Page 10 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
“This is a freakin’ nightmare,” Joaquin mutters around his chewed-up thumb. “I knew people were going to move fast, but I didn’t think they’d bethisfast.”
“It should be illegal to stage a promposal at eight a.m.,” I reply, pulling him out of the path of a gang of hollering boys.
Joaquin doesn’t pay me any mind, so focused I wouldn’t be surprised if steam started coming out of his ears. “I need to think of something. ASAP.”
“Chill, Quin.” I give him a reassuring shoulder punch as we start heading toward our lockers. No one’s in a hurry to get to class even though the final bell just rang. There’s no such thing as time during prom season. “Tessa’s gonna get a million promposals. Just—”
“Hey, Joaquin,” the woman of the hour herself says as she glides through the crowd to stand between me and my best friend.
“H-hey!” Sweat beads on Joaquin’s forehead as he whips around to face Tessa, subtly readjusting his jacket to cover the protein powder stain on his T-shirt. “How was the rest of your break?”
“Not bad.” She smirks like she’s holding back a secret, her voice as smooth as silk. “See you in third period?”
I can hear him audibly gulp. “Y-yeah. Totally. Wouldn’t missit.”
Tessa gives him one last parting smile before brushing past me and into a nearby classroom. I hate to say it, but she smells incredible. If luxury had a scent, it’d be her.
Around us, a new round of commotion breaks out over this latest development. Tessa turning down a promposalandgracing Cordero’s baseball golden boy with a conversation he didn’t initiate? Stop the presses.
Joaquin is in a Tessa-induced trance, practically floating as he gazes longingly at the classroom Tessa went into, not noticing me even after I nudge my arm against his.
“See, you don’t have anything to worry about. She’s totally—”
He takes off before I can finish, calling, “Gotta go think of ideas. I’ll talk to you later!” over his shoulder.
“O-okay, bye,” I reply weakly, even though I know he won’t hear me.
So much for weathering these last few weeks together.
“This prom shit is going to kill me,” Anna announces as she storms onto the auditorium stage, almost knocking over a bucket of paint sitting beside EmilyR., one of our sophomore tech crew members.
“My bad.” Anna gives EmilyR. a thumbs-up before carefully navigating through the sea of brushes and cans.
Anna’s covered in a fine layer of hot-pink glitter. It nicely complements her purple overalls and rose-gold septum ring. Like Joaquin, vacation seems to have rejuvenated her. Her dark brown skin is glowing—even without the glitter—thanks to the facial she got with her mom at the day spa they visited over break.
And I can’t say I disagree with her about prom. We’ve only been back for a day, and the chaos is already at a hundred. At some point last night, we were both added to a group chat with over three hundred of our classmates to post photos of our prom dresses to ensure no one wore the same one. By fourth period, all-out war had broken out over whether Yesenia Gordon’s midnight-purple dress was too similar to Casey Zosnowski’s deep-violet dress. Jury’s still out.
I hand Anna a paintbrush once she’s stored her stuff backstage and knelt down beside me. We only have a couple moreminutes before the drama club finish their warm-ups and come wreak their usual havoc. Getting anything done set-design-wise is basically impossible when you have high school divas demanding you adjust their spotlight at the same time.
“Did Chris ask you out again?” I ask, not glancing up from the bush I’m working on solo. We still have to finish painting our Italian countryside, build multiple doors and windows, and construct an entire balcony beforeThe Taming of the Shrew’s opening night. We may have more tech crew members now than we had freshman year—for a grand total of six, including me and Anna—but we’re still way behind schedule.
“No, thank God. Some guy in my English class dedicated the sonnet we were supposed to write over break to Tessa Hernandez’s ‘cerulean eyes.’ Except he (a) didn’t even write a sonnet; it was just a list of ten things he likes about her, and (b) her eyes aren’t even cerulean! They’re brown!”
I wave my paintbrush at the clump of glitter stuck to the bridge of her glasses. “And the glitter?”
She dabs her glasses, rolling her eyes when her fingers come back hot pink. “That was from lunch. Guy gave his girlfriend a box that was supposed to ‘lightly shower her with confetti’ but it wound up going off like a pressure cooker. Glitter everywhere. Landed him detention for the rest of the week.”
Anna pauses, stiffening halfway through pulling her locs out of her face with a banana-shaped clip. “Wait. How did you know about Chris?”
“Because he showed up at Casa Y Cocina on Sunday and asked me too.”
Her jaw drops as she lets go of her hair to lean in closer to me. “He didn’t.”
“He did.” I finally tear my eyes away from my half-finished shrub to wipe my hands on my painting jeans. “Even used the same sign. He took your name off and everything.”
That gets a deep belly laugh out of her. “Men are trash. Absolute trash.”
“Agreed,” EmilyR. says with a groan.
