Loathing You by Amina Khan

 

Chapter ONE

A d a l i n e

There is not a single thought in this boy's head. Not even one! Would it be offensive to say I saw this coming? I mean, he’s a typical student here; annoying and entitled. This is our fifth session and I haven’t received an iota of work from him since we began. Even right now, he’s just staring at me with this dazed, blank look.

“What was the question again?” Andrew asks, sounding tired.

What exactly are you tired from? I’ve been tutoring you for an hour and you’ve spent the whole time on your phone!

Instead of saying what is on my mind, I opt for an easier, more scintillating option. “I’m not tutoring you anymore.” As I pack my things away, he just shrugs in response.

Of course. Why should he care? He’s rich and will probably pay his way through any university he wants, just like every other Neanderthal at this nightmare of a college—Richmond sixth form academy—predominantly home to the richest, most entitled brats in England.

The real question is, why am I wasting my time tutoring these kids? I ponder on the question as I walk out of the school library. Well, tutoring does have its benefits; like looking exceptional on my university application forms, which is the only thing that really matters to me.

Although I feel my brain cells dwindling, which is starting to drain me the more I continue to tutor them, there are still some perks to it and if something is beneficial to me, especially to my education, I’m doing it.

That’s why I took that academic scholarship for Richmond Academy when I was twelve. I wasn’t going to stay at my shabby, old secondary school. Although going from being surrounded by kids my age, to an academy where the age range is around 12-18…isn’t exactly the easiest thing. However, I got used to it fairly quickly.

Everyone here at Richmond is affluent; I think I'm undoubtedly the only scholarship kid here as the other four dropped out like dominoes year after year. They couldn't handle the pressure. By that I mean they couldn't handle the rich, entitled cunts in this place. I don't blame them, if I wasn't so determined to achieve my dreams, I would have left this place years ago.

This is one of the most prestigious sixth forms in the country, so dealing with idiots for the last five years has been worth it. At least, I am able to experience all the academic privileges here, especially the lockers; double-sized, beautiful, navy-blue lockers that match my uniform.

My abundance of books fit so perfectly within this locker, as does everything else; like my headphones, which I’m currently taking out and slipping onto my head.

Music is one of the only things that makes me feel grounded sometimes; that and studying. I’m exceedingly hell-bent on becoming a surgeon, if I wasn’t, I would for sure think about becoming a musician, regardless of the fact that I can't carry a tune to save my life.

Music really is so versatile. I could listen to music during sex, in the shower, while working ou—

“It's like you're married to those headphones.” I feel my headphones being snatched off my precious head, which simultaneously snaps me out of my thoughts.

I slam my locker door shut, turning around to come face to face with the culprits—my best friends. Victoria is the one holding my headphones with a smile on her flawless face.

Victoria Williams. Her family is one of the richest families in Europe—especially here in England. Her parents are world renowned basketball players and her entire family lineage are sport prodigies. She's no different; any sports team you can name? She is on it.

I on the other hand would rather die than join a sports team. Spending hours sweating while doing cardio? No, thanks. I can think of something that will give me the same amount of cardio and triple the pleasure.

Here she stands, my headphones in her perfectly manicured hands, her walnut brown eyes gleaming with mischief and her dark, brown skin glistening even in this damp weather. Sometimes, it was hard to be annoyed at her; she was too pretty to be annoyed at.

I yank my property back. “What have I told you assholes about touching my headphones?”

“That you'll dismember us if we touch your shit?” Aryan answered, smirking as he slings his arm around my shoulder.

“Exactly,” I respond, punching his stomach lightly.

Of course, in true Aryan fashion, he clutches his stomach melodramatically wailing while I hide my grin. Even if I wanted to hurt him—which I'm very capable of—it would not faze him in the slightest. Aryan Oberoi is a brick wall; a six foot three, pure muscle, South-Asian, brick wall.

Just like Victoria and pretty much every other student at this school, Aryan's family is exceedingly wealthy.

His family comes from very old money. Something in the lines of petrochemical ventures. I haven't the faintest clue what any of these ventures mean and neither does Aryan.

He isn't really the sharpest tool in the shed, but he never lets that affect him. He’s more into physical pursuits like Victoria, especially boxing.

We couldn’t be more different. I was academically inclined, whereas they couldn’t care less and focused more on physical pursuits. I was poor, they were rich, which didn’t make a difference to me.

