ONE
I like to think of myself as a jack-of-all-treats, master of none.
Oh, you need Reese’s? Got you!
Kit Kat? Sure thing, fam.
Starburst, hold the reds? Yeah, bro, I can work it out.
Big League Chew, Bubble Tape, and Fun Dip? Nostalgia costs extra, but I got a guy.
About that last one. I don’t really “got a guy.” But I definitely got a system. And it all runs out of an obscure tech ed storage closet.
I scan to my right and left to see if anyone’s around before using my key to go in. The good thing about the career and technical education (CTE) hallway is that it’s not heavily trafficked. And the good thing about this closet is only three people in the whole school have a key. Mr. Perkins a couple doors down, the head maintenance guy, and me.
I flick the light switch, and somehow one sixty-watt bulb scatters away most of the darkness. It’s a humid, cramped space. Tiered shelves rise against cinder block, making it seem like the walls are closing in. Hidden behind the rows of sound engineering and electrical equipment is a product that encroaches on the space like some invasive, sugary species: Scores of neatly organized bags of candy line two shelves. Chocolate and chewies on the top shelf of the far and left walls, and hard candies, classics, and off-brand on the bottom shelf of the right wall.
It’s my candy stash. And I know dozens of bags of this sweet stuff may seem like a lot, but my cache actually pales in comparison to what student government’s got in their closet just across the hall.
I head to the left wall, top row, and pull down a set of speakers and an outdated UV tech hub. My hand stretches into the upper dark spot where the light can’t reach, rooting around till I find the four bags of candy I’m looking for. Then I take out sheets of stationery paper, blank greeting cards, and a couple pens from my bookbag.
I sit on an old wooden stool, my back against the near wall, the only unshelved one in the room. I set my bag beside me and remove my laptop, pulling up my email. Three orders already this morning. I take a pen and a piece of sky-blue stationery and start to write.
Dear Robyn,
We’ve been through a Sour Patch lately, but always know you’re still my Sweetheart.
Love,
Bryan
I tape a bag of Sour Patch Kids and a small box of Sweethearts to the card and toss it in my bookbag. “Next,” I mumble. This time, I pull out beige stationery and a purple glitter pen.
Gemma,
I could’ve searched the entire Milky Way and not found anyone as loving as you.
My everything,
Jules
Disbelief flashes across my face. “You’ve been going out, like, three weeks,” I say. I doubt they’ll last another two, to be honest. But I learned quickly that opinions are bad for business, so I keep my mouth shut.
Pull tape. Attach candy bar to paper. Toss it in my bag. Next.
Trevor,
You big Dum-Dum! I saw you kissing that shady bitch Sarah behind the tennis courts Tuesday . . .
My mouth goes wide as I read the rest, which is NSFS—not safe for school. “Dude, you cheated on Capri Morgan?” I say, incredulous. Along with his Dum-Dums, I decide to tape on a mini Butterfinger, too, because he truly let a good one slip away.
This all might look shady, but it’s absolutely legit.
Last year, as student council’s freshman class rep, I made candygrams the time-honored, traditional way. You know, kids pay a dollar, I deliver one piece of candy along with whatever school-appropriate message
the purchaser wanted to give.
But I’m an ideas man, not a delivery man. And student government, if nothing else, is painfully rigid, insistent on a business model as unimaginative as the chocolate Kisses they sell for Valentine’s Day.
So I struck out on my own this past fall; guerrilla marketing through social media, undercutting student council’s markups with my discounts and sales, and broadening the candy selection. They’re as big as I’m small. But the dinosaurs were big, too. I’ve already begun clawing at their bottom line just a few months after starting. By this time next year, they’ll be the Blockbuster to my Netflix. Yeah, they’re pissed about it, but nothing in the school’s handbook says students can’t be capitalists, too.
