Even though he'd probably knock my lights out for saying it, David Marquez looks cute in a dress.
On second thought, "cute" is definitely an understatement.
It was already an effort each morning to ignore him at my locker; a short yet incredibly buff little guy with puppy eyes and a dopey smile who tries his darndest to talk to you whenever he sees you is one thing. The little guy totally being your type – your Gay Awakening, if I'm being blunt – is another matter entirely.
And I was doing so well. Oh, God, so, so well.
Every day from him, I'm always gifted some sentence that, with literally anyone else on this planet, would be a terrific conversation starter. "Hey, I saw you got the elad in the school musical." "Hey, is that a KeyForge deck? What houses do you have?" "Do you want to be my partner for the Shakespeare project in English?"
Over the past few months, I've become really good at giving one-word answers. "Yes. Um. No. Thanks." I can kill a conversation just about as easily as David can start one. Except for when he's in a lacy, too-short-to-fit-the-dress-code, crimson dress, apparently.
"Nick," he says – grinning, as always – as I approach my locker. I stop a few feet in front of him, as a sudden heat rising up my neck, and suddenly wish I could turn around. Or explode. As a few sophomore girls take in my flush, then David's attire, and launch into a burst of nasally laughter, I step so close to my locker that my nose is almost touching the smooth, tea metal. Exploding, I decide, would be way more satisfying.
"David," I manage, swinging the door open in a clever maneuver to block his face. And his collar bone, which is only partially covered by a thick, white feather boa. And his maybe too-hairy, but toned (so very toned) legs. And every single other part of him that pops into my head when I'm on my own and my guard comes down. "Nice dress."
Fingers wrap around my locker door, pulling it back, revealing various cast photos to the whole hallway. His grin is insatiable. "You think so?" He poses for me like some pinup girl – at least, I think it's a pose. I've known David forever, and I still can't tell when he's doing something as a joke, or is being serious. The dude is a showboater if there ever was one.
"It's my sister's," he continues. His voice is low and scratchy, a total contrast to my smooth tenor, and his hair smells like its usual chlorine. (Not that I smell his hair on a "usual" basis. I just . . . it's overpowering, okay?)
I glance over to take him in once more, giving him a quick once-over before meeting his warm gaze. Then, I look away, because he definitely doesn't need the added confidence stares bring. I'm trying to look as indifferent as I can, which is pretty hard when all the blood from their head is suddenly rushing to a place I could only describe as "down".
There's an obvious expectation of me to continue the conversation. This is the part of my morning where I'd usually just nod. But, I just can't seem to muster a single, effective word when his in that tiny, effective dress. "You look very. . . ." I hate hesitating. Especially when I shouldn't even be involved in the conversation. This – this – is why I don't talk to people; awkward pauses are never great, especially when they're your fault. ". . . . Cupid-y?"
He laughs. It's not an unattractive laugh, which only makes my heart tug more for this tiny, adorable swimmer. One of the thin straps of his dress slide down his shoulder. My fingers itch, and I hesitantly reach out to pull it back up. Brow raised, David looks down at my hand – which totally wants to linger, which totally cannot happen – and bites his lip. Receiving the message, I move my hand away and cast a quick, sneaky look down.
One, one, two, three, five. . . .
Another glance down. Crisis averted. Thank you, Fibonacci.
"Nick. Nicholas. How now, blond cow."
Without even turning around, I know who it is: Edward Flores. Edward is a friend of circumstance, mostly, the two of us being the only two (openly) gay guys in the senior thespian club, and thus being grouped together for every. Little. Thing. He embraced it, and for a while, I did, too. Until I realized that he's not exactly a romantic. (I mean, I don't think I am, either. Which is why we didn't really work. It was just sitting at a lunch table like the two old Muppet men in the balcony and making snarky remarks for an hour. It was fun, I guess. Just not what I needed. Or wanted.)
I shut my locker door and turn to face him. "Hey," I say, sounding snippier than I probably should. Edward doesn't seem to care, though. Truth be told, Edward doesn't seem to care much of anything most of the time.
"Hey," he says back, wrapping his arms around my torso tight. I go rigid, before loosely looping his arms over his shoulders in return.
"What was that for?" I ask him (probably sounding overly-suspicious) as he pulls away, his thick glasses making his dark eyes appear huge.
He shrugs. "It's almost Valentine's day. That's all you're getting from me." Once again, he looks disinterested.
"Not even chocolate?" I cross my arms, managing a small smile.
He crosses his arms back at me in a snarky response. "Note how you didn't get me anything."
"I mean, I would have"—I pick up my binder and gently knock his thigh with it—"if I'd have thought you'd get me chocolate."
From the locker next to me come David's low, joking voice: "Man, Edward, should have got him something." I look over at him, then down to the floor, where he's crouched and is tying his shoelace. He beams up at me, as if trying to say, Wow, look how high my skirt is riding up my thigh! Now look at how much higher it can go!
One, one, two, three, five. . . . Crap.
I tell myself this isn't happening, even though it does about ever Cupid day. Which is totally unjust and infuriating and I feel targeted. Eight, thirteen. . . . Thank God.
Freaking buff swimmer's legs.
Edward bites the inside of his cheek, his eyes narrowing. "I got him something. I just didn't get him chocolate. He's not even a big chocolate guy, so . . . yeah. Yeah." He spits it out, like it pains him to even be talking to David.
I blink at him in surprise, attention turned completely away from Mr. Red Dress. "Wait – really?" A commonplace heat creeps up the back of my neck.
