Page 10 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
“No,” I whisper, my stomach swooping low. “No, no, no, no. No. No—”
“How long have you been planning this?” he asks, pressing in with both his voice and his body. He leans forward. I shift back, the bristles of a low thornbush scraping my spine. But I would gladly let the thorns pierce my skin if it could hide me from this mess. None of this should be happening. “There were forty-two emails addressed to me. The earliest dated back tonine years ago.”
“You read all of them?” Suddenly, I would like to trade positions with the dead duck. “I— How? When?”
“You’re askingme?” he demands. “You were the one who sent them. Imagine my surprise when I open my laptop at the start of physics class and my inbox isfloodedwith emails from you. If I missed out on crucial content because I was preoccupied with your many insults to my character, I hope you know that you’re entirely to blame.”
“No,” I’m still trying to say, repeating myself over and over as if I can somehow change reality through the sheer force of my denial.“No.”
“Were you saving them up this entire time? Waiting for the right moment to strike?”
“I wasn’t.”
“You weren’t what?” And unlike Rosie, he actually waits for me to answer.
“I—I didn’t mean to send those emails,” I tell him. I’m afraid I’m going to faint, or throw up, or both. “I just— A lot is going on right now. But I don’t know how they got to you. I really . . . I swear, you have to believe me. You were never supposed to get them.”
His dark eyes roam over my face, and the air in my lungs stills. The way he’s looking at me—it’s like he can see everything, every terrible, ugly thought that’s ever flickered through my mind, every impulse and fantasy, every lie and insecurity. “I believe you,” he says at last, evenly.
I’m so surprised I almost can’t speak. “You . . . do?”
“I believe that you’d never want anyone else to read those emails,” he says, folding his arms across his chest, the angles of his face sharp and hostile. “That would go against yourgood studentreputation, right? You would never be that brave,” he adds with a scoff. “You’re too fake.”
It feels like someone’s held a torch to my cheeks. Everything in me burns. “You think I’m fake?”
“You don’t think you are?” He cocks his head. “You go around smiling and charming the teachers and agreeing to anything anyone asks of you like you’re some kind of angel, and then you go back and write your secret little emails about how much you hate my guts and wish to strangle me—”
“It’s called being nice,” I cut in.
“Yes, strangulation is very nice. Practically a peace offering.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
He laughs, a cold, hard sound. “You never say what you mean anyway.”
There’s a dangerous pressure building behind my eyes. I blink furiously, squeeze my hands into fists, ignore the odd knot of pain in my throat. “You can’t accuse me of being fake forhaving basic manners.” If this were any other day, I would stop here. Just short of getting into a real confrontation, of speaking my mind. But then I realize, with a burst of hysteria, that Julius already knows what I think. There’s no point pretending anymore when he’s seen the worst of me. It’s almost liberating. “I know you don’t care about anyone except yourself, and I know you can get away with it because you’reyou, but not all of us are built like that.”
Something flashes over his face, and I falter.
Maybe I went too far. Maybe I was too harsh. As much as I hate him, the emails are still my fault. “I am sorry,” I make myself say, my tone softening just a little. “I was really, really annoyed when I drafted those emails, so if they hurt your feelings—”
And as if I’ve hit a switch, his expression hardens. His mouth tugs up in a mocking smile, his black eyes glittering. When he exhales, I can see the ghost of his breath in the air between us. “Hurt my feelings?” He says it like a joke. “You have far too high an opinion of yourself, Sadie. You aren’t capable of hurting me. On the contrary . . . don’t you remember what you wrote?”
An alarm goes off in my brain.
Danger.
Retreat.
But I’m frozen to the ground, only my heart galloping faster and faster.
“From what I recall, you wrote two whole paragraphs protesting the color of my eyes,” he drawls, and I feel myself pale with horror. “They’re too dark, like those of a monster from the fairy tales. Like a lake you could drown in on the coldest day of winter. My lashes are too long, more fitting for a girl’s. I don’t deserve to be so pretty. My gaze is too sharp, too intense; you can’t hold it for long without being overwhelmed.” He stares right at me as he speaks, like he wants to see if it’s true, to witness his effect on me in real time. “You said it makes it difficult for you to concentrate in class.”
I’ve always resented Julius’s perfect memory, but I’ve never resented it as much as I do in this instant.
“That’s enough,” I try to say.
But of course he won’t listen to me. If anything, he only seems more determined to continue. “You then wrote three hundred words ranting about my hands.” He flexes his long fingers, examining them carefully. “I had no idea you paid such close attention to the way I held my pen or gripped the violin bow or how I looked when I was answering something on the board.”
