Page 18 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
The treehouse in our backyard has seen better days, but it’s not any less comforting than when we constructed it over a decade ago. It was Joaquin’s idea, a space for us to get away from our parents without giving them a heart attack. We spent the summer between first and second grade building it with our moms. A whirlwind summer of splinters and firecracker Popsicles. Since we were, y’know, seven, Mami and Mrs.Romero did most of the work, nailing and sawing while we handed them the tools they needed. When the hideaway was finished, Mami called it our greatest creation. And it absolutely was—is.She’s a better carpenter than cook.
Ignoring my muscles’ protests, I climb up the ladder to the treehouse’s entrance. Over the years, Joaquin has sprouted enough that he barely bothers with the ladder. Meanwhile, puberty wasn’t as kind to me. On a good day, I can pass as five one.
One flick of a switch and the treehouse comes alive—ourhomemade paper lanterns casting shadows along the walls. It’s been a while since I last came up here. The place could use a good wipe-down. Just the sight of dust on the windowsill sends me into a brief sneezing fit. As soon as my nose is under control, I sprawl along one of the blankets piled in the corner, yawning like a lazy cat. One of the perks of remaining tiny is that I can continue to stretch out across the floor and have room to spare while Joaquin has to scrunch up.
I nibble on my pizza while staring at the decorations we tacked to the ceiling. Finger paintings of our favorite things—dragons, cartoons, each other (but mostly dragons), and Polaroid photos tacked on every free patch of wall in between. We’d put the camera Mami gave us for my eighth birthday to good use, taking photos of everything we could possibly think of. Joaquin riding his bike. Me eating a peach. Mami on the couch with her hair wrapped up in a towel. Mrs.Romero giving Joaquin a piggyback ride. Isabella doing a cartwheel. A piece of toast that we found aesthetically pleasing. At the center of the collage is the last photo we took before the camera completely crapped out for good. Me and Joaquin on my eighteenth birthday four months ago, hugging Otis the Otter, the stuffed animal he’d given me to commemorate our day at the aquarium.
Hidden behind the playbill for my first show at Cordero is a photo of Mami and Papi at their sophomore year homecoming dance. The only thing bigger than Mami’s hair is their smiles, their arms wrapped tightly around one another like they’re worried they’ll float away. A light pink peony corsage sparkles on Mami’s wrist, a perfect color match for her floor-length dressand dangly earrings. For years, Mami kept dried peony petals in a glass jar beside the picture and that dress in her closet. Now the jar is empty, and the dress is being eaten by moths in the attic. If she knew I’d kept this photo, it’d go straight into the trash, but I can’t help it. I don’t remember much about what life with Papi was like, but when I think of him, I want to think of this moment. Of him and Mami, so blissfully happy they didn’t notice the camera.
The treehouse feels unusually dark. Outside, the sun has only barely started to set. I sit up on my elbows, scanning our canopy of paper lanterns. Sure enough, some of the fairy lights we’d strung through the lanterns to give them a little extra shine are missing.
And look an awful lot like the ones Joaquin used in his roses stunt…
As if on cue, my phone buzzes.
look up
I finish the last of my crust in one ill-advised bite before crawling over to the treehouse’s window. Joaquin is stationed at his bedroom window one yard over, pointing to his hand and mouthing something I can’t make out.
“Slow down,”I mouth back with some added hand gestures to convey the message.
He rolls his eyes before sticking his hand out the window, waving whatever he’s holding at me until I finally piece together what it is. A walkie-talkie.
I take two steps to the opposite side of the treehouse to the dustiest surface of all: our toy chest. The walkie-talkie sits on top of a pile of headless Barbies and melted-down action figures. Somehow it has enough juice left to turn on. Joaquin’s voice comes through a few seconds later.
“Red alert, I repeat, red alert. If you don’t respond in five minutes, I’ll assume you’re either dead or these walkies finally crapped out on us.”
“The walkie lives,” I reply, though my mouth is so full of crust it comes out too garbled to be intelligible.
“Use your words, Ive.”
“Shut up,” I snap once I’ve chewed and swallowed. On the other end of the line, I can hear him groan as his spine cracks unsettlingly. “Rough practice?”
Usually, baseball practice keeps Joaquin busy until well past sundown, but with the championship game in a month, he’s lucky if he gets home with enough time to heat up dinner and have a five-minute FaceTime with his mom before crashing.
“Coach actually went easy on us today since we have the pep rally on Friday. Not a great look if half the team is about to pass out onstage.”
Fair point. Then again, half the student population looks like they’re about to fall asleep on any given day.
“And speaking of which, I kinda need your help…again.”
I make my way back over to the window, where I spot Joaquin sitting at his desk, his profile backlit by the colored light strips he installed over the summer. The lights flicker menacingly before shifting from purple to green.
“If it’s with home décor, then my advice is to stop buying shitty sponsored products from influencers you think are cute.”
His chair swivels around so he can turn to glare at me. “These lights were a steal,” he retorts before disappearing from view, doing something to said lights that make them switch back to purple.
“More like a scam, but whatever you need to tell yourself.”
He doesn’t grace me with a reply. “You and Anna are running tech for the pep rally, right?”
My brow arches even though I know he can’t really see me. “We are. Why?”
“Because I have another idea.”
His excitement is palpable, even from a yard away. My stomach twists uncomfortably, as if it senses what he’s going to ask before he can say it. He sits up straighter in his seat, his free hand gesticulating wildly as his words come through after a brief delay. “I know the roses majorly backfired, but this one doesn’t involve anything flammable!”
“That you know of.”
