Though I have my reservations, I can't help but text the number. Even though there's probably nothing good in doing so. Even though it's probably just some soulless prank. Even though I know they can't possibly mean it, because these kind of things don't happen to me. Not like this.

There's something about it, though, that's incredibly endearing. A secret admirer? For me? If I lived in a world where such thing happened, I'd probably be a much nicer person. (It shouldn't surprise anyone when I say I'm kind of awful around people.)

My phone stays painfully silent all the way to fourth period, where, thanks to Kendall Strom's vomiting on the floor, I have to wait even longer than usual to receive my lunch. I'm literally dying of hunger, though there's nothing I can really do about it. (Besides really, really, really want to punch Kendall for being so sick. She probably caught whatever it was that Squawky Sadie had.)

Then, right as I'm finally at the front of the line and am grabbing a tray, my phone buzzes in my back pocket.

I don't think I've ever rushed so much; I'm talking grabbing Max sticks instead of greasy pizza, then having to go back and grab the greasy pizza, because A) You can't put food back, and B) Max stick suck, and there's absolutely no way they actually hold anything of value. I grab two cartons of milk and nothing else. I just need to sit down.

My lunch table is filled to the awkward brim with an odd grouping of thespians and band nerds. (And Missy Stevens, who's a hard-core viola player. Or violist? I don't even think she knows.) At a table meant for a tight-packed eight, we somehow manage to fit thirteen. (I mean, it helps that Christa usually sits on the lap of her girlfriend, Sirina, but not by much.)

They're all laughing at the apparently-hilarious candy grams they sent one another when I sit down. I doesn't surprise me that I didn't get one. It's not like I got them anything, either. I'm barely attached to this group. The guys often seem to think I'm checking them out, even though they swear they're cool with me, and most of these girls – my other friends, except for Missy and Sirina, have a different lunch – just want me to be a stereotypical best-gay-friend to them. Which I find to be just as insulting as I should – your sexuality should never be your defining factor. (Hence the reason I don't really hang out with these people on my own time.)

I nestle myself among the pretentiously snarky throng, watching as they cackle amongst themselves, like I'm in a separate world from them. Josiah Richmond plops down right across from me, his shy grin never waning. "Did you get any grams, Nick?" is the first thing he says – not because he wants to make fun of me, I know, but because he's genuinely curious. He actually cares, unlike what I suspect of people like David.

Like, okay: Josiah – despite wearing the light pink cropped-sweatshirt-thing and white denim Daisy Dukes of a (reserved) Cupid – is a real nice dude. We went a couple towns over to perform our One-Act play for competition, where somebody (or someones) cut my clothes up and tossed them into a trash can. We still have no idea who did it, though I'm fairly certain there are disgusting people who know.

Anyway, on the ride back from the play, wearing my character's pants and one of Edward's many sweatshirts, I couldn't keep it in anymore. You get sick of people messing with you after a while, y'know? Josiah sat with me then, holding me and stroking my back till we got home. After, he took me out for pizza. Josiah's just an all-around cool guy – and, let's be honest: That top totally works for him.

"Actually, yeah," I say quietly, somehow managing to keep strong eye contact, stronger than I've kept all day. Even with Edward – because even Edward didn't come to comfort me back then, or ever really. And we were together at the time. (He was like, "Here's a sweatshirt that smells like dust. Imma go brood now.) He's always let me down in that regard.

Backs straighten in unison, everyone's attention snapping towards me. "Who was it?" asks Missy the Violist or Whatever, her voice high-pitched and excited. "Do you know? Oh, God, I ship it. I ship it."

I bite the inside of my lip. "Um, actually, I don't know." Then, Josiah . . . Jesus, Josiah winks. I fidget a little, suddenly finding an issue with my cramped quarters.

My admission just sends them spiralling deeper into their excited conversations, leaving me behind in their dust. Which is fine by me; it gives me time to finally check my freaking phone, which I'm honestly dying to do, although I'd like to think I'm maintaining a nice air of indifference as I pull my phone out of my pocket.

It's a Subway Surfer's notification. Frick.

