Dare You to Hate Me by B. Celeste (classic fiction .txt) 📕

When I’m outside, my arms go back around my torso as a tear escapes. To the wind, I whisper, “Out of your head, Underwood.”

And the wind whispers back, Head in the game.

Chapter Four

Ivy

There’s not enough caffeine in the world to prepare me for classes on Monday. I’m barely able to stay awake during English Composition and have no recollection of dragging myself across campus to get to Biological Anthropology. The room is abuzz when I settle into my normal seat in the back of the lecture hall, closest to the doors for a quick escape once the fifty-minute class ends.

I’m getting out my worn black notebook and pen when a body drops into the seat beside mine—something that hasn’t happened in the two months since class started. When I glance up from my messy scrawl on the notebook paper in front of me, I gape at the boyish smirk that’s staring back, belonging to someone who usually sits across the room.

“That’s not your seat,” I point out, as if DJ doesn’t already know. We’ve had class three days a week for eight weeks. I’m sure the brown-eyed footballer knows in the twenty-four times he’s shown up that he’s sat with his buddies an entire section over.

He settles in despite my obvious statement, dropping his backpack onto the ground by his feet and spreading his long jean-clad legs out to get comfortable. I find myself scowling over how much space he’s using until he chuckles over my reaction. “You’re not very friendly, are you?”

I scribble the date in the corner of the page and reply, “That’s not very nice to say.”

He lifts a broad shoulder, one that I’ve heard can do some damage to players during games, looking unapologetic in his true assessment. “I’m DJ, by the way.”

My eyes turn from DJ—who has a slight Boston accent—to the front of the room, where the elderly professor lays out his materials on the front table and logs into the computer. Professor Relethford makes class interesting. When my adviser suggested the elective, I wasn’t sure I’d like it. Learning about people who died a long time ago seemed boring, but I quickly learned that they have even better stories than we do. It makes me wonder what they’ll say about me when I’m gone, and the thought takes me back to a dark place where that could have become a reality nobody would have expected.

What would my parents have said if someone knocked on their door saying they’d found my body? I’d be known as the runaway, nothing else. Would Mom cry? Would Dad? I know they’d be sad because they’re not bad people, just not great parents. Mom teared up when our cat Button had to be put down from all her strokes, so it wouldn’t be far off to say she’d do the same for me.

DJ nudges my arm playfully like we’re old buddies, pulling me away from the depressing thoughts swarming my mind. “What? Only willing to talk to our tight end?”

My cheeks heat before I can stop them. I’d hoped he wouldn’t bring up walking in on Aiden and me the other day. DJ and I never had many interactions before now, but I know who he is. If Lena isn’t yammering on about Aiden, it’s someone else on the football team—Caleb, DJ, or their quarterback and captain of the Lindon Dragons Justin Brady. DJ gets more airtime dancing on the field after touchdowns than any other player gets for playtime. He can’t stand still, always walking along the sidelines when he’s not on the field, smacking his teammates, and messing with the fans. There are videos I’ve seen on the university’s YouTube channel thanks to Elena shoving them in my face to watch in between customers.

The fidgety boy beside me snickers over my silence. “I’m just messing with you. Griff doesn’t talk to many people, so you must not be a total nutcase if he’s willing to have you around. And let’s be real. Nobody wants a nutcase near their junk, so you can’t be that lethal. Plus, you’ve seemed chill when I’ve seen you around.”

He’s seen me around? One of my brows raises when I look at him again. “Thanks, I think.” His lips kick up higher at the corners at my dull reply. “Why are you sitting here?”

Propping a dirtied boot on the back of the chair in front of him earns him a scathing look from the dark-haired girl sitting in it. That is, until she realizes who it is. Her eyes light up and a small, flirty smile stretches across her lips. Unlike mine, they aren’t painted a bright color—dark reds and pinks are my favorite. Most college kids wear sweatpants and sweatshirts, or even pajamas to classes. Little to no makeup. Casual. My clothes are my armor, fitting me like a soldier ready for battle every time I walk onto campus. My makeup is no different—mastered wing-tipped liner always lines my eyes and makes the honey-gold brown tone pop and pink rouge that gives me more cheekbone than I really have.

If my clothes are my armor, then my makeup is my war paint.

The girl batting her lashes clearly doesn’t notice me until I snort at her typical reaction to Lindon’s athletes. She catches me rolling my eyes and her smile drops into a scowl. Whatever. I have to watch and listen to my housemates become fools whenever most athletes are involved, so it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. In hindsight, DJ is one of the more attractive players in a goofy boy-next-door sort of way. Dirty blond hair that’s a mess of short curls, a dimpled smile, and charming dark eyes that someone could easily be influenced by.

“See?” DJ says, tipping his chin at the girl who wiggles her fingers at him before turning back around and whispering with her giggling friends. “That’s what I’m used to. Same with Aiden. Except the attention pisses