CHAPTER 1
JONAH
 
I'd sell my soul for the chance to wake up like those cheery assbags in a Disney Channel movie.
Seriously. Is stirring awake to chirping birds so much to ask for? Is it so impossible that I, too, could greet the morning sun, then twirl to my walk-in closet and choose between my cutest outfits? Can't I be the one to snag some toast and sprint past my quirky parents because, oh dicks and fiddlesticks, I'm late for school!
Of course not. Because I'm Jonah Collins, and I could never be so lucky.
I can barely pry my face from my soggy, saliva-laden pillow. A throb­bing headache expands through my temples and jaw. I squint through my crusty eyes, making out scattered posters on deep burgundy walls. The Great British Baking Show, Chopped, Hell's Kitchen, Pesadilla en la Cocina, Cake Boss. The dressers are scattered with tourist trinkets--snow globes, figurines, key chains.
Okay, I'm in someone's bedroom. That's one question answered.
But I'm . . . in my . . .
Underwear?
Oh shit.
A curled fist of realization punches me back into last night. Sensa­tions from the after-party nip at my eyes, unraveling and disappearing. Shouting over music. Howling laughter. The sting of alcohol. Sparkles fluttering away from dresses. The glare of my phone screen as I check my texts again.
There's a slight incline in the bed, like there's something weighing down the other side. Half hoping I'm lying beside a gargantuan teddy bear, I flip over, my heart hammering.
Instead, there's a real human lying next to me. Loose black curls tickle his brows, and he's sleeping, one dark brown arm extended under his head, his shirtlessness burning into my retinas. It's . . . It's . . .
Dylan. Fucking. Ramírez.
My jaw unhinges. White, numbing panic burns behind my eyes. I'm fever dreaming, right? No way I'm lying half naked in bed beside my ul­timate archenemy without some logical explanation. I have to think . . . remember . . .
Okay. I have to go back to square one.
First, my friends and I head to Buffalo Wild Wings for dinner. I order cheese curds, then promptly regret it when I end up in the bathroom, producing curds of my own.
Second, the dance. Music pounds through the cinder block walls of the cafeteria. The DJ pops on a slow song, and my friends break off in pairs, leaving me to dance dramatically by myself, pretending to hold the imaginary waist of a beautiful exchange student. People giggle, fuel­ing my confidence, and then I notice Dylan Ramírez standing away from the crowd, his arms folded grumpily.
The night is suddenly swell.
Third, the after-party. Dylan rarely hosts, so this is the perfect time to cause chaos. Maybe I could "accidentally" bump into one of his thousand-dollar vases or, better yet, steal one. Before I can step through the door, though, he's pulling me aside with his Goliath palm.
"Hey!" I yell. "Unhand me, foul bitch!"
He smiles coolly. "Break something," he says in a honey-sweet voice, "and you'll regret it. Understand, Collins?"
Oh my God. Is he threatening my well-being? I whip my trembling, rage-induced fists out in front of me, prepared to spill blood on his fancy rich-people porch.
His eye roll nearly makes me swing prematurely. "Cute stance," he says, and then he turns to join the party, leaving me flushed and ready to swing at the wall.
Fourth, I'm chugging spiked lemonade, trying to distract myself. From the embarrassment of my wretched singleness. From thoughts of my sisters. From Dylan's presence. He's zigzagging around the party, scowling at everyone within his radius and steering people away from the staircase.
Fifth, I'm checking my phone again, because I can't help it, and--
"Relax, Jo-Jo." Andre's skinny arm slinks around my shoulders, and he gives me a reassuring squeeze that delivers the message. They're fine. "Start paying attention to me or I'll cry."
He drags me away from my anxieties, so we're flaunting ourselves in the middle of the party, spreading foolhardiness and laughter.
Sixth . . . ? Oh, yeah. I'm showcasing my sexiest dance moves on a table. At least until I'm on the ground again, courtesy of Dylan, and being shoved into the cold dark night.
Seventh . . .