With a sigh, I turn towards my meal, suddenly remembering how hungry I am. My food's disappeared in what feels like a freaking nanosecond. Without talking to anyone once, I'm on my way to go dump my tray. It's right as I'm tossing my silverware into the (probably very unsanitary) bucket that I realize I'm clutching the candy gram in my hand, which is hovering close to the rim of the bin.

I stare confusedly for a moment before it dawns on me that I was just about to throw it away.

Suddenly, without warning, a hand clamps down on my shoulder, and my hand pops open. The gram floats to the ground, which I swear I just jumped a few feet off of. Turning (and about ready to knock someone out), I see David beaming up at me. He has a killer collarbone, I'll have you know. Are there collarbone models? Because he could be one.

I mean, he could probably be an anything model. I'd pay for posters with him in that dress for sure.

"How's it hangin', Nick?" he asks, dumping his left over rubbish out, eyes trained on me without hesitation all the while.

"Fine," I say - mumble - and stoop to pick up the gram, shoving it unceremoniously in my pocket. (I ate the candy when I realized I was dying due to starvation. I freaking love candy. I'm not soulless, believe it or not.)

David wiggles his brows, something he seems to do to everything, from girls to boys to water fountains. "Did your Special Secret Someone text you back?" Eyebrows wiggle. You know, some people are earnest. Some are peppy, some are angsty, some are lovable. David is just insatiable. Everything's good for - and to - him, and I think he likes it like that, but it's almost like he's constantly trying to find something great that will suit him. To a guy like myself, it's really a deterrance.

"No," I say, tugging down my sweatshirt and holding my tray in front of myself (just in case Fibonacci doesn't pull through, if needed) (which is highly likely on Cupid's Day).

David shakes his head, though he's still smiling. I can't stand it when he does that. It makes him seem so two-dimensional, so overly-polite. Like he doesn't want me to see him as a person, when that's literally all I want to do. (Though I guess he can't possibly get that.) "That sucks, man," he says, pats me on the shoulder once more, then just walks away.

Freaking just walks away. He's weird.

I turn head back to the table, where everyone has abandoned all actual conversation and have turned to taking candid photos of everyone, probably using various Snapchat filters to distort one another's appearances. Just then, my pocket vibrates.

Hey, says my phone, this is Nick B, right? It's the number.

Yes, I type back almost immediately, blue eyes trained on the screen. It literally took every single ounce of my willpower not to just scream it in all caps a thousand times over and over and over.

So, um, hi. I can't freaking even. I'm your secret admirer. Ta daaaaaaa

I frown in frustration, leaning against the wall instead of heading back to the table. Who are you?

I'm secretive. Duh

You know what I mean, I type furiously. My thumbs are fast and furious.

Yeah...... I'll tell you tomorrow. I had this THING prepared

The frown deepens. That sounds rapey

The '. . .' appears, then disappears, then, frustratingly, appears again. I have no valid response to that.

Honestly, good, I tell him.

So you like it when I don't answer rapey questions, but not when I don't tell you who I am? For some reason, I picture David's face which actually scrunches a lot. He's like an adorable puppy . . . with a killer collarbone.

No, I say, you responded to a STATEMENT. Get it right

Ooh, he/they say. That's clever. Consider me wood

You're wood?

WOOED. Dagnabbit

I shake my head to myself, wishing that whoever this was wouldn't wait till tomorrow. Note to self: Bring some pepper spray or something. Rape-y situations call for rape-y precautions, after all. (I feel like that's a quote. Like, a Michael Jackson or Batman quote or something. I'm sure there's something like that, at least. Probably a slogan, but who cares?)

(I'm easily distracted, in case you haven't noticed.)

Who gets wooed by pointing out you responded to a statement revolving around the word "rapey"? I ask, glancing at the clock and realizing I can finally start making my way to the exit. My conscious is shouting at me in the back of my head, telling me that this guy is lying. That his intentions aren't pure.

He takes a second to respond. Me, I guess.

Gosh that's awful, he adds. So weird.

Yeah. Don't be proud dude, I tell him, a smile somehow working its way into my expression.

So noted, he says, adding a small smiley-face face after.

The bell rings, and the phone goes in my pocket, where I don't expect it to buzz again. I'm still not that sold on this guy being totally "legit".

Even though I wouldn't mind it, I realize suddenly. Getting to know him.