Candy Gram ✓

chapter one

ONE, ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR – NO, FIVE—

I hate Cupid Days.

Our school has the most idiotic of traditions, called "Cupid Days", where all the student council-type guys dress up in red, pink, white – "romantic colored" (whatever that even means) – clothing and run about the school, giving people cheap candy grams from their cowardly admirers. (Or haters. There are some pretty hilarious ones sent by bullies, though I can't say they're fun to receive. They're not. Trust me; after I came out, I've had my fair share of Cupid Days pranks.)

It should be a totally innocent tradition. And it might be, if the guys didn't dress as skankily as possible. I'm talking white denim miniskirts from their girlfriends that often flash a bit of cheek, maybe tube tops that are practically just a strip covering their nipples. It's disgusting, but everyone seems to find it hilarious. There is literally nothing endearing about Cupid Days.

Except for David, of course. He has exquisite taste.

My books and binder held awkwardly over the front of my pants – Cupid Days are just plain awkward and unpredictable – I approach my homeroom class and plop down in my comfortable seat in the way, way back, with no one sitting next to me. Squawky Sadie must be sick again.

Almost right after Mrs. Grey finishes her monotone attendance, the door bursts open, and in flock the Cupids. My heart pounds as I see David is among them. He and I have a fair amount of classes together. I'd been hoping to avoid him – and his buff legs – for as long as possible.

I hate Cupid Days.

"Cupids are here!" squeals some red-headed football jock in a false falsetto, his pink tank-top hanging low enough to show the bottom of his rib cage. I sigh and look down at my phone, completely uninterested. Because here's the thing: I never get candy grams. Ever. It's kind of a joke among me and my small group of friends.

I mean, before I came out about a year and a half ago, I would get the occasional candy gram from theatre girls. (Most of who were freshmen; poor children.)

Even though my eyes are stuck on my too-dim phone screen, they want to be following David. I glance up quickly, and my eyes fall on him right as a Cupid in a sleeveless romper slaps him hard on the butt. His tight, solid butt, the sight of which is quite enhanced by the tight dress his (presumably evil) sister lent him. My eyes are back on my phone before I can even stop breathing.

Whoever came up with Cupid Days, please note: I hate you.

There's a thump as someone plops down in the seat next to me. Guess Squawky Sadie wasn't sick after—no. Nope. No. It's David. Freaking David.

"Hey," he says, sliding his elbow onto the desk and batting his thick eyelashes at me. Is he wearing makeup? Oh, God, of course. He's such a showman. Why me? "How's it going?"

Tell him to freaking mind his own business, my anxious side screeches. "Fine," I say instead, losing the most important inner-battle of my life.

He slides something across the desk to me and winks. "For you, hot stuff."

It's a candy gram. Jesus.

"Um," I say instead of "thanks" as I take a peek at the inside. "Do you say that to everyone when you give them their candy gram?"

"That depends – which would make you feel better?"

I ignore him. The neat, spindly writing is nice to look at, but it's just a series of numbers. A phone number, I realize.

"Who's it from?" David asks, not teasingly, but amiably.