I knew we’d become best friends my first week at Richmond when I got detention for rallying against the sexist dress code. When I walked in to the room, they were both there for doing the exact same thing. A true friendship was born that day.

“Always so violent,” Victoria responds jokingly, opening her locker.

As she opens it, roses begin falling out from the locker to her feet. Aryan and I share a knowing, amused look.

“Your secret admirer?” I joke. She just rolls her eyes at me.

She inspects the roses with a slight smirk on her lips, her hands playing with the petals. “He’s not a secret, he’s a pain in my ass.”

She’s talking about Kai Kang, the boy who’s been pining over her for the last three years. He has declared his love for her on multiple occasions with flowers, compliments, and gifts. Yet, Victoria has never given him the time of day nor has she rejected him.

“Why don’t you finally reject him then?” I question curiously, while Aryan nods in agreement.

I couldn’t understand it. Every time he parades her with attention and gifts, she takes it and doesn’t reject him out rightly or even hint that she’s uninterested. It would have been a different case if he was pushing it and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

She shrugs without looking at us. “I enjoy the attention.”

Fair enough.

“Maybe you should give him a shot,” Aryan suggests innocently. Mine and Victoria's eyes snap instantly at his suggestion.

“I would destroy him.” She laughs huskily.

“He would so be into that.” I giggle, feeling her playfully pushing me in response.

“Plus, he is very pretty to look at,” Aryan adds wistfully. Both Victoria and I can’t help but nod in agreement at his comment.

Besides the fact that Kai Kang keeps horrible company, I don’t know much about him. All I know is that he has bright red hair that blinds most people, tattoos littered all over his body, and is very attractive.

“Maybe you should give him a shot then,” Victoria suggests in a half amused, half snarky tone. Someone’s deflecting.

“No way. He isn’t my type.” Aryan laughs boisterously, shaking his head. “I don’t like boys who act like lovesick kittens.”

It’s true, Aryan’s type is a man that would often give him little attention, which is very hard to find, mostly because everyone gives him attention, even girls who completely disregard the fact that he’s gay.

“Lovesick puppy,” I correct him politely.

He smiles at me and nods. “Yeah. He's too much of a lovesick puppy.”

“I find it endearing,” Victoria responds with a rare, soft smile on her face.

“Then why don’t you give him a chance?” Aryan’s question makes me coo toward him. He always tries to look for the good in others.

Victoria sighs. “Are you forgetting who his best friend is? How can I entertain the idea of giving him a chance when he’s friends with J—”

“Please, don’t mention her name; I’m having such a good day.” I cut her off quickly.

Both my friends laugh at the disgusted expression on my face, but I don’t find it amusing in the slightest. Just the mention of that girl’s name brings up bile in my throat and my chest tightens whenever I think of her, which is funny, because I manage to think of her quite often. It’s infuriating.

I notice Aryan and Victoria sharing glances toward each other and smirking. I’ve noticed that they do this a lot when we talk about the ‘devil who shall not be named’.

Victoria ruffles my hair and puts her arm around me in the same way I assume an older sister would. “Regardless. Being with him means I’d have to see her all the time. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Excuses. Excuses. Excuses.

We can pretend that the reason she isn’t dating Kai is about me, but it isn’t. I’ve told her time and time again that I would be ecstatic if she chose to date him. Regardless of who his best friend is, he’s a nice kid. He has constantly defended me against his evil best friend and has often lectured her in front of me too.

Although if he’s so sweet, I’m not sure why he’s still friends with someone like her; maybe a long history? A feeling of obligation? Because seriously, who would willingly choose to be friends with her?

“You don’t need to stop yourself on my acco—” I don't get to finish my sentence because Victoria shoots me a stern look, telling me with her eyes to keep my mouth shut.

Of course, I do just that. I don’t make it a habit to ignore Victoria and her demands, no one does.

“Anyway …” Aryan clears his throat, changing the subject. We both let him. “Have you guys taken Mr Mathew’s test yet? Everyone is talking about how hard it is.”

“I have, it was really easy,” I respond, leaning into the crook of Victoria's neck.

I feel her laugh against me. “Everything is easy for you.”

“Yeah, it is,” I reply cockily.

I receive a light push from them both for my comment, but not a word of protest.