"Get in the car." Andre's hand steadies me while I teeter, my shirt buttons half-undone. "Mom's pissed that I missed curfew. If you go back, you'll just challenge Ramírez to a death brawl, and he'll kick your ass."
I choke on my horror. Does he really have that little faith in my abil­ity to body a bitch? My own best friend for all of eternity? I have to prove him wrong now, so I swivel, wandering up the neatly trimmed lawn to Dylan's front door and flinging a middle finger up behind me.
"Okay," he calls. "Hanna and I are leaving. Remember to ice your black eyes."
I'm sure I say something witty, but the memory folds away.
Eighth . . . hmm. Eighth was . . . ?
I'm stumbling up a staircase, my steps echoing around his massive, empty house. "Where are you, Ramírez?" I slur, shoving into his bed­room. "I'm gonna challenge . . ."
Ninth. Downturned, deep brown eyes are glaring at me. It's him. The bane of my existence. The rotten core to my apple of life.
Tenth . . . I don't remember. Everything beyond that is a blur, so I blink back into focus, zeroing in on Dylan again. He's still there, a mere foot away. The image hasn't dissolved. Which means . . . we . . . ?
"No!" I roar, planting my palm on Dylan's face and thrusting it away. I scramble off of his mattress, struggling to conceal my very irresistible, very unclothed body. "Absolutely not!"
"Huh?" Dylan squints through his bleariness, then sits upright, his nose crinkling. "Why did you strip?"
I'm too far gone in my horror to fully comprehend his words. Instead, I seize the pillow plagued with my spit and reel it forward like a baseball bat, zipper slapping him with the rage of ten thousand gods of virtue.
"Ay! Collins!"
He lurches out of bed, and I brace for the fight I've been prepared to start with him over the last several years. Dylan has always been bigger and better than me. He's got the higher grades, because he apparently has all the time in the world to study and has zero obligations to any­thing but himself. He's got the brawnier build, confirmed by Andre, who repeatedly has the gall to tell me I look like a yipping Chihuahua next to him. He has the superior luck--the proof being the house that currently surrounds us.
Basically, all of this is to say that if I can beat him unconscious with this pillow, he can beat me more unconscious with it.
I have to knock him out before he counters.
First, I'll aim for his face. As miserable tears of pain blind him, I'll go for the throat. I'll continue this pillow torment until his writhing dis­solves into twitching, and then, I'll make my escape.
Good. Good plan. I just have to . . .
I hurl the pillow forward, and he tears it out of my grip.
Bad plan.
I'm about to be maimed. Not only does he have my weapon, but there's nobody around to see him lose the perfect pompous persona he's always wearing like a costume. In a last, desperate attempt to flee, I sprint for the closed door--until his foot hooks around mine, nearly rip­ping me into the splits. "Ow," I croak. "You little . . ."
Dylan snaps the pillow into my nose, sending me sprawling. "You got into my bed," he snarls, poised to strike again. "In case you forgot."
There aren't enough words in my brain for me to describe how in­credibly impossible that is. Nonetheless, I'm aching too much to tell him how wrong he is, so I maneuver onto my knees, fumbling for my pile of clothes beside the bed. I shove my legs into slacks and hoist my sticky button-down over my shoulders. Hopefully that massive stain down the front will come out in the wash. My "nice" shirts are few and far between.
"Unbelievable." Dylan drags sweatpants to his waist. "I should've thrown you out on the lawn . . ."
I clamber to my feet. My body feels like it weighs triple what it nor­mally does, and my headache is bad enough to blur my vision, but I can't show weakness, so I hold my chin high and say, "I require water."
He stares at me in this "only if I can drown you in it" kind of way. "Okay? And?"
"I'm your esteemed guest!" I snap, marching to the door. "You should take responsibility for--"
Dylan trips me a second time, and I crash against the wood with a thud. I groan, sliding onto my back.
"Of course." He glares down at me with an unpleasant smile. "Any­thing for my guest."

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Excerpted from They Hate Each Other by Amanda Woody
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