Page 7 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
“Of course.”
“Great. I can always count on you.” Ms. Rachel smiles at everyone like they’re special, but somehow it still manages to feel genuine when she’s smiling at me.
The second she steps out the door, the class dissolves into chaos. People slump back in their seats, kick their feet on desks, stretch their arms out in loud, open-mouthed yawns. Muffled conversations give way to open hoots of laughter and shouts across the room.
Before I can do anything about it, an alert pops up from my school inbox.
One new email.
My heart leaps. I’m praying it’s a reply from Mr. Kaye, our math teacher; I sent him a desperate email after midnight yesterday about one of the bonus questions. Unfortunately I still have all my tabs open, and my aging laptop is clearly protesting; I have to click my inbox about twenty times before the rainbow spinning wheel disappears. Then I glance at the name of the sender, and my hope whittles away into rage.
It’s from Julius.
Just so you know, Ms. Rachel took a peek at our group project earlier and said it looked—and I quote—“phenomenal.” I’m saying this now so you’re not too shocked when our grades come back and mine’s higher than yours. I know how upset you get every time I win.
Best regards,
Julius Gong, School Captain
I snap my head up, my eyes going straight to him, but he’s turned away, chatting to the pretty girl sitting next to him. As he laughs, I’m gripped by the visceral urge to march up there and shake him by the shoulders, dig my nails into his smooth skin. I want to leave a permanent mark. I want him tofeelit, to hurt. I want to destroy him.
“Sadie.” Abigail’s voice sounds a thousand miles away, even though she’s sitting right next to me. “Um, there’s a vein in your temple that looks like it should be examined by a health professional.”
When I don’t reply, she leans over me and reads the email on my screen.
“Damn,” she breathes. “That boy’s really making it his life mission to get on your nerves.”
I squeeze out a scoff that sounds more like I’m being strangled.
Across the classroom, he’s still laughing with the other girl.
Happy place, I remind myself.Remember your happy place. Your future.
But when I try to summon up the image of the giant house with the sunlit rooms and soft curtains, all that materializes is Julius’s sneering face, his pitch-black eyes and haughty cheekbones and curved lips. Beautiful and horrible, like those vivid flowers you find blooming in the wild that are actually carnivorous.
So instead I spread my fingers over the keyboard and begin to type in a furious rush, stabbing out each letter with my nails. This is my last resort, my sanctuary, the antidote to my anger. Because I know better than anyone that I’m not really a saint. Nowhere close. I simply like to unleash all my rage in my email drafts, where I can be as harsh and petty and unforgiving as I want, because I also know that I’ll never have the nerve to send them out. When I write, I write anything and everything that comes to mind.
Julius,
Just so YOU know, I’m keeping your email as evidence so that when our grades come back and mine’s obviously higher, you’ll understand how it feels to be slapped by your own hand. I can’t wait for the day to arrive. But also, even if it were a tie, I don’t think you have any reason to gloat. You managed to complete your project only because you have smart people like Adam in your group, and you have Adam in your group only because you gave the teacher that complete rubbish speech about wanting to switch things up and bond with new peers and so she let you choose.
Maybe the teacher and the parents you showed around this morning and everyone else at this school buy your bullshit, but I can see right through you, Julius Gong. You’re attention starved and self-obsessed and unbearably vain and you wear your cynicism like a crown; you’re the kind of kid on the playground who steals a toy not because you want it but because somebody else does.
Also, your hairstyle is ridiculous. You might think it looks all natural and effortless, but I bet you spend entire hours of your morning styling it with a tiny comb so that the one singular strand falls over your left eye at the perfect angle. From the bottom of my heart, I really hope your comb breaks and you run out of whatever expensive hair products you’ve been using to make your hair appear deceptively soft when I’m sure it’s not, because there’s nothing soft about you, anywhere at all—
“Morning, Mr. Kaye!”
The name jolts me back to reality. I peel my eyes from my laptop and spot Mr. Kaye walking past us down the corridor, a hand lifted in greeting.
I quickly save the draft. It’s the fifty-seventh draft email I have; the majority of them are dedicated to Julius, but there are a few others written for classmates and teachers who’ve made my life especially difficult in the past.
“Mr. Kaye,” I call, shooting up from my seat so fast I bang my knee against the desk. “Mr. Kaye, wait—” I suppress a wince and rush out into the corridor after him.
“Sadie,” he says, regarding me with the strained patience of a grandparent humoring their overenergetic grandchild. He’s probably old enough to be my grandpa, though it’s hard to tell, with his dyed black hair.
“Sorry to bother you,” I say. “But did you get that—”
“Email you sent?” he finishes for me. Unlike his hair, his brows are a peppery gray. They rise slowly up his wide forehead. “Yes, I did. Are you often up at one in the morning?”