Why else would I be the go-to tutor at Richmond academy? I’m academically gifted; it’s a simple fact. There is not a single subject that I don’t excel at and yes, I’m not very modest about it.

While most of my academic prowess was naturally built, I work exceedingly harder than anyone at this privileged school, so I have no shame in boasting about how intelligent I am. I earned that right.

The bell rings loudly, ending my boasting. Both my friends groan at the sound.

“Ugh, I’ve got math,” Aryan whines in that lovable way he usually does.

“French.”

“Biology.” I beam. They both groan in unison at my obvious excitement. They could make fun of me all they wanted—and they often did—but that would never change how much I adored biology. I would get down on my knees, even sell everyone I know if biology asked me to. It’s my absolutely favourite subject. I’ve loved biology ever since I was a child and realized I wanted to become a surgeon.

“Try not to orgasm in class.” Aryan teases me.

I mock—laugh at him before kicking his shin quickly and running away, ignoring his cries and Victoria’s giggles.

I make my way into class, ignoring the scalding gaze of the other students as I take my seat.

“Good afternoon,” Professor Khalid greets as he walks in and places his bags down on the table in the middle of the science lab.

His five-foot eight stature is hunched and his jet-black hair ruffled beyond belief. Even his beard isn’t as neat as it usually looks.

If this was any other teacher, I wouldn’t notice these things, but he’s the most tolerable teacher at Richmond. I tend to notice the small things when I can actually stand someone.

“Class will be starting a little later today as I have important matters to attend to. I’ll be back to teach in half an hour, feel free to use that time to revise in class …”

He doesn’t even finish his sentence before most of the students scramble out of the classroom, desperate to get any time away from this class. He seems to do the same, jetting out of the lab.

Obviously, I don’t leave, I just use this time to take out my biology textbook and revise instead. Final A-level exams are in a few months; I need to be completely prepared. I can’t risk not being accepted into university; Oxford, more precisely. It’s my dream school. It has been since I was ten and I saw an advert on the back of a bus.

I always knew I wanted to be a surgeon, but I never knew which university I would go to until that day. I didn’t have a phone or a book to keep me company then, so I just stared at the poster for most of the bus ride. I’m not sure why, but it stuck with me and rightfully so; it’s a prestigious university after all.

I want to fantasize more about my future as well as continue reading my favourite textbook, but I can’t, because of that sound. I can hear the clicking of heels walking towards me and stopping right before my desk.

“I bet that textbook makes you want to touch yourself.”

I know that voice. I could pick that velvet voice out of a line up—only because it infuriates me so much.

It makes my neck burn and my jaw clench. I feel like I can’t breathe anytime I hear it. I begrudgingly look up and see the owner of the said voice.

Juliette

Kingston!

The bane of my existence. Satan’s spawn herself. Her ice-blue, siren like eyes peering down at me through her lusciously long eyelashes and her pearly white teeth biting down on her plump, bottom lip, goading me with her smile. She’s scrunching her upturned nose at me, like I’m completely beneath her.

Then there’s that hair; that long golden-blonde hair that always looks perfect, with no strand out of place. The same hair that had me mesmerized when my eyes first caught a glimpse of her at the tender age of twelve. I thought she was the most ethereal girl I had ever seen in my entire life… until she opened her mouth.

Juliette is everything you assume a rich, blonde girl would be. She’s the cheer captain. Even though cheerleading isn’t as popular here in England, she still somehow manages to excel at it. She’s the most popular girl in school, the girl who everyone wants to either be or be with. Think of Regina George, but mind-numbingly worse, then you have Juliette Kingston.

I’m not religious by any means, but sometimes, I think God sent Juliette down specifically with the intention of making my life hell. Props to her, because it worked.

“Aww, do you want to watch?” I respond sarcastically.

A scowl appears on her pale face at my retort. Then she scoffs. “In your dreams, dyke.”

There it is. She’s been using that word to berate me ever since I was caught kissing a girl behind the school gates when I was twelve. It was then that everyone found out I was bisexual. A boy from the basketball team saw me and told everyone. My own friends found out that way, but they were incredibly supportive. Sadly, everyone else was just… silent.

It’s not even like I’m the only “out and proud” kid at our school; many kids are queer, of which most people don’t have a problem with. Yet for some reason, I’m the social pariah just because Juliette hates me and her word is gospel at this school.

