The Hating Game

“That’s what you want?”
I nod, but I’m such a little liar. All I want to do is kiss you until I fall asleep. I want to slide in between your sheets, and find out what goes on inside your head, and underneath your clothes. I want to make a fool of myself over you.
Mr. Bexley’s door is ajar so I speak as quietly as I can. “It’s freaking me out.”
He can see that it’s the truth. I’ve got desperate, crazy eyes. He nods and just like that: Control, A; Delete. The kiss never happened.
I pray for a diversion. A fire drill. Julie calling me to say she would never meet a deadline ever again. I’m not the only one praying for the floor to cave in.
“How was your . . . date?” His voice is faint, his knuckles white. Being nice to me is a lot of effort.
“Fine. We’ve got a lot in common.” I try in vain to wake my computer.
“You’re both extremely small.” He’s frowning at his own computer as if this is the worst conversation he’s ever been party to. Being friends with me does not come naturally.
“He didn’t even tease me about the strawberries. Danny is . . . nice. He’s my type.” It’s all I can think of to say.
“Nice is what you want, then.”
“It’s all anybody wants. My parents have been begging me for ages to find myself a nice guy.” I keep my voice light, but inside, a little bubble of hope is rising. We’re talking like friends.
And did Mr. Nice Guy drive you home?”
I know what he’s asking me. “No. I got a cab. By myself.”
He breathes out heavily. He rubs his face in exhaustion, then looks at me through his fingers. “What shall we play now?”
“What about Normal Colleagues? Or the Friendship Game? I’ve been dying to try either of those.” I look up and hold my breath.
He sits up straight and glowers at me. “Both would be a waste of time, don’t you think?”
“Well, ouch.” If I say it sarcastically, he won’t know I’m serious. He opens his planner, pencil in hand, and begins making so many annotations that I blink and turn to my computer. I can’t care about his stupid planner anymore. His pencil, my spying experiment. It all ends right now. It’s all been a waste of time.
I tell myself to be glad.
TODAY IS A magnificent black T-shirt day. Write today in your diaries. Tell your grandchildren stories about it. I tear my eyes away, but they slide back moments later. Underneath that T-shirt is a body that could fog an elderly librarian’s glasses. I think my underwear is curling off me like burning paper.
It’s a week after the kiss that I never think about. Bexley & Gamin’s Alphabet Branch is being herded onto a bus like cattle.
“Waivers,” Joshua is saying over and over as people slap them into his hand. “Waivers to me. Cash to Lucinda. Hey, this isn’t signed. Sign it. Waivers.”
“Who’s Lucinda?” someone farther back in the line asks.
“Cash to Lucy. This ridiculously small person right here. Hair. Lipstick. Lucy.”
I know someone who is going to be riddled with paint shortly. The line surges forward and I’m nearly flattened against the bus.
“Hey, I didn’t tell you to trample her.”
Joshua whips them all back and rebalances me beside him like a bowling pin, the warmth of his hand searing through my sleeve. Julie then touches my other elbow and I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Sorry for missing the deadline the other day. I can’t wait to have a proper night’s sleep. I’m like a zombie.”
She hands me her twenty and her nails have French tips. I curl my slightly chipped nails into my palms.
“I was hoping for a favor,” she says, and over her shoulder I can see Joshua tense, ear tilted to our conversation like a satellite. Eavesdropping is unbecoming. I draw Julie away a little, my hand outstretched as people continue to slap twenties into it.
“Okay, what is it?” Already my stomach is sinking.
“My niece is sixteen, and she needs to do an internship. Her school counselor thinks it would help her to gain some perspective. She can’t skip classes and sleep all day, you know? Teenagers have no idea of the concept of work.”
“You could talk to Jeanette, she could arrange something.” I take someone else’s cash. “They always want to work with the design team.”
“No, I want her to do an internship with you.”
“Me? Why?” I’m seized with the urge to run away.
“You’re the only person here who’d be patient enough with her. She’s a little bit opinionated.”
This is a world first, but I wish Joshua would interrupt. Something happen. Please. I am beaming messages his satellite ear is not receiving. Joshua, Mayday, Mayday, I will do anything for you if you interrupt.
“She’s got a lot of issues. Drugs, and a few other things. Please, would you do it? It’d mean a lot to her mother, and it might get her back on track.”
“Well. Can I think on it?” I avert my eyes from Joshua who has abandoned eavesdropping and has now turned to face us, hand on hip.
“I need to know now. She’s meeting with her school counselor in half an hour. She’s meant to have something lined up.” Julie looks at me, her mouth curled in an expectant smile.
“How long would it be for? Like, a day?”
Julie takes a step closer, squeezing my arm painfully in her beautiful hand.
“It’d be for two weeks during the next school break. You’re such a sweetheart. Thank you, I’ll text her now. She won’t be happy but you’ll bring her around.”
“Wait,” I begin, but she’s already climbing onto the bus.
“Well, that went well. You know what I would have told her?” Joshua says.
I stick a hand into my hair. My scalp feels hot and prickly. “Shut up.”
“I’d have said one little word. It’s simple, you should try it sometime. Say it with me. No.”
“Hey,” Danny says with a smile as he joins the queue.
“No. Hi.” I do my cutest grin. I hope he’s wearing sunscreen on his pretty silver-blond skin. “You made it. I guess paintballing is a good way to celebrate your last day.”
