Enchanted To Hate Him

Enchanted To Hate Him

The new boy stole my seat on his first day, and I decided I hated him before he even said hello.

By lunch, I had accidentally agreed to spend the next six weeks trapped in the same room with him.

My name is Amara Okafor, and I have a talent for making terrible first impressions.

Unfortunately, so did he.

“Move.”

The boy in my seat looked up from his phone.

He had dark hair that needed cutting, a school blazer that somehow looked expensive without trying, and the kind of expression that suggested the entire world had personally inconvenienced him.

“No.”

I blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

I glanced around the classroom.

Every other seat was occupied.

Welcome to König Academy, Berlin’s favorite school for people who either had money, connections, or an impressive talent for pretending they did.

I had none of those things.

I was there on a scholarship.

That meant I knew exactly which students had parents who owned companies, which ones arrived in cars with tinted windows, and which ones casually complained about ski trips costing too much.

I also knew how to smile when someone asked where I bought my shoes.

“Fine,” I said. “Keep the seat.”

I turned toward the teacher.

“Mr. Weber, there’s a boy sitting in my chair.”

The boy sighed.

“You don't own the chair.”

“Actually, I do. Emotionally.”

A few students laughed.

Mr. Weber looked over his glasses.

“Amara, take the empty seat beside him.”

I stared at the empty chair.

Then at the boy.

Then back at Mr. Weber.

“Of course.”

The universe hated me.

I dropped my bag beside the chair and sat down.

The boy returned to his phone.

“I'm Amara.”

Nothing.

“You?”

Silence.

I leaned closer.

“Do you not speak?”

His eyes finally met mine.

“Leon.”

“See? That wasn't painful.”

He looked away.

I smiled.

I already hated him.

And, judging by the way he looked at me, the feeling was mutual.

By the end of the first lesson, I had learned three things about Leon Fischer.

One, he had transferred from a private school.

Two, he was annoyingly good at mathematics.

Three, he apparently considered human conversation an optional subject.

I was halfway through copying an equation from the board when my pen stopped working.

I shook it.

Nothing.

I scribbled harder.

Still nothing.

“Seriously?”

Leon pushed something across the desk.

A pen.

I looked at him.

“Is this charity?”

“It's a pen.”

“I can see that.”

“Then use it.”

I took it.

“Thank you.”

He shrugged.

For some reason, that irritated me more than if he had ignored me.

After class, Mr. Weber announced our history project.

Six weeks.

Pairs.

I silently prayed.

Please don't say Leon.

“Amara and Leon.”

My head dropped onto the desk.

Across from me, Leon muttered, “You've got to be kidding.”

I lifted my head.

“You're the one who stole my seat.”

“You're the one who complained.”

“You're the one who said no.”

“You're the one who talks too much.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Mr. Weber cleared his throat.

“You two will be working together after school twice a week. The project is worth thirty percent of your final grade.”

Thirty percent.

My stomach dropped.

I couldn't afford to fail.

Not here.

Not when one bad grade could make people question whether I deserved the scholarship.

I packed my books quickly.

Leon noticed.

“You're worried.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I just don't enjoy failing.”

His expression changed slightly.

“Neither do I.”

For the first time, he sounded less cold.

Almost human.

Then he picked up his bag.

“Library. Four o'clock tomorrow.”

I frowned.

“You're telling me?”

“Yes.”

“Bossy.”

“Late.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Four o'clock.”

He walked away.

I watched him disappear into the hallway.

Then I looked at the pen still sitting on my desk.

His pen.

I hadn't noticed the tiny silver engraving on the side.

L.F.

I smiled despite myself.

“Great,” I whispered.

Six weeks.

Thirty percent.

One impossible boy.

This was going to be a disaster.

And somehow, I already had a feeling it was going to change everything.