Candy Gram | the novel

chapter nine

I won't text and drive. I won't text and drive. I won't text and drive.

I repeat these five words to myself the entire drive to Ben's school, even though my cell phone feels like it's burning a hole into the back of my pocket. Somehow, Sirina's words ping about the walls of my brain, and I have a nearly impossible time concentrating on the slush-filled road before me.

But if you really have no interest in pursuing this whole secret admirer thing—if you're not just avoiding it because you're scared of having to put yourself outside your comfort zone....

I legitimately don't know why she and her girlfriend and even David are so sure that I'm avoiding this because I'm scared of something. What if I'm just naturally uninterested? What about that? Maybe I don't want to date anyone right now. Scared? I'm not scared. Scared of what, exactly? Having another repeat of my awkward breakup with Edward? I'm over that shit.

I'm not scared of my classmates, either. They already make their inane, snide comments when they get the opportunity to, or some guy with an ostentatious belt buckle and an unfortunate receding hairline/mullet combo will bump into me in the hallway when I'm not really paying attention. It's always been like that, even before I came out. I make them uncomfortable, and that's fine. Honestly, I'd almost love to date a guy, if only to have something to shove in their faces and use to make them even more uncomfortable. Because, if I have to suffer, so do they.

So, yeah. Scared? I'm not scared.

I'm ... cautious. Which isn't a bad thing.

Once, sophomore year, one of the upperclassmen from our theater department got my phone number and texted me pretending to be a closeted secret admirer. I knew they were full of shit—it was a half-baked, disappointing attempt at best; them getting my last name wrong despite being "obsessed" with me and my "cutesy, stuffable caboose" would have tipped off anyone. But, still. It gave me pause.

I think my level of caution is appropriate.

After a hellish ten minutes stuck in school-side traffic, I manage to make my way to the front of the elementary school pick-up line. The crowd of parents who show up before the school day even ends has mostly dispersed now, thankfully. They're the worst drivers. They take this "picking your kid up from school" thing wayyyy too seriously.

My car is a piece of shit, but it's easy to pick out in the lineup. It's a shitty little 2007 Sentra in "Metallic Jade." I've never seen another one in our town, ever. So, I don't bother scanning the small crowd of kids in fully-equipped snow gear. I'm happy to have five minutes to myself to sit in peace and quiet and doomscroll. Ben will see me when he's ready to go.

Which, today, might be in record time. Before I've even picked my phone out of my pocket, he yanks on the back driver's side door and pounds his little gloved fist on the window.

"Let me innnn," he whines, loud enough to hear from inside the car. "It's colllld."

Fighting laughter, I unlock the door and wait for him to hop inside, my eyes fixed on him in the rearview mirror. "Hey, bud, how was school?"

"Stupid," he grumbles, slinging his Ninjago backpack onto the seat next to him.

An impatient parent behind me honks—even though they're already second place in the line, which is just as good as first, and Ben hasn't even shut his door yet. I resist the urge to flip them off, choosing instead to ignore them completely.

"Stupid?" I ask him, turning the stereo down, tuning out the Macklemore song I've had stuck in my head all week. "Why was your day stupid?"

He slams his door shut and crosses his arms. "It just was, okay?"