As if it’s not enough being the school’s outcast because of my financial status, now my sexuality seemed to be a problem too. Why couldn’t she just mess with some other gay kid? Why did it have to be me?

Of course, I never let her get to me. I always fought back and took it upon myself to make her life as hard as she made mine. It enraged her beyond belief. It wasn’t just my poverty and attraction to girls that bothered her. No, it’s more than that. It’s the power I refuse to give her—everyone besides me bowed down to Juliette.

She wants me to be like everyone else that worships her, but what she doesn’t realize is that they only worship her because of her means and her family, not her rancid personality—she’s an heiress to the Kingston empire after all. She is one of the richest… scratch that, she is the richest person in England, barring the monarchy.

Okay, maybe that is a slight exaggeration, but the Kingston family comes from money that is centuries old. Most of that wealth was accumulated by owning real estate and industrial ventures.

I don’t think anyone in her privileged family has ever worked hard for anything, including Juliette.

Juliette and I have been caught up in a game for these last few years; she berates me and I berate her back. We go back and forth vying for control and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t interesting. Or thrilling.

“In my dreams? Never,” I say, my tone reeking of boredom as I close my textbook. “The only time I would ever dream about you is if I was having a nightmare.” Not my best retort but to be fair, I’m tired.

She laughs that same cruel laughter I’ve been accustomed to hearing for the last five years. “Are you that terrified of me?”

I have to hold back my laughter. Juliette is a lot of things; she’s cruel, conniving, bitchy, selfish, rude, and a plethora of other things, but she has never scared me.

“You? Scary? Don’t kid yourself.” I chuckle loudly at her words. “What are you gonna do? Steal my lunch money? Shove me into a locker?” I mean come on; the girl is seventeen! Would it kill her to act her age? Then again, money clearly ages you.

Her eyes narrow in response, a fire lighting in them. She clears her throat and leans closer to me and I fight the urge to breathe in her scent; vanilla. “Don’t make me show you how scary I can be.”

I don’t respond to her threat as my breath stuck in my throat and she clearly takes this as a challenge, because she continues to speak. “I’m sure your brother wouldn’t want to be behind bars again, would he?”

I clench my jaw so tight. She never fails to mention my older brother or how he went to jail when I was eleven and spent four years there. At least, she doesn’t bring up my dead parents. Props to her for having even just a shred of human decency.

Just another thing to add to the already massive pile of reasons why people sneer at me in school, not that I care.

None of the kids at this school would ever drop out of school as a child and work tirelessly in a garage to support their young sister; to give up on their dreams, just so I could achieve my own and then have it rewarded with a prison sentence.

I force a sarcastic smile on my face. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He quite enjoyed the peace and quiet there.”

She closes her eyes for a brief second, clearly trying to gather her thoughts and calm herself down. She did this often when I didn’t give her the attention she wanted.

She opens her eyes and said, “Don’t you get tired of pretending like I don’t affect you?”

I roll my eyes at her analysis of me. Even if it was true, it’s infuriating. “You’re a broken record Juliette, you’ve been spewing the same shit for five years and guess what? It’s fucking boring.”

God no. It’s never boring. Five years and she still has me on my toes at every given opportunity. My heart still races and shivers still run down my spine whenever we play this little game.

She. I mean, when she plays this game because I don’t like playing with her.

Or do I?

I pack my books away, closing my bag without even looking up to see Juliette's reaction to my comment. I needed to get out of this classroom and really take advantage of the free time, instead of sitting here and listening to Juliette’s nonsense.

I take maybe three steps before I feel my back colliding with her chest. Her soft hand has yanked me back with such brute force that I was almost too bewildered to move, so it wasn’t a surprise that she was able to turn me around. Her eyes darken as she stares down at me, considering she is a few inches taller than me.

Juliette stares at my face unwavering, her jaw clenched. “You leave when I say you can.”

Cold. So cold.

My insides freeze at her words; the demanding tone, the smug look on her face, and the control that she clearly gets off so hard on. She can think again; I would rather be skinned alive than ever let Juliette Kingston tell me what to do.

I yank my hands out of her reach and push her back hard as her back hits the desk. “Touch me again and I’ll fucking kill you.”

I don’t give her any time to respond to my threat. I stalk out of the classroom quickly, because being in proximity with her for longer than five minutes makes my skin itch and my blood boil beyond measure.

I loathe Juliette Kingston.