Heartsick

Chapter 1

Of course I’d be the one at a frat party talking to a gay guy about how I don’t want to discuss my abstract art with his Sunday school class. If I was normal, I’d be slipping around on the beer-soaked floor while unfamiliar guys tried to curve their fingers around my hips. That’s what Mandy is doing.

But no, I’m explaining to Conrad why my latest art project is not an homage to Christ. “I know it looks like a circle and then a cross, but the red paint is meant—”

“Yes,” Conrad says. “The circle of life. Rejuvenation. Redemption. Reincarnation. Christ and the blood he gave for us. It was very moving.”

I am in no way shocked. Conrad disappointed his good-ol’-boy father when he came out. He disappointed his Baptist mother when he joined the Unitarian Universalist church. But he never disappoints God.

“Finding meaning in art is like finding meaning in life,” he continues. “It’s like finding God.”

Yes, Conrad, I got it. You. God. Besties.

I sigh into my beer. “It’s actually the symbol for O positive. People with that blood type can give to all positive blood types, but can’t accept that blood in return. And they can’t help their only outside donor, O negative. It’s made out of razors to symbolize how people bleed to help others, even those who can’t help them.”

Conrad scratches his temple.

“Um, okay Quinn. Yeah. That’s a really neat idea too.”

He’s just being polite. I don’t mind that one iota.

As I take another sip of liquid that passes for an alcoholic beverage, Conrad nods to the mash of riled up private parts attached to students on the dance floor.

“Looks like your freshman is having a good time,” he says.

“Yeah.” I smile. “I think he’s going to be okay.”

Danny is my adorable art department mentee. I’ve been on mentor overdrive because he had the misfortune, along with, oh, 20 percent of the school, of attending that party, the one in late August that no one likes to talk about. Though whispering about it, apparently, is just fine.

Some kids could shrug it off, but not Danny. The Monday after it happened, he shrunk into the corner of the art studio, elbows on his knees, like an old doll that was tossed and forgotten. As I knelt next to him, producing an expert mix of sensitively timed nods and distracting dirty jokes, my legs lost circulation. But it was worth it. He came around.

Now he’s living it up, swaying rather racily with a girl in my dance troupe. He even has a diaper covering his black hair. Yes. The frat pledges have to wear diapers.

Mandy jives her hips near him, smiling that sly smile—the one that means she knows she’s in control—as another diapered guy slides his fingers up and down the fabric of her dress.

Conrad taps my shoulder. “Why aren’t you out there getting your groove on?” He has a knack for using the corniest applicable sayings in any given situation. It might be my favorite thing about him.

I shrug. “Don’t feel much like dancing.”

“Or…” Conrad tilts his head. “Is it because you have only one man on your mind?”

I cannot raise my eyebrow high enough. “You know me better than that.”

Conrad grins. “Maybe this is the year you decide to settle down?” His eyes narrow. “Rashid’s a great guy.”

“I know, I know.” That’s part of the problem. It’s practically a fact: Rashid—nicest guy on campus. Hell, sweetest guy in the whole commonwealth of Virginia.