Dear Diary, I Hate Him

6th September, 2021

Dear Diary,

Megan here. How have you been?

Today was my first day back at high school after summer break. It went okay overall, but not meeting him would have made it perfect. Instead, I met the most arrogant and ungrateful boy in school today.

I wish I could unmeet him.

Argh.

The setting: History class, first period after assembly.

Everyone was talking about their summer holidays and who went where, while I was reading through the boring Roman history we would apparently be studying this year. It was a typical first day. Loud. Pointless. Full of people acting as if seeing each other after two months was a national event.

Then Mr. Martin brought him into the classroom.

He was the most handsome boy I had ever seen, which was saying something because our school has its fair share of jocks and Hollywood lookalikes. His silky obsidian hair tumbled in waves to his nape, not too long, not too short, like it had been arranged by some unfair hair god. His sky-blue eyes were framed with thick lashes.

I would kill for lashes like that.

His gaze reminded me of some icy winter knight looking down at peasants from a castle wall. Condescending. Cold. Far too confident. His eyes shone with a pompous self-assurance I disliked on sight.

I decided then and there that I wanted absolutely nothing to do with him.

With a stiff upper lip he had no business owning, he introduced himself as James William, a transfer student from Australia. Then he sauntered to the only empty desk in the classroom: the window seat beside me.

Beside me.

Dear Diary, I should have taken that as a warning from the universe.

At first, I did not think much of it. I could ignore him. I am excellent at ignoring people when necessary. It is practically one of my hidden talents. But maybe, in hindsight, I should have chosen another seat. Or another classroom. Or another planet.

Mr. Martin asked us to tell everyone how our summer went and introduce ourselves, even though he knew most of us from freshman year. Everyone took turns except the transfer student, because apparently being new means you get to sit there looking mysterious while the rest of us pretend anyone cares that we went camping or visited cousins.

Most of the day passed with introductions and catching up. It was boring. I would have been much more excited if my BFF, Christine Monroe, had been there.

But alas, she is off backpacking through Thailand and will only be back in the third week.

Christine and I met in kindergarten after a massive catfight over seats. We both wanted the same one, and because we were tiny dramatic queens, we decided the proper response was war. Somehow, after that, we became best friends.

She has been my rock through junior high, when my face exploded with pimples and I was convinced no one would ever look at me again without needing medical assistance. She was there when my father ditched us to marry his young secretary. I was there when her growth spurt gave her breasts and hips earlier than expected, and she tried and failed to feel comfortable in her own skin.

This year, she decided to explore her roots and went to Thailand to visit her extended family. Christine, you see, is Thai-American, and her grandparents migrated to America from Thailand.

I am happy for her. Really. I am.

I am also tragically abandoned in a school full of humans who test my patience before lunch.

Anyway, back to Mr. Arrogant.

After Mr. Martin left the room, half the girls in class practically fluttered over to James’s desk. They asked for his phone number, where he had studied before, what his hobbies were, whether Australia was as cool as it looked in movies, and several other questions that started tame and then sprinted straight into intrusive.

They kept asking if he had a girlfriend.

He said no.

Then they quizzed him about his ideal girl and what he liked in a girlfriend.

Seriously, guys. Subtle much?

Surprisingly, his reply was, and I quote, “I like a girl who knows her literature, loves to read, and is smart. She should have a good sense of humor. Sassy is even better. A down-to-earth, homey kinda girl. Doesn’t wear much make-up and loves animals and children.”

He was surrounded by girls with manicured hands, heavy make-up, and status-following smiles. In short, it was a zigzag way to reject them without actually saying, “Please remove yourselves from my desk.”

Their overzealous smiles wilted at once.

Of course, Chloe, our resident queen bee, could not let that moment slide. Her motto is basically, If you can’t have ’em, ruin ’em.

With a thousand-volt evil smirk, she rounded on me and pointed.

“Well, then, you’re a perfect match for Megan Parker, our resident geek with no interest in make-up. She loves animals and kids and is sassy to a fault.”

I rolled my eyes at her obvious taunt and gave the lot of them my iciest glare. It was a good glare too. I have practiced.

Then, just when I thought it could not get any worse, Mr. Arrogant looked at me.

Not glanced.

Looked.

He started from my toes, gradually made his way up, got sidetracked by my curves if his wolfish grin and heavy-lidded eyes were any indication, and finally rested those sky-blue eyes on my face.

I did not know whether to be enraged at his leering or disturbed that he was paying me any attention at all.

Still, his gaze unnerved me.

I felt exposed under that slow, raking look. It was not only that he gave me a thorough once-over. It felt like he saw through me. Like he saw my insecurities, my worries, all the ugly little thoughts I keep locked away where no one can poke at them.

Like he saw that I felt inadequate.

Then he had the nerve to turn indifferent.

Indifferent.

Dear Diary, when I remember what he said next, it makes my blood boil.

“She’s got a great body, but too cutesy and bossy for my taste.”

With a shrug, Mr. Arrogant went back to flirting with the glossy fan club surrounding his desk, as if he had not just publicly assessed me like I was a dress on a clearance rack.

God, I hate punks like him.

They think the world is their stage and everyone else is just background noise. They think they can get away with anything as long as they flash an overconfident smile and charm people into forgiving them before they have even apologized.

Brats like him are irresponsible. They do not care about consequences. They do not care who they embarrass. They say things, do things, ruin things, and then stroll away as if nothing matters.

You may think I am being too harsh.

Maybe I am.

But I would know.

Dad was just like that.

He smiled. He charmed. He made people believe he was harmless, generous, funny, impossible to stay angry with. Then he left us for his other family, the family he had been building for five years before he finally walked out of ours.

So yes, maybe I judged James William too quickly.

Or maybe I recognized the type.

I am tired now. Emotionally and physically. I am going to do some work and head off to bed before I think about his stupid sky-blue eyes again and accidentally commit murder in my imagination.

Signing out,

With Exhaustion