A/N: Wanna revisit the angst/cringe/fluff? Or just wish that this story had been longer in the first place? Or maybe, you want to read this story from an author who's actually now completed their senior year of high school (because they wrote this as a freshman and it shows 😃🦆)????????

The first three chapters are up now on my profile. Here's chapter one!

CHAPTER ONE

I don't know why, but there's something really off-putting about seeing David Marquez in a dress.

Just, damn this week. It's Monday morning, and I'm already to that point. Because, look, I won't lie to you: I'd like to be able to tell you that I love school spirit. That I love dress-up days, I love adorable little hyper-consumerist holidays, and I love how guys at my school use these opportunities to break our dress code in ways girls could never get away with. But that would be a complete and total lie, and I hate lying just as much as I do dress-up days.

There's one event that's worse than all the others, though, and that's Cupid Days. Eons ago (or what fucking feels like it), the student council managed to create a whole week surrounding Valentine's Day—already a stupid holiday choice—wherein they not-so-subtly try to rob us of our meager savings by promising cheap pieces of candy and personalizable messages, to be delivered by upperclassmen boys in scanty, objectionably undersized women's clothing.

It's not the fact that they're dressing femme that grinds my gears. Honestly, if this weren't a small town in South Dakota, maybe I'd be experimenting with such fashion myself. What people wear isn't my business, I know that. What bothers me about the Cupids is how in my fucking face they have to be about it.

I'm already starting off my Monday in a bad mood. Usually in homeroom, I'd sit next to Sirina, or Squawky Sadie, but they're both in the auditorium with the rest of the student council, organizing people's candy grams to hand out to the Cupids. The Cupids, our deficiently-clad, scab-eating, foot-sweat-sniffing harbingers of Valentine's doom.

So yeah. Sirina and Squawky Sadie are both gone, and I didn't even manage to grab my third choice seat buddy. Oh no. Josiah sits in the seat before me, his shoulders hunched forward and one hand fisted in his curls as he tries to finagle his way through what has to be AP Chem homework. He always forgets he has AP Chem homework.

And because Josiah is too busy with chemistry, and because Carter Schulte snagged the seat next to him before anyone was even awake, I swear, I'm stuck next to Edward Flores. My ex.

Yeah, this day is off to a fantastic fucking start.

At least Edward has the sense to not speak to me. I forgot my earbuds at home, and after I refused Edward's offer of one of his buds, he has sat in complete silence, listening to whatever kind of music gets him tapping his pencil against his desk so vigorously at eight in the morning. He'd hate me for saying this, but his attempts at "brooding" are generally laughable. Today is no exception.

I've had literally nothing to do for the past five minutes. No earbuds on-hand, no phone allowed, no assignments to scramble to finish. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Nothing except for, of course, thinking about how much I hate this school spirit week. I already saw David at our lockers, covered up somewhat by his heavy puffer jacket, but I saw a red sequined skirt, and I just know that I am going to have to deal with him and his obnoxious, plucky ass all day as he parades about in/makes a big deal of a literal piece of fabric.

The door opens, and I instinctively flinch—but I'm lucky. It's Sirina and Squawky Sadie. I don't care much about the latter, but the former is my best friend, and when I see the scrunched-up face she makes when she spots Edward sitting next to me, I nearly burst out laughing. It's like she can read my mind. I love her.

Sirina snags the seat directly behind me and heaves a massive sigh. I turn around and give her a knowing look.

"How rambunctious are they this year?" I ask her.

She shakes her head and sighs again while Squawky Sadie takes the seat next to hers. "One of them actually managed to get dress-coded. I never thought I'd see it."

As if summoned by potential gossip, Edward yoinks his earbuds out and asks, "Wait, who?"

Sirina sighs a third time. This Monday is off to a great start. "Konnor McElroy. I literally saw one of his testicles."

Edward dry heaves. I try not to shudder. I did my gym credits remote, thanks to COVID-19. Being in a locker room with the Konnor McElroys of the world—and potentially seeing their mini-Konnors and their mini-McElroys—is terrifying.

"They were pretty weird-looking," Squawky Sadie whispers. Her voice is normal when she's using her quiet voice, but when she gets to a normal speaking volume, you see where the squawky thing comes from. "I didn't know they could be two different sizes."

"He was wearing his little sister's skirt." Sirina rubs her forehead. "Unfortunately for the rest of us, his sister is in the fifth grade."

I wince. "Oh god, no."

"He dropped his stack of grams and bent over, and—nope. Never again. I am so, so, sososososo happy that this is my last year putting up with this crap."

Silently, Sadie high fives her, her expression solemn.

"Okay but does anyone actually look good this year?" Edward asks. "Because I will say, when these straight boys are told to cross-dress, some of them take it very, very seriously."

"Oh my gosh, yeah! Remember Cole Evans' nails last year? They were—" Sadie is cut off by the classroom door flying open. This time, my grimace is warranted.