Mom and Dad sure are. I got the entrepreneurial bug from them. They turned a joint psychologist practice into a wildly popular couples therapy podcast and YouTube channel that’s pulling in thousands of dollars a week in sponsored content. If only Right the ’Ship could steer their own marriage clear of the rocks. . . .
I breathe a heavy sigh, shrug the thought away, and focus on my short-term goal. My make-or-break, monthlong sprint. I check my phone for the date: Wednesday, January 14. The way things are going—seven dollars from first-period sales—chances of hitting my goal in time for Valentine’s Day are pretty slim.
Before I leave, I do what I’ve recently come to call my Spider-Man walk. I climb the shelves and peek behind all the equipment for a glancing inventory check. Let’s see. I need one bag of Skittles and a bag of Dove Chocolates . . . This used to take twenty minutes and more than a few precarious balancing acts to complete. Now? Well, I named it after Spider-Man for a reason.
I get down and jot the list in my palm when I startle at the slow creak of a door hinge.
Shit! I’m busted.
I wheel around, a look of wide-eyed horror spanning my face. I fully expect Principal Urman, the vice principals, and the three school resource officers to burst in, referral slips drawn. Technically I’m not trespassing, but who in their right mind wouldn’t see me hoarding candy bags just across from the closet where stu-gov keeps its war chest and not assume I’m a thief?
But it’s not the admins. No security guards, either. Instead, this girl spirits in with the same stealth I did, looking back to see if anyone’s watching.
I stand there awestruck as she backpedals past the threshold, recentering her gaze on her phone as she walks under the light. Brown skin, rich and smooth. Black curls dizzily spiraling down and draping her shoulders like a shawl. The kind of eyes that say more with just a look than most research papers can offer up in their entirety.
I know her. It’s Sterling Glistern. The girl I’ve been crushing on since sixth grade, when we both went on that science club field trip
to Marine World. Her friends bailed on her to get funnel cakes right before the dolphin encounter, so we sat and talked a whole eighteen minutes while waiting for the show to begin.
She’s a volleyballer. Dance squad captain. All-around cheerful, happy-go-lucky person.
So why are her cheeks tear-stained?
I don’t know what to do, so I just stand there. She shuts the door with the greatest of care. As soon as the latch clicks, her sobs begin. Heavy sobs—the kind with intermittent snorts breaking up the heaves. She cups her palms to her face. I think about walking up to her and reassuringly touching her shoulder, but then I think better. Best approach this with the utmost caution.
I’m just standing there, trying to suss out the least intrusive way to announce myself when she first notices something. Her palms slowly split and lower as she takes in the side wall. She creeps over, curiosity and amazement enlivening her eyes. She moves a piece of equipment to the side. Then another, then another, like she’s peeling back layers of a Reese’s Cup wrapper. Her eyes liven to the newly discovered trove of treats.
She bends a black infinity curl around her index finger and studies the rows. She pops her gum like her jaw was made to eat things alive.
I open my mouth. My lips move, but no words actually come. It takes a moment to corral what little courage I have in these scenarios with impossibly pretty girls. Scenarios I never actually hoped for outside of my dreams. I keep my sentence short and sweet.
“Stu-gov doesn’t carry Snickers, but I do.”
She turns, sees me, and screams. I jump back, knocking into a shelf. A loud clank sounds out as microphones roll off and hit the floor.
“Jesus! You’re gonna get me found out!” I say, putting a finger to my lips. “Why are you in here?”
Sterling slaps both hands against the ride of her jeans. “I was—” She doesn’t finish her thought, just flips the question: “Wait, why are you here?”
“I, um—”
I can’t answer, either. Her eyes move to my midsection. She relaxes a little, her face clouded with uncertainty.
“Were you, you know . . .”
“No!”
“Because I wouldn’t have told anyone. I mean, I’m all for diverse and liberal forms of sexual expression. And you do you! Um, pun totally not intended, of course.”
“Wha— No!” I repeat, my voice more defensive than I want it to be.
