Page 3 of Don't Hate the Player
I liked Connor a lot more before I knew he liked me. He’s a good guy, a Hillford West athlete who drinks that respect women juice (eh, maybe a respect women juice concentrate), and I could probably do a lot worse. It’s just that now that he’s asked me out and we’ve gone on a grand total of two dates since the school year started, I’m learning what it’s like to be the single object in Sauron’s all-seeing eye. Not in a “destroy Middle-earth” way, just the red-hot inescapable attention of it all. No one’s ever tried to be my boyfriend before this, and it’s freaking exhausting.
And okay, Connor does look like one of those impossibly sculpted twenty-four-year-olds they cast to play high schoolers on the CW, except he’s actually in high school and just looks like that, so that’s nice. I’m not afraid to admit that it’s nice. Especially when he’s playing soccer and his shirt is off and he looks all . . . ?shiny. Let she among us who wouldn’t get a little stupid around IRL Archie Andrews cast the first stone.
“Gotcha matcha,” he says when I emerge from the space between our cars. He’s holding two matching Starbucks cups that undoubtedly contain a matcha latte for me and a whatever-the-hell he likes for him. This is unbelievably nice of him, but also not what I need this morning.
“Thanks. Sorry I was so zoned out just now. I was up forever.” I sniff the latte before I try to take a sip. It smells like hot, fresh grass cuttings. I don’t remember ever telling Connor I liked matcha lattes, but I’m too far in to say anything now. Who knows? Maybe I’ll come around on him. Them. Maybe I’ll come around onthem.
“Studying for the English quiz?”
“English quiz? I don’t have an—English quiz!” Frick. I knew there was something I was forgetting. I’m usually so much better about this! Fricking Wizzard and fricking Pharaoh. I’m completely off my game in more ways than one.
“You’re not telling me you forgot? Do you want me to help you study before? I took American lit last year, and I still remember some stuff. What are you reading now?”
The idea of spending the rest of my free period with Connor poring over . . . ?whatever book we’re reading in class is already giving me a headache. Last year it would have been fine; over this summer we texted about summer reading, and that was fine too. When he asked to hang out at the diner last month, I’d assumed it was a pre–junior year group hang thing. It was actually, in his mind, our first “date.” And yes, in retrospect it was obvious what he was up to—no one texts a girl his thoughts onThe Picture of Dorian Gray(“yo, these bros are totally banging”) for a month solely because he’s super into Wilde, but I still felt trapped. I almost didn’t say yes to the second date, but having the excuse of talking to boys is a better cover forGLOthan holing up in my room with the lights off for no discernable reason, so I went along with it.
Dating Connor has its perks at school too. He shines so bright in the Hillford West constellation of stars that the details of my life look dim in comparison. We’re only a few weeks into the school year, and all anyone wants to know is if we’re dating. He’s concealer for my less respectable habits.
“I didn’t forget the quiz,” I say quickly. “I studied last night. So much, like all night. Obviously that’s what I was doing. But you know me! I love grades. And I promised Penny I’d go over some chapters with her. Gotta get to the library right now, actually.”
“Yeah, sure.” He nods. “Tell Penny I say hi.”
“Of course!” I shout back, leaving him in my dust. “Thanks for the coffee!”
I think he finds this charming in a “there she goes again, the girl who is always running away from me” sort of way.
The hallways are pretty deserted since most students are in class by now. I don’t have a ton of time to refresh my memory for this quiz, so I’m grateful not to have to stop to talk with anyone else on my way to the library. Hillford gives at least one free period to everyone except freshmen, but only a few of us were lucky enough to get free period first—the library is mostly empty except for a few scattered seniors flopped on the couches in the lounge area and a handful of nerds huddled around a box of cupcakes near the old computer lab, which no one but the gaming club uses. Must be someone’s birthday.
Just beyond them is Penny. She’s alone at a study table, not because no one wants to sit near her, but because they know better. Penny Darwin has ruled our year since middle school with the fierceness of a Habsburg empress and the fear-inducing poise of a lioness. She’s top five in our class, the lead in every school musical, and has more Instagram followers than anyone I’ve ever met in person. Penny is terrifying. She is my best friend in the world.
“Hey, I got you a latte.” I slide Connor’s unloved gift onto the table in front of Penny, a tithe for the queen. She gives me a look that says I’m full of shit, but she’s never said no to a Connor matcha before.
“You know if you actually try one of these, you might like it.” She says that but licks the rim so I can’t take the latte back even if I want to.
“Pretty sure you said that about Connor too. Also, what are we reading in English right now?”
Penny rolls her eyes at me and picks up the book in front of her on the table. “The Great Gatsby, you ding-dong. You didn’t read it?”
Gatsby, Gatsby . . . ?I pull a notebook out of my backpack and riffle through it. Right, the rich guy who wants to marry that Nazi’s dumb wife. I find the pages I’m looking for and sit down.
“Of course I read it. I just read it in, like, July when I read everything else. It’s been a minute. Let me see what I’ve got.”
My collection of five subject notebooks is the key to keeping my academic life together during gaming season. I prep during the day all summer, reading the books on the English syllabus, copying down calc formulas, and running through everything I’m supposed to learn that year in advance, which makes going to school more of a refresher course than an actual learning experience. My notes onThe Great Gatsbyare thankfully thorough enough to jog my memory.
“Okay, we got the green light, can’t change the past. Giant golfer lady? That must have been from the movie.”
“That movie was terrible.”
“I thought it was fun. Why did I write ‘The American Dream’ surrounded by a bunch of sad face emojis?”
“Because social mobility in the 1920s made white people scared they weren’t special, so they constructed class barriers to keep immigrants and new money out, and nothing has changed since.”
I have no idea what I would do without Penny. I can feel myself remembering enough aboutGatsbyto get through my English quiz and close the notebook.
“Okay, I’m good. How are you, boo?”
Penny pulls a flyer out of her backpack and slides it over to me. It says, and I’m not making this up, “#DARWINNING” in huge block letters and has a photo of Penny looking pretty in a red, white, and blue crop top. “Vote Penny Darwin for President” is in much smaller text on the bottom.
She leans in toward me and whispers conspiratorially, “She’s running.”