Edward huffs an impatient sigh, an all too familiar – and all too annoying – sign of passive aggression. "Yeah. I'll bring it tomorrow. I . . . I forgot it at home."
David stands, though he has to crane his neck far back to even see Edward's prominent Adam's apple. He claps him on the arm. "It's not even Valentine's yet, dude." He's all smiles, all the time. Sometimes, I can't decide whether or not they're even genuine. "I'm sure Nick won't mind another day of waiting."
"Yeah," Edward says, "because you know him so well."
Before David can even respond, someone down the hallway whistles loudly, and applause breaks out as David blows his small, gathering crowd a kiss. He pulls his dress up a little bit farther, teasingly, and I turn right around and take off to my first period class.
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.
I shrug and go back to my phone.
"Ooh," he says. I look over and practically blanch, I'm sure. He's got the candy gram in his hands and is holding it up to the light, as if trying to see a secret message on the other side. "It looks like a phone number."
I frown and am quick to snatch it back from him. "Thanks, Sherlock," I snap.
"Who d'you think it's from?" he asks me, smiling ever so slightly in that way he always does – like he thinks he's getting away with something.
"Mind your own business, David," I mutter, placing the candy gram under my leg farthest from him.
David just laughs and pokes me in the shoulder. "C'mon. Give it a go. Give us a guess." I'm actually pretty used to the David treatment after years of him trying – in vain – to befriend me.
I narrow my eyes when I turn to face him, knees pointed awkwardly towards him. "Screw you," I say. I can't believe I had the willpower to do such a thing. "Now, please, leave me alone."
He frowns. "I was just asking. Sorry."
All I can do is just turn away from him, choosing to act as uninterested as I can. Still, he lingers. "You have no idea who it is, do you?" he asks quietly, patiently, somehow managing to not come across as condescending.
"Honestly?" slips from me as I turn and look him straight in the eye. "It's probably a prank. I'm sure somebody thought it would be fun to poke fun at the. . ."—I almost say "the Gay Guy", but decide against it—"at me."
David looks sympathetic. Curse you and your niceties, David Marquez, I think to myself, eyes grazing over his stocky, body. And your sister's dress. Why do you have to be so gosh darn likable? "Do you really think that?" he asks. Quiet, like before, yet somehow more vulnerable. I always figured he put more stock in people than he should. I love it when I'm right.
"Yes. Seriously, dude – it's probably someone's idea of a joke. They probably just gave me the number to some dirty good-time-call hotline or something," I say with more honestly than I actually have. I hate thinking this way, but is there any good in pretending I don't? "Just leave it," I mutter.
David blinks, and I find myself looking down at the linoleum tile so I don't have to meet his pitying gaze. His red shoes are dirty and scuffed, like he never thought to pay attention to their wellbeing before. The laces are untied again, but after my last time's reaction, I have no desire to experience a repeat, so I stay silent.
Suddenly, his proportionately-large hand is clamping down on my shoulder, his expression pretty darn serious for such a tiny, fun-loving guy. "O ye of little faith," he says, that lovely grit laced in his voice, "let me help you."
I've shoved his hand off my gangly person before I can even comprehend what he's said. "What?"
David leans back and props his feet up on my lap. I try not to gulp or sweat or even breathe. "I'll help you find the giver of your candy gram. Shouldn't be too hard – especially considering Cupids literally give them out." He looks so proud of himself as he tousles his perpetually-neat hair; there's no difference – he's still adorable.
I shake my head. "No. No. I'm fine." Beat. "Shouldn't you be going to your first period anyway?"
He pouts. Literally pouts for crying out-freaking-loud. "You're no fun. C'mon. List some suspects for me."
"No." If he thinks he can use his masculine wiles to sway me, he needs to think again.
"C'mon," he whines.
Thirteen, twenty-one, Grandma in her skanky bikini. . . . Cupid Days are disastrous for me and my lil' buddy, in case you couldn't guess. At this point, all I'm just hoping that if I do as David asks, he'll leave me alone. "Edward?"
"And. . . ?" he prods. He looks expectant.
"Um. . . ." I'm not going to lie: There's literally no one else who I could see giving me a candy gram – especially such a cryptic one. (And, I mean, I already have everyone's numbers anyway, though I do know Edward broke his phone for the third time last week. Which is a very Him thing to do.) I'm Out as Out could be, and all my friends – aside from Edward and a few light-hearted exceptions – are rather cynical, yet loving, girls. "Nope. Just Edward."
Man, is my life sad.
David nods slowly, and suddenly, in a flash of ripped forearm, he has my phone – which is still unlocked – in his hands. "You should give me that number. I'll add it to your contacts."
"Uh, yeah, I don't think so," I growl, trying to snatch it back. Although David is at least four inches shorter than myself, the dude is apparently the boss of keep-away.
"The number," he repeats, still smiling, my phone just out of reach. "Don't make me take the gram, too."
There's no point in keeping this up, I suppose. Relenting, I begin to read off the digits. When I've finished, David hands me my phone back, as if he hadn't just kidnapped a beloved piece of my property.
The bell rings right after he tells me, "You should text them and see who answers."
"Yeah, okay, bye," I say bitterly, only meaning the 'bye'. Just who does this guy even think he is?
His only response is a sweet, over-the-shoulder smile as he effortlessly jogs out the door.
Jeez.
One, one, two. . . . Effing Cupid Days, man.