“Well, if not that, then what?” she asks, wiping the dampness from her eyes.
I still don’t say, but it’s not long before she figures out the obvious.
“Wait, I know you,” she says. “You’re the kid who went all rogue on student government. Kalvin, right? The Candyman.”
“Candy Guy,” I correct. Candyman is a horror flick about a Black guy gutting various white girls with a prosthetic hook. So not exactly great for branding here in the South.
“Hold up,” she says, “didn’t we both go to . . .”
“Marine World,” I finish. “Dolphin encounter.” I’m smiling in spite of myself. She remembers me.
Sterling nods. “Good times.” She then moves more equipment. On a hunch, she switches walls and shoves more stuff aside. When she’s done, at least a couple dozen candy bags are fully exposed. She backs toward the light again. “So this is your stash?” she asks, twirling like she’s just discovered Atlantis. “How’d you even get this setup?”
“You know Mr. Runkelow, the old AV teacher?” I ask. “He started letting me clean it out last year for extra credit. Moving stuff around. Hauling things to the dumpster. Making sure dust isn’t getting in the machines. Pretty soon, I started doing it so much, he just gave me a key. Eventually he forgot he’d given it to me, and summer rolled around and he . . .”
“Retired,” she says, nodding. Her lips curve down as a quiet acknowledgment of my lucky circumstance. “Wait. There’s a new guy in AV. Mr. Perkins.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not afraid of him discovering your hideout?”
“He did, actually,” I reply. “Last year. We have an understanding, though.”
The look she gives is heavy with skepticism. Finally she comes out with “So basically . . . you bribed him to keep quiet.”
I nod. Her eyes return to the candy. “Wow, people would kill to know this was here. But kinda risky setting up shop so close to stu-gov, am I right?”
“Had to. Not like I could get my hands on other closet keys. Plus, I kinda like the rivalry aspect.”
“I bet. . . . So all this is yours?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re not gonna tell, are you?”
“Dude, I’m totally cool,” she says, laughing. “Not even gonna extort you for candy or anything.” Her eyes settle on a top row behind me. I look back. A corner of the Snickers bag peeks over the ledge. She holds up pinched fingers. “Well, maybe, like . . . a little extortion?”
I shrug. “Have at it.”
She slinks over, her reach coming up well short despite standing on tiptoes. She looks back at me, donning a shy smile. “Could you?”
I walk over and cut in front of her, climbing a row and grabbing the bag. She brushes a lock of hair from her face as I hop down. I shake out three tiny pieces into her palm. “So I’m helping you extort me because you’re too short to do it yourself?”
“I’m not short, I’m ‘fun-sized,’” she protests, popping one in her mouth and heading for the door. “Thanks, Kalvin.” She touches the door handle before turning back. “How’d you know I liked Snickers?"
“You were just staring at them,” I answer.
“No. Before that.” She points. “I was staring at this wall, and you said stu-gov didn’t carry them.”
“Oh. Yeah. You know the candygram you got last week?”
“Yeah?”
“I made it. Stu-gov can’t sell stuff with nuts. It’s a liability thing. Food allergies and such. But I can sell them. Chadwick Boston, your, um, boyfriend, got yours from me.”
“Screw Chadwick,” she mumbles, spitting out his name as if it were a rotted pecan.
“Wait. Was he the reason you snuck in here?” I ask.
She looks at me blankly for a moment, every trace of the smile she wore just seconds ago disappearing, and I tense up, thinking I’ve overstepped. If my cheeks could blush red, they’d be on fire right now. But she doesn’t shut me down, so I add a “Trouble in paradise?” very quietly, cautiously, like I’m dipping a foot into a cold pool.
Slowly she wanders back to the center of the room. To my surprise, she actually answers. In a pointed, sincere way that makes me think she’s been wanting to talk about this for a while now. “You could say that.”
“Are we talking cloudy skies or thunder and lightning here?”
