classroom and sit down next to Eddie Thomas, my boyfriend of the last three months, who’s looking at me like I’m carrying a pinless grenade. My mind is still racing from the encounter in the hall, my blood boiling and threatening to overflow a second time as the thought of my father blaming me for my mother’s death again glues itself to me. I hate that his words have this effect on me, but hating it doesn't give me the ability to stop it. Instead of graciously moving on, I slam my books down and collapse into the desk so hard the rivets squeal. Eddie turns to me with wide eyes and an apprehensive expression.
