Page 25 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
I rest my hand on top of his, his skin warm to the touch. “That’s very touching, thank you.”
That’s not even me being a snarky dickbag—I’m genuinely moved. Joaquin despises roller coasters. Anything that goes higher than twenty feet in the air is a definite no for him.
With his hand in mine, sitting across from each other in our favorite place, it’s hard to ignore the ache in my chest. Life these past few months has been nothing but change. Mrs.Romero and Isabella leaving. Seeing Nurse Oatmeal more than I see Mami. My dream of Sarah Lawrence fading each time I open my inbox. The possibility of joining most of my class at Rutgers is looking more like a reality with every passing day.
Gazing into his eyes, honey brown and as captivating now as they were when I met him, it’s impossible not to want to hold on to him, to us, for as long as I possibly can.
“Post-it Notes.”
Joaquin’s brow furrows in confusion, his hand pulling out of mine. “Uh…what?” Internally, I’m asking the same question.
“Yeah…You can cover Tessa’s car in Post-it Notes,” I say, actually using words this time. “Which has been done before, I know, but you can personalize it! Spell out something interesting or write things you like about her on each of the notes.”
And, most importantly, it’ll be easy to tear apart. Maybe all Joaquin needs to break the spell Tessa has on him is a cosmic sign from the universe that asking her to prom is a seriously bad idea. Since I don’t have time to wait for the universe to get its ass into gear, I’ll take the liberty of delivering the message myself.
Joaquin’s eyes light up as he mulls my suggestion over, finally taking a bite of his sandwich, temporary depression cured. “That’s a good idea.” Another bite. “Agreatidea.”
My chest swells with a dangerous combination of glee, nerves, and acid reflux. “I could set it up after last period on Monday,” I propose, everything starting to come together in my head as Ifinish off the last of my sandwich. With Tessa and Joaquin occupied with changing for their respective cheerleading and baseball practices, I should have enough time to set things up for (controlled, nonflammable) disaster.
Joaquin shakes his head. “No way, you’ve already done too much for me. I can set it up.”
Now is not the time for him to be selfless.
“I want to,” I say. And it’s true. This is one of the few things Idowant to do.
My reply startles him, his sandwich frozen halfway to his mouth. “Seriously?”
I nudge my leg against his. “Seriously.” His smile makes me warm all over, and for a few moments, the noise around us falls away. The sizzle of the grill, the staticky radio, the whispered conversations of other Marco’s patrons. It’s just me, Joaquin, and this small piece of the world we’ve carved out for ourselves.
“What’d I do to deserve you?”
A backstabbing excuse of a friend who wants to sabotage your one chance at love?the devil on my shoulder taunts.
“You probably had terrible luck in a past life.” I snag a piece of bacon off his plate. “This is the universe’s way of paying you back.”
And if I play my cards right, the universe will be sending him a very important message soon: Give up on Tessa Hernandez.
He rolls his eyes dramatically before leaning in across the table, as if he’s about to tell me a secret. “I think I got pretty lucky in this lifetime,” he says, leaning forward.
Part of me wishes he’d back up so he won’t hear how fast myheart is beating. Part of me wishes he’d come even closer. Part of me wants to scoot out of this booth.
But I stay, like I always do, and meet his lingering smile with one of my own. A smile that’s soft and easy, like everything we do together.
His eyes drift away from mine, toward my lips. I reach up to dab at the corner of my mouth, expecting to wipe away a glob of mayo but finding nothing. He laughs quietly, so close I can feel the subtle vibration in his shoulders and reaches for my hand. Warmth trickles into my cheeks.
Then a chime pops our bubble, every hair on my body rocketing to attention at the sound I assigned to incoming emails. Breaking eye contact with Joaquin feels like ripping off a Band-Aid, stinging as I scan the email preview on my lock screen.
SARAH LAWRENCE OFFICE OF ADMISSIONS
An update to your admissions status has been made. Please check your portal.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
“What? Everything okay?”
“It—it’s an update from Sarah Lawrence,” I manage to chokeout.
Joaquin pushes my phone toward me. “Then open it!”