“Yeah, it’ll be fun. Mitchell said I didn’t have to come, but I wanted to. The team took me out for a farewell lunch too.”
I know most of this; we’ve been emailing all week, and I helped him carry some boxes to his car. The little envelope icon on my toolbar has been giving me little twinges of excitement. I’ve been hot and restless all morning. Light-headed. I definitely have a crush.
“Waiver,” Joshua interjects. Danny hands him the paper, not taking his eyes from me.
“I love your hair today,” Danny tells me and I duck my head, flattered. It’s the correct thing to say to me. I’m ridiculously vain about my hair. My conditioner is probably worth more per ounce than cocaine.
“Thanks, it’s gone a little crazy. I think it’s a bit humid.”
“Well, I like it a little crazy.” Danny touches the haywire curls resting on my upper arm. We make eye contact and start laughing.
“I’ll bet you do, sleazebag.” I shake my head.
“Give her the money, then get on the bus,” Joshua says slowly, like Danny is very simple indeed. They exchange an unfriendly look. I take his twenty and give him a Flamethrower smile in return.
“Wanna be teammates?”
“Yes,” I say at the same time as Joshua barks, No. He sure is good at saying that word.
“Teams are pre-allocated,” he snaps, and Danny shoots me a look that clearly says, What’s up his ass?
“I was hoping to—” Danny begins, but Joshua shoots him his own look: Whatever you’re trying? Don’t. The last person in the line gives me their cash, and we are left standing in a fog of weird tension.
Chapter 8
I’ll talk to you in a bit,” Danny promises me and boards the bus. I don’t blame him. Joshua has his arms crossed like a nightclub bouncer.
“What the hell was that about?” I ask Joshua. He shakes his head.
Helene and Mr. Bexley swerve out in their respective Porsche and Rolls to meet us there. Of course, they’re not going to participate in the team building. They’re going to sit on the balcony overlooking the paintball park and drink coffee and hate each other’s guts.
“Let’s go,” Joshua says and pushes me onto the bus. There are only two seats left, and they’re right up front. Joshua has reserved them with stacks of clipboards. Danny leans into the aisle and shrugs regretfully.
Joshua sent the branch an email instructing us to change into old casual clothes at lunch. Things we won’t mind ruining. I’m wearing skintight jeans and a stretched-out vintage Elvis T-shirt. It used to belong to my dad. Fat, jumpsuit Elvis, microphone raised to his lips. It slides loosely off my shoulder. The look I was trying to emulate was Kate Moss at a music festival. Judging by Joshua’s face when he saw me, I’m a tragic loser. He did, however, look at the emerald-green strap of my sports bra. I know that for a fact.
Joshua also got changed into casual clothes. While he folded his black business shirt neatly on his desk like a retail assistant, I caught my reflection on the wall diagonal to him; a slack-jawed mask of idiotic lust. Firstly, Joshua is wearing jeans. They’re all beaten-up and worn, with ice-blue paint flecks, and they pull taut across his thighs as he sits. I can’t fault those jeans.
Next, he’s wearing a T-shirt. The soft, threadbare cotton melts all over his torso as he slouches. The shapes going on under that T-shirt are . . . The sleeves are cutting gently into biceps that are making me . . . But it’s his flat stomach that I’m . . . The skin is all gold like—
“May I help you with something?” He smoothes down the T-shirt. My eyes slither along behind his hand. I want to scrunch up that T-shirt into a bowl and eat it with a dessert spoon.
“I never thought you’d wear . . .” I gesture vaguely at his fabulous torso.
“You thought I’d be paintballing in Hugo Boss?”
“Hugo Boss, eh? Didn’t they design the Nazi uniforms?”
“Lucinda, I swear.” He closes his eyes for nearly a full minute. He pinches the bridge of his nose. I’d swear he’s trying to not laugh, or scream.
I cross my eyes at him, poke my tongue out, and say, “Derrrr.” He doesn’t crack. Defeated, I twist up and look over the seats until I see Danny’s ruffled hair. We wave to each other and pull identical faces to indicate how unhappy we are with our seatmates. Then it occurs to me my boobs are probably a couple of inches from Joshua’s head and I slide back down.
“You and him? It’s getting a little pathetic.” Joshua is testy.
The word cuts me deep. Pathetic. He’s called me that before. We’ve circuited back neatly to the same place we’re most comfortable. I had wondered how things would play out after the kiss, after the tears, the wounded sadness in his eyes. The apology. The silence that has stretched through each day since.
According to Joshua, we’re back to hate, and I can’t do it much longer. I can’t keep it going. It’s taking too much out of me. What was once as easy as breathing is now an uphill battle. I’m so tired I’m aching.
“Sure. I’m pathetic.” I watch the road ahead, and the Staring Game is going on, one-sided. I ignore him. No one can see us except the driver, if she chose to look, but she’s got traffic to contend with.
“Shortcake.”
I ignore him.
“Shortcake.”
“I do not know anyone by that name.”
“Play with me for a minute,” he says it softly, right in my ear. I turn my face to his and try to regulate my breathing.
“HR,” I manage. His face is so close to mine I can taste his breath, hot mint sweetness. I can see the tiny stripes in his irises, tiny unexpected sparks of yellow and green. There are so many blues I think of galaxies. Little stars.
“Are your roses still alive?”
Is there anything this man does not know? I try to not notice that our elbows are touching a little. Elbows are not erogenous. At least, I didn’t think they were.
“Who’d you hear about them from?”