Her hands interlock at the back of her neck, lifting her abundance of curls. Her eyebrows go up, and she offers a laugh that’s both sad and dry. “Try tornado watch.”
I’m really starting to feel for her now. From what I can tell, Sterling has the perfect life. Good looks. Status. Top-flight college prospects. But obviously she doesn’t seem to think so.
“And that’s why you’re avoiding him?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah. It’s like, I’m angry . . .” Her fists clench. “But I’m also afraid.”
“Afraid?”
“Afraid I’ll blow it.”
I don’t respond, and we exist for a long while in this humid, unsettled silence. Strikingly, another tear slips down as she looks off to the side, shying her red-rimmed eyes from me.
She sniffs and says, “My friends don’t miss a chance to tell me how lucky I am to be with him. And I’m so not the jealous type, but lately I’ve just been getting this way.”
Something she said piques my interest. I remember how my parents approach these situations on their podcasts. Questions are like fishing rods, my dad always says. Just keep asking. Eventually you’ll catch the truth.
I head to the near wall and drag the stool toward her. She sits. In turn, I fit my butt awkwardly into the shelf space in front of her.
“So you’ve never been jealous over previous boyfriends?” I ask.
Wait. Am I really gonna implement my parents’ advice right now?
I know they have degrees in this stuff and thousands of hours of experience. But they’re so old. So parental.
“No,” she answers.
She answered. Only one word. Two letters. But it’s something.
I cast the rod out again. “How many boyfriends have you had?”
“Why?”
“Just trying to get a sample size,” I say.
Sterling looks back up as she wipes the tear. I watch as she works the math in her head. “Five since middle school.”
“And you’ve only been jealous of one?”
“Correct.”
“This one?”
“Correct again.” She sighs, impatience nudging into her voice.
“So what about him activates the jealousy in you?”
The questions spill out like apples from a tipped barrel. This is what my parents do, not me. Who am I right now?
I notice the barely there spark in her eyes as she gulps down the significance of my question.
Then, hesitantly, she offers, “I noticed he’d been growing distant lately. A little cagey. Maybe even a little avoidant. Then one day I was playing around and grabbed his phone and saw a text from a number I didn’t recognize. I mean, it wasn’t suggestive or anything, and he says it’s nothing but . . .” Her words trail off as she eats her second Snickers.
“But you think there could be something? That it’s within his character?”
“I just . . .” Silence swallows her words, so I fill in the void.
“What’d the text say?” I ask.
She gets out her phone and thumbs a couple buttons. “I forwarded it to myself . . .” Her words come out slow and heavy, like they’d been soaked in molasses and guilt. She shows me. The number isn’t saved as a contact, which is weird when reading the friendly nature of the text. But the actual words are pretty innocuous: Hey, thanks for talking. Feeling better now, with a winking emoji tacked on at the end. But if it’s bothering her, there must be an underlying reason.
I look up at her. “Sterling, do you trust Chadwick?”
“Of course,” she’s quick to answer.
Almost too quick, I think. Too defensive to be genuine. My parents would say it’s easier to go around a defense than through it and Why the hell am I still strategizing as if I’m my parents?
But what else would I say to her, really? What advice could I give, other than theirs?
Around the defense, not through it, I think to myself.
I take a deep breath and I rephrase my last question: “Sterling, is Chadwick trustworthy?”
Her mouth opens immediately, but no words come.
“There is a difference,” I add. “You’re biased toward trusting him, because you don’t want the conflict. But I’m not. So I want you to do something.”
“And that is?”
“Pretend you’re on
a safari.”
“What?” she asks, a short burst of laughter pushing out with the word.
I shake my head. “No, I’m serious. For the next week or so, just observe Chadwick, like any tourist would. Watch how he looks, acts, and carries himself around you. But try to keep your emotional distance. Okay?”
It’s quiet for a beat, and then she lets out a long “hmm” as she chews over my words and the chocolate. In time, she comes out with “That’s really good.”
