Page 2 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
“You seem chill.”
At least I have that going for me.
The silence goes from awkward to strained to painful as excuses sit on the tip of my tongue and die when I open my mouth. If Chris wasn’t actively stoned, he might call out my hesitance. Instead, he grabs a cookie for himself, not noticingwhen I put a safe distance between us. Even a crumb could send me down a dangerous spiral. Though breaking out into hiveswouldbe a very effective way of getting myself out of this situation.
Maybe I can sneak off and camp out in the kitchen. Hiding from my problems isn’t the solution I need, but I do my best thinking after a long, cathartic scream into a bag of frozen corn. There’s a reason freezer screams are the backbone of the service industry. Plus, it’ll give me time to think of an excuse or, better yet, an escape plan.
“I actually—”
“Chris!” another voice cuts in before I can finish.
My heart leaps from the pit of my stomach as my best friend and saving grace, Joaquin, sweeps Chris into the bro-iest of bro hugs.
“I thought you lived up in Anchor Heights?” Joaquin asks without missing a beat.
“Y-yeah, I do.” Chris gives Joaquin a bleary once-over before glancing at the front door, as if to confirm he didn’t materialize out of thin air. “I was just—”
“Oh, I meant to ask you,” Joaquin interrupts, wrapping an arm around Chris’s shoulders and guiding him toward the door. “I had this issue with my bike last week, and one of the guys mentioned you might know what the deal is.”
Their voices trail off as Joaquin leads them to where his bike is locked up out front, letting the door shut behind him. I collapse onto the chair beside me, heaving a sigh with every bit of breath I have left in me.
“Ivelisse,” Tío Tony calls out yet again, hovering by the entrance to the kitchen. “No more boys allowed unless they pay for food.” As if I had any choice in the matter. His thick gray mustache bristles as he peeks through the front window, jutting his chin toward Joaquin. “Except for El Conejito.”
Over a decade of friendship and Joaquin still can’t shake off the nickname my abuela gave him when we were six. My family watched in awe as Joaquin happily nibbled on his carrot sticks instead of begging for more cake like the other sugar-high six-year-olds at my birthday party.
In our defense, hedoeshave rabbit teeth.
I give Tío Tony a nod and sink back into my chair, massaging my temples in hopes of fighting off the steadily building headache. The smart thing to do would be to haul ass and slip out the rear exit while Chris is distracted, but I never make smart decisions when I’m under extreme duress.
Thankfully, Joaquin was smart enough for the both of us in that moment. My heart has stopped pounding and my headache has subsided to a dull throb by the time he returns, sans Chris Pavlenko, wearing a cocky smirk that tells me I’m never going to live this down.
“So,” he singsongs as he drops into the chair across from me. “Seems like you had fun while I was gone.”
I’m still too mortified to do anything other than groan and let my head fall onto the table with a thump.
“Gotta say, I didn’t see this relationship coming but it makes sense. Y’know, since you two have”—he pauses to do a drum roll on the table—“chemistry.”
His corniness is enough to bring me back from the dead. “Shutup,” I snap as I lean across the table to smack his shoulder.
He tries to appear wounded, holding a hand over his heart, but he can’t hold in his giggles. “Don’t fight your feelings anymore, Ive. This could be the beginning of a very beautiful romance.”
I roll my eyes as I slump back into my seat. “I’m sure my grandkids would love to hear about how their grandpa only asked me to prom because the girl he asked first said no.”
Joaquin lets out a hiss. “Oof. Okay, never mind, that’s harsh.”
That’s an understatement, and I didn’t even tell him about the peanut butter cookies. As sad as it is, having a close brush with death the first time a guy asked me out since freshman year is a very appropriate metaphor for my love life: dead on arrival.
Using a dishrag to protect myself from any stray crumbs, I take the box Chris left behind to the kitchen and write out a note for the line cooks to help themselves.
“He did say I was chill, though,” I add. Joaquin snorts, immediately trying to cover it up when I turn to glare at him. “What? You don’t think I’m chill?”
He scrunches up his nose in thought, waving his hand from side to side. “On a scale of one to ten, I’d say you’re like a…four?”
Great, so Idon’thave that going for me.
I go to whack him with the dishrag—a very chill response—except he catches the tail end of it before it can hit him. “Jesus, you’re fast,” I mumble as he lets go of the towel with a shit-eating grin. “Did you get any radioactive spider bites over break?Because you can’t get a tanandsuperpowers in the same week. That’s just not fair.”
“I wish.” He leans back in his chair, one hand coming up behind his head while the other gestures down the front of his shirt. “But I did get this.”
