Unforgettable, snarky, and romantic, I Hope This Doesn’t Find You is Never Have I Ever meets To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before if Lara Jean wrote hate emails instead of love letters.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Ann Liang’s I Hope This Doesn’t Find You, which releases on February 6th 2024.
Sadie Wen is perfect on paper: school captain, valedictorian, and a “pleasure to have in class.” It’s not easy, but she has a trick to keep her model-student smile plastered on her face at all times: she channels all her frustrations into her email drafts. She’d never send them of course — she’d rather die than hurt anyone’s feelings — but it’s a relief to let loose on her power-hungry English teacher or a freeloading classmate taking credit for Sadie’s work.
All her most vehemently worded emails are directed at her infuriating cocaptain, Julius Gong, whose arrogance and competitive streak have irked Sadie since they were kids. “You’re attention starved and self-obsessed and unbearably vain . . . I really hope your comb breaks and you run out of whatever expensive hair products you’ve been using to make your hair appear deceptively soft . . .”
Sadie doesn’t have to hold back in her emails, because nobody will ever read them . . . that is, until they’re accidentally sent out.
Overnight, Sadie’s carefully crafted, conflict-free life is turned upside down. It’s her worst nightmare — now everyone at school knows what she really thinks of them, and they’re not afraid to tell her what they really think of her either. But amidst the chaos, there’s one person growing to appreciate the “real” Sadie — Julius, the only boy she’s sworn to hate . . . .
It’s an honor to be waiting outside the school gates in the winter cold.
This is what I’ve been telling myself for the past hour as I shiver in my ironed blazer and watch my fingernails turn a concerning shade of purple. It’s an immense honor. A privilege. A joy. It’s exactly what I envisioned when Ms. Hedge, the year level coordinator, called for me in the middle of my math honors class yesterday and asked that I show a few visiting parents around the school.
“I trust that you’re the right person to do it,” she’d said with a wide smile, her gnarled hands folded neatly across her desk. “As school captain, you can tell them about how much Woodvale Academy cares for its students, and how well we’ve set you up for success. Feel free to also mention all the extracurriculars you’re involved in and your many achievements—like how you recently came in first in the track-and-field regional finals. The parents will love that.”
I’d smiled back at her and nodded along with so much fake enthusiasm I gave myself a neck cramp.
My neck is still stiff as I straighten the badges pinned to my front pocket, stamping my feet hard to ward off what feels like imminent frostbite. My best friend, Abigail Ong, always jokes that I collect badges like a magpie. She’s not wrong, exactly, but I’m not just admiring how the gold lettering for school captain catches the pale morning light. It’s also a matter of symbolism. Every single badge I own is proof of something: that I have perfect grades, that I’m the MVP of every sports team I’m on, that I’m an active member of the school community, that I help out at the local library. That I’m smart and successful and have a good future ahead of me—
Footsteps crunch on the dry grass.
I jerk my head up and squint into the distance. It’s so early that the parking lot is still empty, save for a rusted brown Toyota that’s probably been there since before the school was built. All the redbrick buildings on campus are quiet, the windows closed, the clouds rising over the bare trees painted a soft watercolor pink.
No sign of any lost-looking parents.
Instead, a terribly familiar face comes into view, and out of habit, all the muscles in my body tense. Black eyes, sharp angles, a smile like a blade. That single, ridiculous strand of dark hair falling over his forehead. The school blazer draped around his shoulders like he’s posing for a high-fashion magazine.
Julius Gong.
My cocaptain, and the most prominent source of pain in my life.
At the mere sight of him, I experience a rush of loathing so pure and visceral it feels akin to wonder. It’s hard to believe that someone with such an awful personality could have such pleasing looks—or that someone with such pleasing looks could have such an awful personality. The equivalent of opening up a gift box with gorgeous silk ribbons and confetti and foil packaging and finding inside it a poisonous snake.
The snake in question stops three solid feet away from me. The patchy, yellowing grass stretched out between us is no‐man’s‐land.
“You’re early,” he says in his usual slow drawl, as if he can barely be bothered delivering the whole sentence. In the entire decade I’ve been unfortunate enough to know him, Julius has never started a single conversation with a proper greeting.
“Earlier than you,” I tell him, like it’s a major point of victory that I’ve been standing here so long I can’t feel my toes.
“Yes, well, I was busy with other things.”
I catch the implication: I’m busier than you. I have more important things to do because I’m a more important person.
“I’m busy too,” I say immediately. “Very busy. My whole morning has been one urgent matter after another. In fact, I came here straight from my workout—”
“That does sound like a very urgent matter. I fear the nation’s economy would collapse if you didn’t get your daily push‐ups in.”
You’re just bitter because I proved in our last PE class that I can do more push-ups than you. The words are perched right on the tip of my tongue. They would be so satisfying to say out loud, almost as satisfying as beating him in another fitness test, but I swallow them down. Stuff my hands in my pockets. The chill seems to be spreading through my bone marrow in the particularly unpleasant kind of way I’ve come to associate with winters here in Melbourne.
Julius smiles with one side of his mouth, an expression so insincere I would rather he scowl. “Cold?”
“Nope,” I say through chattering teeth. “Not at all.” “Your skin is blue, Sadie.”
“Must be the lighting.”
“You’re also shaking.”
“With anticipation,” I insist.
“You do realize we only needed to get here at seven thirty, right?” He rolls back his sleeve, consults his watch. It’s a brand too expensive for me to recognize, but fancy enough for me to know it’s expensive. I actually wouldn’t be surprised if he was checking the time for the sole purpose of showing it off. “It’s seven twenty now. How long exactly have you been standing out here like an honorary human statue?”
I ignore his question. “Of course I realize. I was there when Ms. Hedge told us.” Because after Ms. Hedge had given me her cheerful little speech about representing the school, Julius had shown up in her office too, and to my acute annoyance, she’d given him the exact same task. I’d then vowed that I would beat him in this—I would rock up to school way earlier, a hundred times more prepared, in case anyone else arrived early too, and make an incredible first impression on the parents before he could. I’m aware that this isn’t something we’ll be graded on, but that doesn’t matter.
In my head, I like to keep a running mental scoreboard of every test, competition, and opportunity in which Julius and I have clashed since we were seven, complete with its own specific point system that makes sense only to me:
Plus three points for earning one of Mr. Kaye’s rare approving smiles.
Plus five points for hitting a fundraiser goal.
Plus six points for coming first in the school basketball tournament.
Plus eight points for winning a class debate.
As of now, Julius is at 490 points. I’m at 495, thanks to the history test I came first in last week. Still, I can’t be complacent. Complacency is for losers.
Excerpted from I Hope This Doesn’t Find You by Ann Liang, Copyright © 2024 by Ann Liang
Published by Scholastic Inc.