“Thank you.”
She stops chewing. “I was talking about the candy.”
“Oh, I . . .”
“I’m kidding!” she says, laughing, even though a new tear shines like a diamond at her cheek. “Your advice was wonderful.”
She reaches for my hand, holding it in a reassuring way. Every bit of me wants to pull back at the shock of her touch. A popular junior girl, giving me the time of day, taking my advice to heart. If I could frame this moment, I would.
Then she hugs me tight before stepping back. Even beyond the tears, she looks happy again, eyes alight with new life. I wonder if my parents feel the same way I do right now, whenever someone writes to tell them how much their advice has changed their perspective. Whenever they do for other couples what they can’t seem to do for themselves.
TWO
I peek out and exit first, and then beckon Sterling to come. The hallway’s empty except for one freshman boy hunched at the water fountain. The liquid feathers his lips as he stares right at us through square-framed glasses.
“What? You’ve never seen two teens walk out of a storage closet before?” Sterling jokes.
He says nothing. We both burst out laughing, heading to class in opposite directions.
A few seconds later, the bell rings and I realize I’ve basically skipped third period talking to Sterling. Not what I’d intended, but honestly it doesn’t matter. My third period is study hall, and my “teacher” barely knows my name. Ms. Finnegan definitely doesn’t miss me.
Students filter out of classrooms. I pause, phone out in the middle of slow-flow traffic. I think of texting my friend Rod about what just happened when I see Sterling’s best friend, Gianna Kyle, exiting class. She light-foots toward Sterling who’s a few paces down the hallway, and they walk away. As I watch them, my crush on Sterling bears down like gravity. I don’t feel like her equal anymore, the way I felt just seconds ago. It’s like my foot’s slipped a toehold and I’ve tumbled back into my correct social stratosphere.
Sterling turns back and flashes me a smile warm as sunlight. She holds just enough eye contact to make me feel like she’ll actually remember I exist tomorrow. She and Gianna conspiratorially trade whispers as they walk with arms linked down the hallway.
I stand there, wanting to pull up Sterling’s Instagram page and like every single picture, including the boring food-porn pics.
Get a grip, dude. I’m a mess right now. I close her page and shove my phone back into my pocket.
“I’m such a movie cliché,” I say to myself.
“Not possible. You’re Black. If you are a protagonist and Black, you are by definition not a cliché.”
I shake my head as junior Dino James sidles up to me. “That’s not true,” I reply.
She nods. “It’s most definitely true.”
“Finn. Star Wars,” I say.
“Side character,” she answers.
“Monica Rambeau. WandaVision.”
“Side character.”
“Any Will Smith movie!” I shoot back.
“Hitch? Bagger Vance? A—fucking—laddin? Dude has a standing invitation to be some rich man’s Magical Negro.”
I could come back with A—fucking—li, but I don’t. I’m sure she’d give me an itemized list of all the cinematic reasons I’m wrong about that one, too.
Geraldine “Dino” James is an expert at three things in life. Movies, video games, and knowing the exact whereabouts of her ex-girlfriend at any given time.
She’s also my ride. We’re down-the-street neighbors who never really hung out until we “found” each other online playing ZombieWorld a few years back, where her handle is @MeleeAttackBae. She’s actually semi-famous as a gamer, placing in some tournaments and getting hundreds on her live streams. A novelty of sorts, she’s the only Black girl gamer I’ve met in real life.
“So what’s the move tonight?” I ask as we walk down the hallway.
“Battle royale in the new ZombieWorld 3 Jurassic Era mod.”
I start walking sideways to face her. “So clear something up for me: Are the dinosaurs themselves zombies, or do you just have to fight both dinosaurs and zombies?”
“Yes!” she says, smiling giddily. “You in?”
“Naw, homework. Got a Macbeth test tomorrow in English.”
“All right, fine,” she says. I stop. She notices. ...
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