Candy Hearts, Vol. 2

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

GREG

January 1995

“I can do this,” I mutter, palming the letter in the long white envelope as I climb the steep stairs. They creak like they agree with every step, and I nod, giving myself yet another internal pep talk.

You can do this. You saw him kissing that guy outside a few weeks ago, but then they broke up. It’s okay to ask him out. It’s okay to put yourself out there and …

The walk up the apartment stairs was too short for my pep talk, and too soon, I’m standing on the landing of the third floor, staring down the worn, burgundy-carpeted hallway toward 307. The chime of the streetcar outside reminds me that time is passing, but my palms are getting sweaty, so I shift to hold the letter with two fingers, letting it dangle as I try the pep talk again.

It’s just coffee. It’s not like you asked him to spank you. And where on earth did that thought come from? The very idea of asking the tall, blond guy with the dimple in his cheek to do anything to me is making the sweat situation worse, and I startle when I hear heavy footsteps starting up the stairs below.

Oh, no. What if it’s him? What if he sees me leaving the letter? What if he makes me stand there while he reads it? Oh God, I can’t ? —

Before I can tell who’s coming, I bolt across the landing to the next flight, then straight up to 401. I slam the door behind me, breathing hard, then look through the peephole. There’s no one there. My shoulders relax for the first time since I entered the building.

Cathie looks up from her books. “You do it?”

I let my shoulders slump and lean against the closed door. “No.”

She cackles. “Again? What was your excuse this time?”

“I heard someone coming up the stairs. It might have been him!”

My roommate takes off her glasses and sets them on her books, and I know I’m about to get a lecture. “Greg. Why did you come to San Francisco?”

“To meet a guy,” I mumble, playing with the zipper on my raincoat.

“You’ve been here since September, and how many dates have you been on?”

“Hey,” I say, sounding defensive, “I asked that waiter, but he was married! He’s allergic to metals, so he can’t wear a ring.”

Cathie pinches the bridge of her nose. “My point is, if you were just going to hang around staring at guys, you could’ve done that in Kansas City.” She points meaningfully at the door. “Go back down and do it now.”

I throw down my stuff by the door, then wince. Downstairs neighbors might not appreciate that, whoever they are. “No, I can’t now. I’ve gotta practice.”

“Greg!”

“No, seriously, Cath, I gotta practice. I’m falling way behind.”

She grabs for me playfully as I cross the apartment to my bedroom, but I manage to pull my arm away before she can trap me.

“That New Year’s resolution isn’t going to make itself come true!” she calls as I shut my door. I stand there for a moment, holding it shut in case she comes after me again. The trouble is that her words follow me anyway, and my gaze falls to the bulletin board above my tiny desk where I tacked those resolutions three weeks ago.

Eat one vegetable a day.

Back in Missouri, I ate them all the time, but my mother isn’t here to set them in front of me now and I don’t seem to have developed the habit of getting them myself. I miss her. Also, my body is mad at me.

Practice four hours a day.

It should probably be more. I wasn’t kidding when I told Cathie I’m falling behind at the conservatory. Talent got me by in the youth symphony in KC, but not here. Everything is so much more competitive than I was prepared for, from the practice room times to the solos to who gets to be first chair. The black, bell-shaped case by my twin bed is taunting me even now, and I motorboat my lips reflexively.

Spend less time on the computer.

This was undoubtedly linked to the previous resolution not happening, because every time I get home, I just want to sit down and mess around with my game. It’s just a basic thing, but I’m coding it in Python for the first time, this new language that just came out, and it’s leagues better than BASIC, which deserves its name. I’m pretty good at HyperCard, and I’m curious about R too, but that’s really new, and my uncle didn’t know a lot about it when I asked. It’s just so addictive, you know? I keep daydreaming about it when I should be doing something productive, and that’s gotta stop.

Get a boyfriend.

I daydream about that too. I’m twenty years old, and I’ve never even been kissed. But no more hiding my Madonna tapes under my bed. Cathie convinced me to come here because she said it was different, and she’s right—men walk down the street hand in hand here. It’s basically a gay hot spot, and I still can’t get anyone to notice me. Is it my clothes? Is there some gay symbol I’m supposed to be wearing around my neck? I’ve had that damn letter in my backpack for two weeks now, and I still can’t deliver it to the handsome guy downstairs. What is wrong with me?

It appears I’m safe from Cathie for now, so I move away from the door and toward my window. I love watching the street here; people are moving past night and day, on foot and on bikes and public transportation and in cars. It’s endless. I wasn’t brave enough to live by myself in the Castro District; maybe that’s my boyfriend problem. But I like our little apartment in North Beach, even though the beach isn’t included, apparently. There’s lots of clubs nearby with great music, even some gay bars, and we’re not far from Chinatown or Little Italy. Takes me about half an hour to get to school on the bus, but I don’t mind. And I think my parents would have worried if I was living here alone; living with Cath is working out well, infernal pestering aside.

“Thought you were going to practice!”

Case in point.