Page 38 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
“Shut up,” he snaps.
“Wow, okay, no need to be rude.”
I spare him any more of my snark and let him live his best anxious life as we climb to the top of the peak. The wind whips through my hair as we overlook Dino World like kings and queens. Beyond the trees and clusters of mile-high coasters, the setting sun has painted the sky soft pinks and purples.
Suddenly, Joaquin takes my hand—linking his fingers through mine in a death grip that would feel painful if it wasn’t so exhilarating. His lips are parted when I turn to face him, so close to mine it makes me jump.
“Don’t let go,” he whispers against the roar of the wind.
This high up, with this boy beside me, the world stretched out in front of us, falling almost feels like flying.
Joaquin survives his experience on the Terrordactyl unscathed, but I can’t say the same about my sneakers.
A blond boy in a Power Rangers T-shirt whipped around toward us as soon as the ride docked on the platform. He gave usa once-over, glancing at who must’ve been his older brother before vomiting on my shoes. Rest in peace, three-year-old Adidas.
“Y’know, this never would’ve happened if we didn’t go on that ride in the first place,” Joaquin taunts before popping a piece of funnel cake into his mouth. Vomit or no vomit, I made a promise.
I stick my tongue out at him as I readjust the strap on a pair of brontosaurus-themed sandals I snagged from the gift shop.
Joaquin nudges his plate across the picnic table. “Funnel cake heals all wounds.”
“You’re thinking of deep-fried Oreos,” I reply. No use in passing up the opportunity to annoy him.
He wrinkles his nose before yanking the plate back to his side of the table. “You have no taste.”
“Fried Oreos are the most disgustingly amazing creation in American culinary history.”
He leans in, eyes narrowed. “If by ‘amazing,’ you mean the exact opposite, you’d be right.”
The last person who should be doling out unsolicited food opinions is Joaquin Romero. Arguably, his most fatal character flaw is that he hates Oreos. What teenager doesn’t like cream-filled chocolate cookies? He’s practically a serial killer.
Something catches my eye before I can respond to his Oreo slander.
“Photo booth!” I shout, clapping my hands in excitement.
“Photo booth?” Joaquin echoes, scanning the area in confusion.
I take his face in my hands, angling it toward the freshly vacated photo booth a few feet away from us. “Photo booth.”
Finally, it clicks for him too. We rush across the dining section to the booth before anyone else can slide in. Normally I keep my expectations low when it comes to photo booths. The lines are always five years long, or the booth is out of service. There’s no way we’re walking away from a chance to immortalize our teenage good looks on film.
The seat inside of the booth is a tight squeeze. Joaquin shoves his hip against mine, leaving me smushed up against the opposite wall.
“Watch it!” I shove his thigh hard enough to send his never-ending legs out of the booth, his sneakers peeking out under the white curtain.
“Please, Ive, control your jealousy. It’s embarrassing. We can’t all have long, beautiful legs, and you just have to accept that.”
Joaquin starts up the camera’s timer, the countdown already down to one before I have time to refocus.
“What the—”
“Say cheese!”
The camera flashes just as I go to jab Joaquin in the shoulder, capturing the moment of calm before the storm. Joaquin loses his shit when the preview image pops up—me mid-attack and him wearing a shit-eating grin. Tears trickle down his cheeks as he cackles like a hyena, his right hand rubbing at where I sucker punched him on the arm.
When the countdown starts again, I gear up for revenge. Shoving my hand in his face, I make sure he’s fully edged out of the photo while giving my most picture-perfect smile. The final product—Joaquin fully out of frame except for a single flailing middle finger over my shoulder—is stunning.
“Fine, truce.” Joaquin offers up his hand once I release hisface.
