I hate you, Fuller James.



I hate your floppy hair and your lopsided grin and those laughing blue eyes that always seem to be laughing at me.



I hate that you're the most popular guy in school and I'm still the girl who sneezed and spit out her retainer on someone at a middle school dance. It's just such a cliché.



I hate that I'm being forced to tutor you in English and keep it a secret from everyone. Because otherwise it might put our basketball team's chances at winning State in jeopardy, and even though I hate you, I love basketball.



I hate that it seems like you're keeping a secret from me . . . and that the more time we spend together, the less I feel like I'm on solid ground. Because I'm starting to realize there's so much more to you than meets the eye. Underneath it all, you're real.



But what I hate most is that I really don't hate you at all.