Page 17 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
“What was this even supposed to be?” I ask, nose wrinkling.
“Tacos,” she replies with a sigh, holding up a pack of unopened tortillas. “Want pizza instead? Mushrooms, olives, and onions with extra cheese?”
I nod eagerly as she recites my go-to order, excitement dashing any lingering disgust over the smell. Who would’ve thoughtI’d actually be happy about spending a night on the couch eating takeout with my mom? Most of our meals are enjoyed from the comfort of the living room while we binge whatever reality TV show has piqued our interest that month. A tradition we haven’t honored in weeks.
Mami pulls out her phone, typing away while I scoop food into the trash. “Joaquin tried promposing to someone today.”
In the madness of helping Joaquin with his plan and Mami heading back to work after her Vegas extravaganza, I haven’t had a chance to catch her up on his lovesick quest.
“Uh-huh,” she mumbles absent-mindedly, distracted by something on her phone.
My smile drops, familiar disappointment coursing through me. I’d gotten my hopes up too quickly. “We almost set the parking lot on fire.”
She just keeps typing. “That’s great.”
“Arson is great?”
Finally, she breaks out of her trance and blinks up at me like a deer in headlights. “Wait—what?”
An obnoxiously loud car horn cuts me off before I can explain.
Mami rolls her eyes. “Carajo,” she mutters, shoving her phone into her pocket and storming off to her room.
I carefully peek through the living room window, and my stomach drops. Leaning against the driver’s side door of a double-parked black Tesla is a middle-aged man I’ve never seen before but who’s exactly Mami’s type. Salt-and-pepper hair with a thick mustache to match, wearing a perfectly tailored suit. When hecatches sight of me, he leans through the open car window and presses the horn again. Classy.
Suddenly, the pieces fit together. Mami never saidwewere having dinner together. All she asked was if I was in the mood for pizza. She even neglected to mention ourrealorder: half mushrooms, olives, onions, and extra cheese for me, half pepperoni and sausage for her. Not for the first time, I let my hopes get the better of me. At least this time she attempted to leave a homecooked meal behind.
“I told him I wouldn’t be ready until seven-thirty,” Mami says through gritted teeth, reemerging from her bedroom in a black wrap dress and heels, her hair up in a slicked back bun. “Pizza should be here in twenty. It’s already paid for—just give them a tip from the jar in my room.”
I’m grateful she’s distracted as she darts around the room, grabbing her purse and coat while applying her go-to ruby-red lipstick. Tears cloud my vision, anger splitting through me like a pulsing headache.
Finally, she stops in front of me, cradling my cheeks like she used to whenever I came home with scrapes and bruises. “You okay, mama?”
I wish all I felt was anger. That I could push her away and send her off with Mr.Car Horn and not care that I’m eating dinner alone again. But, more than anything, I want her to stay. I want her to run her fingers through my hair and ask about myday.
“M’fine,” I mumble, pulling my face out of her hold before she can see the tears. Maybe she wouldn’t even notice. “Just a headache.”
She coos, running a hand down my back that should feel comforting but just makes me angrier. “There’s some Advil in the bathroom. Take two and call me if you’re still not feeling good, okay?”
I nod, biting back a barbed reply. That stings too, knowing that even pretending to be sick didn’t get her to cancel her date. Outside, said date slams the horn yet again, earning him a “Cállate!” from Doña Carmen next door.
“He seems great….”
She sighs, shaking her head and pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s a decent guy, I swear.”
She also thought Tim, the lawyer who stood her up three times in a row, was a decent guy. And let’s not forget about the other decent guy—Luis—who stole our air fryer.
Not trying to upset Mr.Car Horn more than we already have, she presses a wet kiss to my cheek and heads for the door. “I’ll be home by ten, and I want to hear about this whole arson thing. Love you!”
Before I can say I love her back, the door slams shut.
By the time I’ve finished cleaning the kitchen, my pizza’s gone cold. Groaning, I turn on the oven and stick a few slices in the broiler. Microwaving pizza is basically a sin.
The ache in my body begs me to crawl into bed and forget this nightmare of a day. I’ve dealt with two different near-death experiences, my email inbox continues to be painfully devoid of any updates from Sarah Lawrence, and I landed myself threeweeks of detention. Rushing out after my first detention to get two hours of set building finished in forty-five minutes has done a number on my joints. Anna was pissed to the high heavens about my sacrifice, but I promised her I wouldn’t leave our already small crew down a person. Even if it means wrecking my body in the process.
Between getting up at the ass crack of dawn, bending over backwards for the drama club, and the emotional whiplash of my run-in with Mami, I could sleep for a week. But I still have a grueling amount of pre-calc homework left, and I don’t trust myself not to pass out if I go anywhere near my bed.
So, I grab my pizza from the oven and head out to my safe haven.