In barge two Cupids—David Marquez and Asif Ahmad, which are probably not as bad as it could get. I guess. Asif is wearing a racerback tank top and some seriously short running shorts, unironically flexing his lats as he walks over to Maggie Law, who everyone knows is his will-they-won't-they gym buddy.

He tosses a baby blue envelope on her desk and winks. "You have a secret admirer, Mags."

There's a small chorus of oooohs. Next to her, Maggie's friends are trying to devour Asif with their eyes, which I guess is fair. Not many high schoolers can pull off a beard like that. And he's ripped, and he's not a complete and total dickmunch. Just a nice guy, who also graciously decided not to show us his testicles today, like Konnor McElroy.

David Marquez, though? David Marquez is a whole other story.

He's all smiles as he follows behind Asif, chucking an envelope at some FFA guy before he's even through the door. It sails clean through the air—weighed down just enough by the small candy bar taped to it—and half the class whoops way too loud to celebrate. The FFA guy—one who I have seen doodle swastikas on his FFA buddies, which made the joking nickname "Future Fascists of America" instead of "Future Farmers" a whole less funny—rips the envelope open immediately. And I know I'm frowning, I can feel it. I just can't wish an ounce of happiness for some of these honyocker assholes.

I lean back to Sirina, as far as I can, and whisper, "Kill me. Kill me now."

She rolls her eyes. "Okay, yeah, sure, that's a very sensible course of action. You're so mature for your age, Nick."

"I mean it, Sirina. It's going to be like this all week. I can't do it."

"Mm, I'm pretty sure you can do it."

"I am pretty sure I cannot."

"Oh my god, quit being a party pooper," Edward whispers. It's almost like he wants to remind us of just how punchable he is. "Seriously, get over yourself. Just ignore it."

"I've never pooped a party in my entire life," I whisper back. "I just think these days are really obnoxious. What happened to coming to school to learn?"

Sirina leans across her desk more. "No, no, Nick, you have pooped several parties. You're, like, the Grinch of Valentine's Day." Edward snorts. I side-eye him.

"Is that why you hate romance? Because your heart is three sizes too small?" Edward asks, then snorts again. Louder. I side-eye him again. Harder.

"I am surrounded by contemptible pissants," I hiss.

"Yes, Nick, because you're just such a treat."

"Aw, I don't think he's too bad." It comes from behind me. I try not to groan aloud, although my face feels like one of the guys at the end of the first Indiana Jones. Melty. Bug-eyed. Probably magma-level hot.

I glance over my shoulder and flash something that hopefully looks like a smile. At least, it might have, before I see what David is wearing. That glimpse of red sequins from beneath his jacket comes to mind again, but this is ... worse. This is definitely worse.

It's a tight red sequined dress. It shouldn't fit David as well as it does—it's obviously way too small, despite David's short stature. He's just this buff little guy. Emphasis on the little, usually, but right now, with those arms and those shoulders and oh my god that collarbone on full display, I think the buff part wins out today. Of course, everything is slightly obscured by his baby pink feather boa. "Are you ... is that ... where did you—"

"You like it?" he asks. It's like his eyes twinkle when he talks. I hate it. I hate him. He's so stupid. We're so stupid. This whole thing is so stupid. "I stole it from my sister. She's going to murder me, but I think it's worth it, don't you?"

I think my brain is short-circuiting.

Luckily, Sirina comes to the rescue. "Do you have anything for any of us? Like ... Nick, perhaps?"

I turn to her and make that one grossed out face my mom always scolds me over. (It has yet to freeze like this.) "Why? Why would you do this?"

"I do, actually," David says, grinning. He holds a blue envelope out to me. There's a Snickers bar taped to it, and I find myself staring at it. The paper is smooth against my fingers, the candy weighing it down awkwardly in the center. It reads NICK BUCKINGHAM, ROOM 504 on it. It has my name. But, just, surely not. This isn't mine. "Looks like you and Mags have secret admirers."

There are no ooooohs this time. Not for me.

"Are you ... going to take it?" David asks. I hate how slow it is, how cautious he is when he asks it. I'm trying not to glare at the little envelope—or at David for that matter—but it's hard.

There's a hand on my shoulder. "Do you want me to read it?" Sirina asks, quietly. I find myself nodding. As I turn to hand her the envelope, someone behind me laughs. Or perhaps "guffaws" is more accurate. I don't let myself react.

I focus on Sirina's nails as she opens the envelope. She likes to do a color for each upcoming holiday season—right now, they're a deep reddish pink, and they catch the classroom lights as she slides out the small, folded note from within the envelope. She glances at me, then Edward, then someone behind me. Probably David, still looming over my shoulder in his stupidly sluttish garb.

"It's a phone number," she says, her gaze returning to me. "It, uh. It just says 'TEXT ME' in all caps."

I reach out and she hands it to me. My fingers feel shaky when I hold it up to my face, but sure enough, there it is. It's a 605 number—the only area code here in South Dakota—and although I don't recognize it, I immediately know one thing: this is a cruel fucking joke.