Candy Gram ✓

chapter eight

I sit in my desk chair instead.

"I remember many times," I say, wishing with all my heart he'd just leave. "You'll have to be more specific."

Some people talk with their hands. David talks with his eyes – he always has. They go wide for emphasis and small for playful scrutiny. I don't even know him that well, and I could probably tell you what he was feeling solely based on his eyes.

His eyes squint a little now as his face scrunches. It's his "Ha, You're Funny, Mister" face. "That one time that we got called off from school, and neither of our parents came to pick us up, because they didn't get the memo."

That happened a lot that year for me – my dad was working at a plant the town over, and my mom was busy with a voracious, toddler Ben. But I vaguely do remember what he's talking about. And the black eye that came with it.

He shakes his head slightly. "Man, Edward was such a jerk back then. Don't get me wrong – he's great now, but he used to treat you like crap."

"I think he was just acting out," I say. "As opposed to coming out." Everyone knew Edward was gay since he moved here in the first grade.

David gives me one of his smiles. I don't know where to look – legs? Collarbone? Shoulders? Eyes? Mouth? This boy is a punishment from God, I swear.

"It hurts me that people think they have to act out," he says. "But the pressure's insane, am I right?"

I shrug. "Kind of." To be honest, when I was sure that I was indeed gay, I just . . . came out. It was only after it was hard for me. "I was lucky, I guess. My family has been really supportive." (By "supportive" I mean by not mentioning it at all, because they don't even think it's a big deal. My dad, to paraphrase, said, "Cool! You prefer eggplants. . . . Bananas? Why are you making that face? Fine, I'll stop." We never spoke of it again.)

"Supportive families are the best," David says, kind of absentmindedly as he looks out the window. "Dang. It's getting worse out there. I'm going to head home." He stands up; when he stretches, his dark choir shirt pulls up over the line of his sweat pants for a moment – I look away, but not before I get a glimpse of some prime, David abs.

"Sounds good," I say before walking him to the door.

The suspense is killing me. Secret Guy.

Why don't you just tell me who you are then?

. . . . Because I want to do it in person.

You're killing me.

I figured as much.

What if I see you today? Will you tell me then?

He hesitates. I feel like he's next to me, breathing into the space between my neck and shoulder as he thinks to himself. Which is just about too much for me, thank you.

Maybe if I see you. *loads supplies up into automobile*

"Supplies"?

*unloads supplies from automovile* *loads supplies up into a VERY ROMANTIC hot air balloon*

"Suuuuppliiieeees"? Consider my eyebrow quirked.

My imaginary rules prevent me from telling you ANYTHING.

I've already forgotten about Josiah. You're so cute when you're disagreeable.

Goal accomplished.